closed to @nmora
where: talokan
Talokan’s sun rose steadily and the seaweed, the seagrass, bent to embrace its light. Sleep did not come easily to Namor that night and he watched it rise and fall without so much as stirring from where he sat. As long as he breathed, his people would not go without its light. Never again. Even if he had to tear down the surface dweller’s own, drown it beneath the waves to give it to them.
He was ready for that day, in spite of what alliances he made with the surface.
K’uk’ulkan stirred when a ball from one of the children’s games came towards him. They offered for him to join but he simply smiled, ruffled their hair, and sent them on their way. Later, he promised. He sensed Namora’s presence before the water shifted beside him and he turned to look at her.
“Ka'a suku'un,” he called. “Ba'ax a preocupa?”
This was her home. This: Talokan. This: the sweeping city below the crashing of the waves. Namora had lived her entire life in Talokan and slept in the surf from the moment she was born. The sea was all that she knew and all that she desired. For Namora, the sun rose and set on Talokan. No more, no less. There was no pull to the world above that filled her head with fantasies of fresh air and natural sunlight. The Talokanil had slipped below the surface and created a home for themselves as impressive as any empire. It was for Talokan that Namora lived and would die. She was aware it made her sound like a fanatical loyalist, but it was more than that. Talokanil was a part of who she was and Namor her flesh and blood. As long as he sat on the throne -- and he always would -- it would be a matter of family and honor.
Tanned limbs cut through the water as Namora propelled herself towards her cousin. Her hands were hers, familiar in shade and coloring. After spending so much time on the surface recently it was a relief to see them devoid of the blue tinge that the air brought. This was who she was: Namora, daughter of Talokan and advisor to the King. She was the woman in the lion fish design because she was deadly to behold. Deadly and, as of late, troubled.
“Ka'a suku'un,” Namora echoed in greeting. “K'a'abet in t'aan ta wéetel.” Bubbles burst from the small motions she made as she connected her wrists and splayed her hands to form the Talokan greeting. “It’s the Princess.” The transition to English was accented. “I know what you’ve said -- but, Namor, I do not trust her or their new King. Are you positive?”
If so, she would let it go and bow her head in deference. She had gone to Attuma to confer, but he had been tight lipped. What Namor says, we trust. Namora wanted to trust him. She really did. She just couldn’t bear to see her people suffer again.
