Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tonight's a good night - wine, women, and song. Miguel's guitar gleefully provides the latter. The former two are supplied by the last of their gold.

This is usually the hour that they'll drunkenly shamble off with a pretty face. But tonight they have different appetites to fill. They carefully measure out their wine cups while the rest of the bar eagerly imbibes. Miguel's songs are less bawdy, more upbeat. He's less inclined to seduce than he is to assure the bar everything is at ease. It is not just pretty faces they search the crowd for.

Their taste in prey differs. Tulio vindictively sets his sights on a brawny man that had the gall to imply his dice were weighted. Miguel... picks a pretty brunette. He almost always does. His pleasures run a little too close together.

Miguel still has the easier time of it. These days can't blindly hypnotize with his breath alone, but his glamour is handsome as ever. A smile and a purred suggestion are all he needs to take her hand in his. He knows a lovely spot overlooking the river.

Miguel lures his prey. His partner still prefers the hunt.

As his chosen prey becomes increasingly drunken and belligerent, Tulio slips out into the dark. With a relieved sigh he drops his glamor. A lot of shapes come naturally to him, but never this one. Even with centuries of practice and bitter necessity, a human face is hard to hold. Especially when he's peckish.

Not long after, the brawny man gets himself thrown onto the street. The barkeep slams the door in his face. Inside, the bar roars with applause and jeer out the windows. Tulio's prey hurls foul words and foul gestures back. Fuming, he storms into the dark. Light and more busier streets are the other way. Not like this man feels up to anymore human interaction tonight. Tulio always picks his targets well.

More than once, the man whirls around. He raises his fists.

No one's ever behind him but a mongrel sniffing at the gutter, or a stray white cat crouched in the alleyway. Whenever he turns and staggers his way on, Tulio bares his fangs in a smirk. He teases the idiot until his blood boils.

Once the street truly becomes desolate, hunger overpowers the urge to play. Tulio swells from a patchy mutt into his true form. He stalks invisibly forward. Chains rattle with every step.

His prey whips around, spittle flying. "Show yourself, you fucking coward!"

Tulio dutifully manifests. His shaggy sides nearly brush both sides of the narrow alley. The brawny man gapes into his burning red eyes.

Tulio springs, and gorges himself on his fear.

Come morning, Seville will discover his body cold and stiff, face forever frozen in mortal terror. Aside from the unnatural claw marks raking his chest, his body will be untouched. It is not flesh a black dog feeds on.

Miguel isn't anywhere near as picky an eater. Tulio's promptly tracks down the human entrails floating on the Guadalqavir, then follows the dank scent of kelpie upriver. He discovers his partner with his glamor mostly in place. If his reflection didn't always show the water horse, he'd admire all his faces. Instead his fingers preen anxiously through his hair.

"How's my hair?"

"Perfect. Your smell, on the other hand..."

Miguel sticks his tongue out at him. He weaves another layer over his guise, so dull human noses won't smell mildew and dead fish. "Oh, like you're one to talk!"

The black dog's form is briefly swallowed in blue flame. "See?" He smugly throws out his hands. "Human as they come."

Miguel sniffs. "I didn't realize humans were headless these days."

With much concentration and cursing, Tulio gets that part too. "All better?"

His partner purrs. "Much better."

Sunrise saps their strength and locks them to their glamors. In broad daylight, the human mind is far less susceptible to them. Fae power comes from shadow and moonlight, suggestions whispered on the wind and primal fears no church can ever banish. Tulio doesn't mind in the slightest. For him, human form is always harder to hold. It's easier to convince these suckers he's one of them if he can't fall back on nocturnal shadows like Miguel can a deep, dark water source.

Bellies sated, they wonder the streets in search of something fun to do. Plans for are for dumb, boring mortals. They fixate on those gambling sailors because they're the first interesting thing they stumble across.

Tulio throws some spare change into the pot. He grins as their pile grows and grows. He loves gold almost as much he does riling up the gamblers. Miguel gleefully strums his guitar and draws in an even bigger crowd to bask in. They drain the suckers dry. Except for the stupid map. Tulio wants it on basic principal. Miguel's eyes light up with genuine excitement. He always gets wanderlust for the lands no fae will ever lay eyes on.

This time the sailor insists on using his own dice. Tulio agrees without complaint. He and Miguel will dash off with as much as they can carry for any number that lands. It will be glorious chaos all around.

