Ororo hovered just inside the door to the Mansion’s mortuary. It was a room not often seen, but unfortunately had become a necessity over the years. She exhaled a slow breath, the small puff of air visible in the slate and steel room.
Just a few feet away, on an examination slab lay a body draped with a white sheet. Logically she knew it was T’Challa, after all Henry had told her that it was, but her heart, her foolish heart, refused to believe. He couldn’t be gone, he just couldn’t.
Hesitation burned through her. If she didn’t look, then it wasn’t true. If she didn’t see…then he wouldn’t be gone…
Slowly, buoyed by gentle wind she floated towards the table. Her spine had been re-injured in the collapse, but that was the least of the troubles in her mind. Her hand hung in the air over the cotton cover, her fingers twitching. With a deep breath she closed her eyes and pulled the sheet back. One…two…three. She opened her eyes.
Ororo couldn’t breathe. Her chest rose and fell but no air saturated her constricted lungs. “Oh, my love…” Her hands shook as she cradled his eternally handsome, placid face. “T’Challa.” Her voice broke, too heavy with sorrow to form words.
He looked so peaceful. His smooth brow and chiseled cheeks in quiet repose. It was as though he was simply resting, and like so many dawns in Wakanda she was watching him sleep.
Ororo leaned forward, tucking her head against his chest, holding him as she did when they slept. A low keening came from her, an intense lament of profound grief as no familiar, strong heartbeat thudded in her ear.
It hit her then, in the silence of that moment, that he was really gone.
Her entire body shook with rough weeping, her fingers clutched at his shoulders. “No,” she moaned. “T’Challa.” She sobbed brokenly, openly. She didn’t know how long she lay there, holding him, soaking him with her tears, time held no meaning for her.
She lifted her head. “I‘m sorry,” she whispered. She dropped her head again, a shudder running through her. “I married you for all the wrong reasons,” she confessed quietly. “I married you because you loved me. And I wanted that. It was selfish to want that from you and not offer it in return, but you…you made me fall in love with you. And I did, my love. I love you more than I have ever loved in my life. Your patience, and understanding and -and lo-loving…Oh Goddess! How-How am I supposed to live without you?” She choked, unable to continue. “I can’t. I won’t! Come back.” It was stupid and irrational to rant for such a thing, she knew he couldn’t come back, but she begged him regardless. “Don’t leave me, T’Challa. Please…please…” She pressed her lips to his cold ones, wishing with every fiber of her being that she could breathe life into his still form. “I love you so much.” She shook him. “Please!”
On the other side of the door Logan stood, leaned against the wall, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. It broke his heart to bear witness to her pain. He could hear the emptiness in her voice, the terrible heartache echoing in each harsh cry she made, and he knew that nothing he said or did would make a damn bit of difference for her right now.
He ran one hand over his face, inhaling a nasal sigh, straightening. He had known immediately that she was down in the morgue when he entered her room and found it vacant.
She had seemed so distant and withdrawn when speaking with Henry. It was as though the familiar spark that was Ororo was no longer ignited within her. Her normally warm cerulean eyes were flat and lifeless, watching but not seeing.
Her first question upon waking from her sedative induced sleep was where her husband was. Logan had swallowed hard, not wanting to remind her that T’Challa was dead, but then Henry had spoken in his clipped, efficient doctor voice, telling her that her husbands body was below in the morgue.
The look of renewed anguish on her face made Logan want to gut his longtime teammate. It really did. She had simply nodded and said nothing, quietly asking to be alone. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, but knew from experience that she needed her time and space.
Hearing her now Logan wished he had stayed with her, despite his knowing firsthand how she needed this moment. This time to say goodbye. He knew from Mariko’s death how hard it was to accept the loss of the person you loved. With Jean it was different, there never really was accepting it, because she never really stayed dead. Like her namesake, from the ashes she would rise. “Wish you were here now, Red,” Logan muttered. “’Ro could really use you.”
Take care of her… Logan’s gut clenched at the words in his head. He began pacing the floor restlessly, thinking back over the past several hours that felt like a lifetime.
The buildings were ablaze, sirens wailing, crashing glass and screams resounded all around. The air was thick with smoke, clouds of it billowing into the once clear sky. However, despite the chaos going on around it was the silence of the rescue workers that was most damning.
