A/N: Marvel is CANCELLED. That is all. Also, making some assumptions that Wakanda managed to regrow their superpower flower in the two years its been between the Black Panther movie time line and Infinity War. I would usually say enjoy, but this story is sad, and if you've seen Infinity War (which I hope you have if you're reading this - unless you like spoilers) you're most likely sad too.

Long Live the Queen

Shuri looks upon Wakanda with new eyes.

She watches the sun set over the cratered horizon, watches the remaining survivors file home to whatever is left of their families, if they even have families at all. Behind them, the forest still burns, flames climbing high into the night, licking over fallen ships and soldiers. She watches her peaceful utopia crumble and crack around the edges, straining under the weight of turmoil. So much upheaval in their country for the past two years has threatened to destroy it. Perhaps this is the last straw.

Perhaps this is her legacy: to inherit a war-torn kingdom and watch it deteriorate. To stand upon a mountain and bear witness to the end of a once-great empire.

Perhaps it is her destiny to crumble with it.

Her bones feel brittle, her skin like the ash that she continues to find despite the number of times she has scrubbed her body raw. How much weight is a child supposed to carry? It was different when she was a princess, when she was allowed infinite time to invent and create. Helping her people in that way was second nature. But this? Sitting upon a throne in the middle of a sparse room, vowing to uphold and protect the law, the power of the Black Panther running through her veins - this was never supposed to be hers. This is supposed to be T'Challa's throne, his power, his birthright. All Shuri feels like is a thief. A liar and a thief and underneath that, a scared little girl playing dress up, sitting in a chair that she can't quite fill, emulating a power that she isn't even sure she still believes in.

Shuri looks upon Wakanda with new eyes.

They meet Okoye, dark brown irises heavy with the grief of a thousand women. Okoye had watched the end unfold firsthand, described the horror of reaching for her king, only to have him scatter like sand. For that, Shuri both pities and envies her - pity for the nightmares that are sure to come, but envy for the fact that Okoye had been the last one to see T'Challa alive. What even were Shuri's last words to her brother? Surely something inconsequential, some perfunctory instruction or snide comment. She didn't even get to tell him that she loved him.

They meet M'Baku, his head held high with a broken sort of pride. He should be king, she repeats over and over in her head like a mantra. He should be sitting on this throne, not me. This man whom her brother called brother. This man who has years of leadership behind him. Not her, not a sheltered princess unused to the burden of this kind of responsibility.

They meet the remaining elders, withered faces folded in grim lines that seemed to age at an exponential pace. The empty chairs of their fallen counterparts generate an oppressive silence, voices that should be there missing, creating a void that could not be filled. They look to her now, expectant eyes staring straight into her soul. Could they tell that she is an imposter?

None of that matters anymore. It did not matter what Shuri wanted. The universe did not care what Shuri wanted when it sent Thanos falling from the sky, snapping his fingers and robbing her of the family she had left.

Her mother is ash. Her brother is dust. Shuri is alone. So very alone.

There are drums and a slam of spears to accompany the voices that echo like a funeral dirge as they chant.

The King is dead. Long live the Queen.