InsaneJournal

Who: T’Challa
When: Some point in March
Where: His home
What: Dreaming about Wakanda, wondering what it’s all about
Rating/Warning: Low
Status: Complete



T’Challa could swear he’d never seen this patch of jungle before, and yet, it seemed vaguely familiar. Was he going in circles? He’d be so embarrassed if he was, and he couldn’t shame his family with such poor navigational skills. This was his rite of passage, and if he was going to lead the Wakandan’s one day as their king, he needed to at least know where he was going when it came to the jungles on their own land.

A rustle above startled him, and he whirled around fiercely -

- only to see her again. She was beautiful, the most lovely creature he’d ever seen, a young woman with dark brown skin, and shockingly white hair. The air was static around her and it made his skin prickle, even in the thick, humid heat of the Wakandan jungle. Who was she and what did she want...

T’Challa awoke to the crash of the garbage truck outside noisily gathering the neighborhood’s trash. He blinked up at the ceiling in the dark of his living room, the only source of bright light the glow from his television prattling on early morning commercials. He groaned and stretched, pawing at his tired face before sitting up.

He’d been dreaming again. The big “D” dreams. The ones everyone on that Valar website went on about. He’d had new ones over the course of a few days, though this one had been an older one, but it was good to have it refresh his memory. He’d dreamt again of his being raised in the palace as a prince of Wakanda - an isolated African kingdom that didn't exist in this world. It was both traditional in a lot of aspects, but also had high, modern technology that rivalled even that of those countries far beyond its boundaries. Being from the continent himself, and a professor of African studies, T'Challa found it fascinating that such a culture could exist.

He got up and grabbed his leather journal from the nearby coffee table. Padding to the kitchen he started the coffee and sat down at the kitchen table while it brewed. Opening the travel weary book he unclipped the pen from the outside and opened it to where the sketch pencil bookmarked the inside.

Idly he flipped through the recent entries, which were mostly about the dreams. The journal was the latest in a series he’d kept since he’d left Africa as a teenager. He'd written down detailed accounts as soon as he'd woken and even sketched things: here was the very first entry about the dreams and his impressions, along with the words "Wakanda" and "Vibranium" underlined and circled with question marks.

Vibranium. That was the other great mystery. Some sort of precious metal that only exists in Wakanda. It was used extensively in clothing and technology, or at least that was what he had dreamt about so far.

Then there was Ulysses Klaw, a white man from the Netherlands or some similar place judging by his accent; he had killed T'Challa's father over Vibranium. In vengeance, T'Challa watched his dream self nearly kill the man when he was just a mere boy - firing a sonic weapon nearly the size of himself and destroying Klaw’s hand. A part of him wished he had killed the man, but giving him a mangled hand was some consolation, dark as that sounded.

T'Challa sighed and flipped more pages. Here was a sketch of the heart shaped herb only those worthy or of the royal bloodline had the right to consume. "Poisonous to anyone not Wakandan"his notes said in pencil next to the sketch. He'd also sketched the outfit the Black Panther, aka the King of Wakanda, wore. It was a giant cat suit.

Literally. Ears and claws and everything. Well, except a tail, thank goodness.

The cowl was able to be turned on and off by some form of modern technology and separate from the rest of the suit thankfully, though that didn't really help how self conscious he felt about running around in it, even if his dream self felt perfectly fine about it.

Turning the heavy paper stock pages, he came to the section he was looking for.

"Ororo Munroe."

The sketch was decent; T'Challa was no art major but in his studies and spare time he'd looked at anthropological artwork and tried his hand at emulating some of it. There was a pencil and charcoal quick sketch of a young woman, a teenager at the most. In his dreams at that point he'd been of similar age himself. She stood among light sketched tendrils of vines, her wild white hair drawn in light pencil, flowing about her like an elegant curtain, arms outstretched as if ready to start an incantation.

Ororo. It was an amazing, unique, and infinitely beautiful name, and T’Challa was curious how she had come to have powers that seemed to manipulate the weather. Was she a goddess? What sort of world was he from? And what were these dreams? Past lives?

"Ororo," he rolled the name around on his tongue. He took the pencil and sketched in more details in her face, hair, and clothing. He sketched himself as he imagined he looked gaping up at her at their encounter. Satisfied, he got up and poured himself some coffee. He wondered if anyone on Valar knew of her, if there was anyone else from his world. Tony Stark seemed to recognize Vibranium from an older post T’Challa had put up - he was going to have to follow up on that.

He sipped at the black brew and glanced over at the journal at the table. He should probably enter more information, about the newer dreams he’d had. He walked over and set the mug down, flipping to the next available blank page. He took the pen and started writing.

I dreamt of studying abroad, in Europe and America. It seems my alternate self is extraordinarily intelligent, gaining degrees in fields I could never possibly understand, such as physics. This seems to be a time before I became the Black Panther. I have also dreamt of a time after I became king, and I banished the Hatute Zeraze - a type of secret police in Wakanda. In addition, I also sent away my half brother White Wolf, who is very headstrong and more prone to violence. I believe he has always hated me for being the one to eventually inherit the throne, even though I earned it honestly. I have the feeling it is not the last time we will cross paths.

I have also dreamed of a civil war, a most unfortunate event. Having lived through and escaped one here in real life, to dream of one to affect such a beautiful mythical country is heartbreaking to say the least. It seems once it was settled, I had a group of women at my command, called the Dora Milaje. They are considered royal bodyguards, the most skilled and fiercest female fighters in all of Wakanda; they are also a kind of harem, minus the obvious classic benefit, instead considered candidates as a bride and future queen of Wakanda. Yet somehow I know my heart does not belong to any women of that land, but longs to see Ororo again. I can only hope I get such a chance in these incredible dreams.

He sighed, reread what he’d put down, and then dated the entry. He closed the journal and mused over his coffee, holding the warm mug between two hands. Perhaps he should post about this. Maybe, like others he’s seen, there could be people having similar dreams as himself. It was a long shot, as there were not a plethora of Africans or those of similar descent on the network, so that he could probably count out any other Wakandans being here, but he had travelled the world in his dreams - perhaps, just perhaps someone out there might understand what he was talking about.

T’Challa reached out across the table and slid his laptop over. He opened it and turned it on. There was only one way to find out.