He moved forward trying to see past the workers, claws itching to get out. When Cyclops had entered his bedroom twenty minutes prior and said simply. “Let’s go.” He had known something terrible had happened. It wasn’t until they were in the Blackbird that Cyclops explained that a bombing had taken place in DC. Speculation was an anti-mutant activist, and therefore the X-men had been kept in the dark of the situation until deemed necessary not wanting further conflict and complications during the rescue.
Time had slowed to a snails pace, each second a small eternity as they soared towards DC, one question plaguing Logan the entire way. Was Ororo all right? She had to be. She had to be!
“Sir, get back. We need room.” One of the firemen said, his voice practiced and calm despite the growling feral in front of him.
“We’ve found two more!” The cry went up and workers ran, eager to find a survivor among the dead. “Easy. Easy. He’s hurt bad.”
A battered and torn, bloody faced King was raised from beneath the rubble and laid onto a stretcher. His breathing was shallow and rattled with death.
“Can’t get the other one. She’s impaled.”
“Ororo…” T’Challa’s voice rasped.
Logan’s heart stopped. He had feared she might be in the bombing, but having it confirmed was staggering. “Let me through,” he growled, shoving aside several people. The full sight of T’Challa’s broken form stopped him dead in his tracks.
“That…that bad, huh?” T’Challa asked, his face contorting in pain.
Logan shook himself, crouching beside the stretcher. “Nothin’ ya can’t walk away from,” he said straight faced.
T’Challa’s mouth ticked. “Ororo always… said you were… a horrible liar.” He tried to turn his head. “Where…?”
Logan glanced at the workers, wanting to go help get Ororo. “They’re getting her.”
T’Challa grunted, his back arching as a spasm of pain lanced through him.. “Don’t…don’t let her lose herself.” His voice was fading. “She needs…needs to be loved.”
Logan swallowed. “Yeah, and you’ll be there to make damn sure she gets loved.”
T’Challa grimaced, a mixture of pain and sorrow. “She’ll need you.”
Logan shook his head. “She needs her husband. Don’t you leave her now.”
“Promise me, Wolverine,” T’Challa groaned, the pain escalating. “Promise me… you’ll take care…of her.” His hand shot out, gripping Logan’s forearm, leaving bloody fingerprints. “Swear it.”
Hearing the fading heartbeat and lungs drowning in blood Logan nodded once, knowing this was the last request T’Challa would ever make, his eyes never wavering. “I swear.”
“Tell her…I loved her…She is my soul…My body dies, but she is my soul…” Dark eyes closed, a gurgle coming from a wounded throat, blood bubbling from parted lips. “Ororo…”
Logan returned to the door, listening and hearing nothing. No crying, no words, just the hum of the air conditioners and generators. Not wanting to disturb her Logan slowly, silently opened the door, then promptly swore out loud.
Ororo lay crumpled on the tile beside the table.
“’Ro!” He rushed forward, lifting her gently off the ground, wincing as he noticed the wound in her side must have reopened, soaking her dressing gown. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He said, cradling her. “Hank!” He bellowed, striding through the corridor.
“No,” she moaned. “Let me go.”
“Can’t, darlin’.” He said gruffly. “You fight, ya hear me, Ororo. You fight.”
She gave a sad, bitter hiccup. “For what? What do I fight for? Hm, Logan? Tell me. What do I fight for?”
For me. He pushed that wayward thought aside. “Because yer a fighter. Ya don’t quit.”
She shook her head, her hands falling limply to her sides. “Just let me die.”
“Damn it, ‘Ro,” he cursed her angrily. “Hank!”
Ororo’s head lulled on his arm.
“No!” Logan felt panic rising. He strode through the automatic doors that led to Henry’s lab.
“Logan!” Henry exclaimed looking up from the file in his hand.
“Fix her.” Logan demanded. “Now!”
“Relax, my friend,” Henry said placating. He motioned to the cot that he frequently slept on in the corner. “Lay her down.”
Logan did as he was told, hovering as Henry bent over her.
“What happened?” Henry asked, fingers pressed to Ororo’s wrist.
“She collapsed.”
Blue eyebrows raised as if saying “well, duh,” but Henry was noncommittal. He lifted Ororo’s dressing, examining the reopened wound. “Grab me my medical bag, would you, Logan. This needs to be re-stitched.”
Henry stroked a large paw shaped hand over Ororo’s hair. “What were you thinking, Windrider?”
“I needed to see,” she whispered. Her lip trembled. “He’s gone, Henry. He’s really gone.”
