. (wakanda) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2018-07-18 22:00:00 |
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Dreams about his father weren’t uncommon. In his younger years, they often centered around the fragile father-son relationship and around any strife or tension between them. Over the last year, since his father’s death, David had been plagued with new ones that revolved around missed opportunities and guilt. Even though they’d begun to make amends and work on their relationship again, it hadn’t been enough. David felt that every day. They’d wasted so much time, and all of a sudden, he didn’t have any more time to spare. His father was gone, and his son wouldn’t have any memories of his grandfather. And for what? That question had haunted him, even though he knew exactly why they always struggled. Looking back, sometimes, he couldn’t help feeling like the distance had all been pointless. His heart still thudded hard in his chest from the most recent one. He and his father had been waiting for a meeting, somewhere far away. He’d spoken to a red-headed spy-slash-Avenger about the Accords and about politics, and about his surprise to see her there, given neither of them were comfortable with the spotlight. Two people in a room can get more done than a hundred. It sounded like something his father might have said. The meeting was called to order, and he could see the pride in his father’s face as his father looked at him and told him that he was becoming good at diplomacy. He’d worked hard to earn his father’s trust and his father’s pride, as well as the trust and pride of their people, understanding that it wasn’t simply given just because of his status in their society. He was happy, in that moment. To know he was on the right path, and that his father saw him as someone who could lead Wakanda into the future. All eyes were on his father as he spoke, and T’Challa stood off to the side by the windows, watching the UN listen. Commotion outside drew his attention, and on the street, he could see two men near a news van. The next second, people were scattering, and T’Challa knew in his bones why. “Everybody get down!” The explosion rippled through the building’s windows and threw him before he could reach his father. As ash fell on him, he crawled through the burning wreckage to find his father was already gone. The rest was a blur: rescue teams arrived on scene and somehow he got outside. Firefighters worked on extinguishing the flames as paramedics checked him out, but he was miraculously uninjured. He sat on a bench, deep in thought, when the voice of the same red-headed spy interrupted him. “In my culture, dead is not the end. It is more of a stepping out point. You reach out with both hands, and Bast and Sekhmet, they lead you into the green veldt where you can run forever.” He could see it in his mind if he concentrated, the ancestral plane of his forefathers. The image didn’t provide him any comfort. David had been trying to channel some of the emotion from the dream and from his own father’s death into music, but his fingers stilled over the keyboard keys. He’d thought it would help, to try to speak using his music, but he felt stuck, caught up in his thoughts and in the conflicting, dueling memories. Two dead fathers, very different circumstances. The hurt was still the same. |