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Put up a fight and you're my pride
May. 11th, 2016 04:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blackpanther[ The fire is most likely what gives them away, hidden in the jungle. Their cities is hidden, along with the Vibranium mound they refer to as The Gift, by the Gift's weaving magic. The Gorilla, the Crocodile, the Lioness, the Panther, they all stand. Proud protectors of the land, and even though T'Challa's patron God is the Panther, they are all equally important.
Now, they call to the Lioness. There are many women, far many more than men, and the only reason T'Challa is with his gathering is because he is the crowned prince of the land. Otherwise, this ceremony was primarily female.
If he's being honest, he feels like he and the handful of men invited are trespassing. He feels that no matter how high the flames go, or the coloured powder they put into it to make it green, or how many hands drum to the beat, he is not worthy.
'That,' T'Chaka, his father, had said, 'is why you are going to make a great king.'
To T'Challa, watching the girls dance about the flames, the fire shifting to a purple as a group of woman undulate their vocal chords, he feels proud. Proud, but an outsider. He is not one for the Lioness, no, he is not one for Bast. He is the Prince of the Dead. He is the next Black Panther himself. ]
I know.
[ It's said to his father's third wife, Ramonda, who says nothing. Only gently grips his arm and looks over at the crowd. She is still beautiful, still radiant, but older. Just as wise, and just as kind. Everything T'Challa wishes to look up to. Ramonda nods in the direction of the fire and T'Challa, leaning over to brush his fingertips across her cheeks, smiles. ]
I will do it for my mother.
[ He is, after all, the prince of the dead. The Lioness serves women, motherhood, and life. The Lioness serves creation. That is why there is a fire with many coloured flames, and that is why T'Challa, clad in paint and wearing only a brightly coloured african shendyt, dances. He has gold bangles on his feet and on his wrists to better celebrate with Bast, and as he spins among the fire with the women who have paint on their bodies like him. The smell of food is everywhere, and the drums pick up. T'Challa grabs a hold of a young dancer by the forearms and they continue to jump and leap, and it's not long before he finds himself smiling.
He may be an outsider, but he is invited. He knows that this is an honour. ]
Now, they call to the Lioness. There are many women, far many more than men, and the only reason T'Challa is with his gathering is because he is the crowned prince of the land. Otherwise, this ceremony was primarily female.
If he's being honest, he feels like he and the handful of men invited are trespassing. He feels that no matter how high the flames go, or the coloured powder they put into it to make it green, or how many hands drum to the beat, he is not worthy.
'That,' T'Chaka, his father, had said, 'is why you are going to make a great king.'
To T'Challa, watching the girls dance about the flames, the fire shifting to a purple as a group of woman undulate their vocal chords, he feels proud. Proud, but an outsider. He is not one for the Lioness, no, he is not one for Bast. He is the Prince of the Dead. He is the next Black Panther himself. ]
I know.
[ It's said to his father's third wife, Ramonda, who says nothing. Only gently grips his arm and looks over at the crowd. She is still beautiful, still radiant, but older. Just as wise, and just as kind. Everything T'Challa wishes to look up to. Ramonda nods in the direction of the fire and T'Challa, leaning over to brush his fingertips across her cheeks, smiles. ]
I will do it for my mother.
[ He is, after all, the prince of the dead. The Lioness serves women, motherhood, and life. The Lioness serves creation. That is why there is a fire with many coloured flames, and that is why T'Challa, clad in paint and wearing only a brightly coloured african shendyt, dances. He has gold bangles on his feet and on his wrists to better celebrate with Bast, and as he spins among the fire with the women who have paint on their bodies like him. The smell of food is everywhere, and the drums pick up. T'Challa grabs a hold of a young dancer by the forearms and they continue to jump and leap, and it's not long before he finds himself smiling.
He may be an outsider, but he is invited. He knows that this is an honour. ]