“You have my most profound sympathies, dearest Ororo.”
She nodded. “Has anyone…” She had to clear her throat. “Has anyone told his mother?”
“Yeah.” Logan returned with the medical bag. “But the airports and shit are all on lockdown. She can’t get here.”
Henry pulled out a curved needle. “This will sting,” he cautioned.
She wouldn’t feel it. No physical hurt could match the pain in her heart.
When Henry was finished Logan swung Ororo up against his chest, supporting her.
“It never stops, does it?” She asked when they arrived back in her room. “The pain.”
Logan ached for her, wanting more than anything to wipe the despair from her eyes, but knew he couldn’t. Not now. “No.” He answered honestly. “But neither does the love. There are some things, some gifts in our lives that never fade.”
“Oh, Logan. I miss him so much already.” Ororo buried her face in his neck. “It hurts.”
He cradled her head, issuing soothing sounds into her hair. “I know, darlin’. I know.” He sank slowly onto the mattress, rocking her.
“He was so good. It should have been me. I wish it had been me.”
“No!” Logan denied vehemently. “Never think that, ‘Ro. He loved you too much to want that for you. You were his soul”
Surprised by that statement she wiped her eyes. “I think I’ll be all right now, Logan.” She scooted from his lap onto the bed.
Logan nodded, standing. “If you need anything, anything at all, ‘Ro. You just ask.”
She glanced up at him. “There is one thing…”
Just over Forty-Eight Hours Later
Ororo exhaled a pent up breath, her hands clenching the fabric of the blanket across her lap. It had taken several phone calls from Scott and some serious favor cashing from Logan but they had pulled it off. Ororo had been able to take her husband home.
Considering how the X-Men had been put on lockdown and all flights had been cancelled, it was no small feat on their part and Ororo was grateful for their effort.
“Are you ready, Highness?”
Ororo turned her head, regarding the tall man donned in ceremonial mourning robes. No, she thought. I will never be ready for this… She inclined her head, the only acknowledgement she could give at the moment.
The streets were crowded with people, weeping and shouting and mourning the death of their beloved King. They had been lining up since the day of the bombing, delivering flowers and cards to the palace gates, an outpouring of grief and support for the Queen Mother and Ororo.
The palace was echoed with sad dissonance, morose and silent as they entered. Ororo swallowed, her heavy gaze on the woman standing just inside the doors.
“N’Yami…” Ororo breathed.
“Daughter.” N’Yami greeted, her voice subdued. Where normally there was an overpowering personality and robust demeanor there was a frailty that tore at Ororo.
“Leave us,” The Queen Mother told the servants, all of whom bowed and found elsewhere to be. “The Mourning period begins tomorrow.” N’Yami murmured to Ororo. “As the King’s widow you are exempt from your duties as Queen for two full months, at which point you will once again take over primary rule. In the interim those duties will be handled by the council and myself. It is Wakandan custom that you wear a black band alongside your wedding ring for at least six months after death, and wait at least one year before marrying again--”
Ororo swallowed. “N’Yami.”
“And during the mourning period you shall receive no suitors for at least the same six months you wear the bereavement band.”
“N’Yami.” Ororo struggled to her feet, taking a wobbly step towards the slight woman whose words were abundant yet devoid of feeling, as if reciting a rehearsed speech.
The older woman glanced up at Ororo, a sheen of tears swimming in eyes so like T’Challa’s that for a moment Ororo couldn’t breathe.
Their gazes met and locked.
“I’m sorry,” Ororo whispered, choked.
N’Yami’s lips quivered but she lifted her chin nobly. “Did he suffer?”
“I do not know.” Ororo answered truthfully. “I pray every hour to the Bright Lady that his passing was painless.” But she doubted it. She had seen the black marks marring T’Challa’s perfect chest, signs of deep tissue damage and internal bleeding. She kept that pain to herself.
“Your grief is evident.” She said, reaching up and cupping Ororo’s damp cheek.
“Yes. It can not be helped. I loved him. More than anything.”
Suddenly, as though that simple confession broke something in the older woman N’Yami pitched forward, a wail of grief emitting from her. “My son! My son is gone!”
Ororo caught her under her arms, crumbling with her to the floor, hugging N’Yami as she ululated.
“My son! My child!” N’Yami cried.
Ororo closed her eyes tight, not wanting to add to the other woman’s despair with the knowledge that she had also lost a grandchild.
They sat that way for a long time in the corridor, with Ororo cradling N’Yami’s head on her shoulder. Finally, when the tears had dried and only the faint whispers of their breathing echoed in the dim hallway, did N’Yami speak again, quietly, but with conviction.
“You were the only woman he ever wanted.”
Guilt and heartache assailed Ororo, knowing that she could not have made the same statement of herself.
“He loved you. So very much.”
“I know,” Ororo replied. “More than I deserved.”
N’Yami clucked a soft sound. “No, my dear daughter, T’Challa loved you only as you deserved to be loved. And you him.”
“I fear I did not love him as he deserved.” Ororo confessed quietly.
“I see your eyes, child. You loved him. With everything that you are, you loved him.”
“Love him,” Ororo whispered. “Love him still.”
N’Yami nodded her understanding. “Come. We have preparations to make.” She rose to her feet, helping Ororo to her weakened ones. “Your injuries, they are severe?”
Ororo shrugged, her blue eyes once again flat and dull. “They are inconsequential.”
N’Yami sent Ororo a sidelong look. “No, child, they are not.”
Deciding not to argue, Ororo settled back into her wheelchair. “I shall survive these injuries. I have before.”
“It is often not the physical injuries that are the most terminal.”
New York
The door closed silently behind him.
Logan glanced around the room, taking in the subtle changes that marked Ororo’s presence; a toothbrush in the bathroom, a hairbrush on the vanity, complete with silver strands of moonlight trapped in the bristles. Small things really, but he noticed them.
Kitty had been about to clean the room when Logan had interrupted her. “I’ll do it,” he had said.
“You?” Kitty had laughed.
“Figured ya could use more time to chase Petey around.” He had shrugged. “But, hell, you wanna do it--”
“No. You go ahead,” Kitty had smiled, a little too knowing for Logan’s liking, and left.
He strode to the bed now, running his hand over the comforter. White and lavender, two of ‘Ro’s favorite colors. He lifted the pillow, inhaling her lingering scent, familiar yet exotic all at once.
“Damn.” He muttered. She’d just lost her husband and here he was pining for her like some love-sick chump. “Fuck.” He tossed the pillow back onto the bed.
Take care of her…
“Yeah, okay, pal. How the fuck do you suggest I do that?” He asked the empty air. “She’s back in Africa.”
She’ll need you…
“Not half as much as I need her.” Logan growled. “Why the fuckdya have ta go and be so goddamn good to her? Huh? Ya couldn’t be a piece of shit womanizer?” Logan ran a hand over his face. “Fuck, I didn’t even like ya, and I’m hurting. She loved ya that goddamn much.”
Don’t let her lose herself…
“Shit.” Logan sighed. “She needs ta find herself again, Bub. Ya don’t just lose that kinda love and roll over all set for the next day and the real world. She needs time and space. Not me. She doesn’t need someone hovering over her, especially not the guy that wants her so bad he can taste it.”
“Talking to yourself is a sign of insanity,” Kitty said, phasing through the doorway.
Logan grunted. “Thought you’d gone.”
She shrugged. “Ehn, Peter is working on a Muriel for the kids.” She took a seat at the vanity, picking up the hairbrush laying there. “It’s okay, you know.”
“Hnh?” He barely glanced at her.
“To still be in love with her.”
He shot her a sharp glance.
“I didn‘t notice at first either,” Kitty said with a gentle smile. “I was so used to you sparring with Scott for Jean’s affections, I guess I didn’t notice the way you looked at Storm until recently.”
Logan ran an agitated hand through his hair. “’Ro doesn’t need that baggage right now.”
“No,” Kitty agreed. “She doesn’t. But it’s still okay for you to love her. Love should never be a burden, Logan. I think that’s been your problem all along.” She stood. “I remember after I thought Peter died thinking that I would never love again, but it happened. It will happen for Ororo too. I just think that maybe this time around, I shouldn’t be the only one that sees the way you look at her. And maybe, just maybe, you might want to be available when it happens.”
He remembered all to clearly the look on Ororo’s face when she realized T’Challa was dead. “I don’t think that’ll be anytime soon.”
“You’ve got a crazy healing factor that keeps you from being a withered old scrooge. You got time.” She was halfway through the floorboards when she said. “And this time, don’t waste it.”
Wakanda three weeks later
Ororo lay on her side, hugging T’Challa’s pillow tight. His scent was fading, but it lingered faintly, enough for her to refuse the palace staff’s requests to wash it.
Since the funeral Ororo had begun a slow but steady downward spiral into depression. She didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, refused physical therapy and stayed locked in her and T’Challa’s chamber.
She sighed, rolling onto her back, hearing the faint roll of thunder in the distance. She squashed the desire to unleash nature’s fury, instead reigning it in as she had been doing for the past few weeks.
Ororo heard the door to her room open. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, hoping that whichever maid, servant, guard, nurse or whomever N’Yami had sent to check on her would report her as resting and leave.
“Please, child. Give a mother some credit. Open your eyes.”
Ororo grumbled, peeking at a glowering N’Yami through thick lashes. “I was trying to rest.”
“If for one moment I believed that to be true I would march my royal arse from this room and leave you to it. However, seeing as how I can spot a liar from a hundred meters, I would suggest you amend that to ‘Welcome, Mother, to what do I owe the visit?’”
Ororo sighed. “To what do I owe this visit?”
N’Yami clapped her hands. “Better.” She paraded to the bed, sitting at the foot. “Unfortunately, my darling, Ororo. I can not say I am here for anything pleasant.”
Ororo arched a brow.
N’Yami frowned, her eyes darkening. “I have done my best to prevent this news from darkening your already saddened state, but it is something you must hear.”
“My saddened state? What of you, N’Yami? You are still grieving.”
“Yes, I am. Unfortunately given the positions we find ourselves in, prolonged grief is a luxury I do not--and you do not--have any longer.”
“What is the matter?”
In spite of her show of good humor and bravado N’Yami’s eyes reflected troubled emotions. “I am afraid that Wakanda finds itself on the verge of Civil War.”
“What?” Ororo gasped.
The Queen Mother nodded. “A rebel faction is seeking to overthrow the monarchy.”
“Why?”
N’Yami shifted uncomfortably. “They claim impurities to the lineage due to your mutant genome.”
Ororo cringed.
“And unfortunately, what started out as a small rebel group has evolved, escalating into a rather sizeable army.”
Ororo shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“The citizens of Wakanda are confused, and distraught, Ororo.”
“Of course they are,” Ororo said angrily. “They just lost their king.”
N’Yami inhaled a sharp breath. “True, but it is more than that. They have nothing to guide them, nothing to help them. Nothing for them to believe in.”
Ororo tensed a bit. “I am not playing Goddess of the Desert,” she said flatly.
“No.” N’Yami agreed. “They do not need another higher than thou deity. The people, the ones fighting for this kingdom, for me and for you, and for T’Challa need something tangible to believe in.”
Ororo raised wary eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying they need someone to fight for them as they fight for us.”
“I have nothing left to give,” Ororo said softly, looking away.
N’Yami’s voice was hard when she spoke next. “Do you think you honor my son like this? Do you think you do his people justice by laying about, wallowing in your own grief. We all lost him, Ororo. That loss is not solely yours. It is shared amongst his people and his family! You have no right to it all.”
Ororo’s mouth parted and her eyes flashed.
“Ah, so there is some spirit in there after all.” N’Yami clapped her hands twice and the bedroom door swung open, a dinner cart pushed ahead of one of the Dora.
N’Yami turned back to Ororo, grasping one of her slender hands in her own. “Life is a series of choices, Ororo. Only you can make your own path.”
The aching familiarity of those words rang through Ororo’s heart and mind. “What would you have me do?” she asked finally.
“Eat.” N’Yami said.
“Eat?” Ororo echoed.
“Yes. Eat.” With that the Queen Mother stood, motioning for the Dora to follow. With a quick parting look over her shoulder N’Yami closed the doors behind her.
After a few moments Ororo scooted to the edge of the bed, reaching for the dinner cart and the silver dome covered entrée. She lifted the lid, her breath catching in her throat. On the plate in front of her sat a spiraling green and red herb shaped like a heart. The root of the Black Panther. A Wakandian warrior King’s right of passage. The symbol of all that Wakanda stood for.
Slowly, almost reverently Ororo picked up her fork and knife, slicing into the thick vegetation. She chewed slowly, surprised by the sweet taste, and even more startled by the feelings shooting through her legs.
Through the small crack she left in the door N’Yami watched Ororo chew, each bite more determined than the last until Ororo was outright devouring the plant. N’Yami turned away with a smile, her hand on her heart. “You chose well, my son.”