Tulio is stunned as the sailors when the dice actually land seven. He and Miguel rub in their victory.

Their gloating cuts short as his own weighted dice tumble out of his vest. Accusatory eyes swing their way. It's not the burly guards that terrify Tulio. Deep blue eyes flash red at their metal breast plates, their rapiers.

Cold iron. Ugh.

Before he and Miguel are cornered, they start blaming each other. Their insults ramps up into an elaborate display of fisticuffs. The crowd backs up enough for them to bolt for it. They vault over a low wall... right into the pen of a massive black bull.

Animals are not so easily deceived. The bull's nostrils flare on the twined scents of dead fish and grave dirt. He charges. And plows right through his pen to trample them dead under his hooves.

Their chase ends above a sheer drop off and several open barrels far below. There's only one way out of this.

"I'll bet we can make that!"

"Two reales says we can't!"

"You're on!"

They leap for it. Tulio makes his jump. He scrambles to throw the lid over his hiding place.

And realizes too late he's imprisoned himself.

Tulio swoons against the side of the barrel. The thin wood is a poor barrier from the ineffable force outside. His head spins from a nauseating mix of cold metal and pickle brine.

"M-Miguel," he chokes out. "What's... What's happening here?"

"We're both in barrels," his partner woozily answers back. "That's the extent of my knowledge."

"They still make barrel hoops out of wood, right?" Tulio's heart beat ramps up. "Right?"

"I... I don't..."

Miguel's voice trails wearily off. Tulio whispers his name, again and again. With no response, he frantically throws himself against the lid of his prison. Each attempt is weaker than the last. Outside the iron saps his strength.

Plans? What plans? Centuries of careful human habitats devolve into primal panic.

Not like this, not like this, goodgodsnotlikethis. Theskythesky... Let me see... the sky... They let... me... have... last...

Certain he will never see the sun or the stars again, Tulio sinks into oblivion.

Chapter Text

Altivo's nostrils flare on the stench of mildew and grave dirt. His eyes roll at the underlying bite of wild magic, a power bound to none in particular.

Ugh. Fae.

At least demons are predictable in their appetites. They'd want this expedition to reach solid land so they can wreck havoc in the new world. Fae are fickle things ruled by fleeting whim and tides of spite. Altivo didn't trust them at the height of his power. He certainly doesn't trust them now. He really, really doesn't want to see them sink this ship with himself onboard. He no longer has the strength to return on the waves or the sea breeze if he drowns out here.

Altivo's eyes rake the cargo for their hiding place. He's ready to trample their pest problem dead, or at least leave the crew and their iron weapons to do it for him. His gaze fixates on two barrels reeking of pickle brine. The stallion's ears fall back uncertainly.

Those barrels are bound with iron hoops, not the typical wood. Cortes' benefactors have spared no expense for this journey. Either these are the dumbest fae in existence, or they've made themselves unwitting prisoners. Slowly, Altivo realizes it must be the latter. Stupid fae would not have survived centuries of zealous priests.

The first hours of the expedition pass uneventfully. Altivo morbidly wonders if both fae will ever regain consciousness. At least one smells like an aquatic predator. The other has no such protection out here. That fae is likely bound by the old rules that he cannot cross running water. Even if that cosmic law is intended for rivers, and not an apathetic ocean, that fae is still snared in iron. He might quietly fade away and leave behind only a pickle barrel tasting of ash and grave soil.

Under cover of dark, the fae revive. They've always been nocturnal creatures. Both throw off the lids to their prison and breathe in new strength from the night air.

And falter as so many vengeful eyes turn upon them.

One immediately whips his head toward the temptation of the dark waves overboard. For a heartbeat the shadows gutter around his companion. His visibility never changes. There's no hiding, not from Cortes and his disciples.

The trapped one smiles wearily, deliriously. "Who ordered the, uh, pickles?"

His companion turns away from the ocean. Green eyes widen in horror, then narrow defiantly. The sailors press in. The blond loses his chance to slip through. Altivo's heart, long walled off to those like him that have come and gone, twinges with pity.

Cold iron is clasped around their wrists, their necks. They grit back screams as its burning touch. Their human forms hold. Perhaps iron locks to them to the shape. Perhaps it is the iron certainty of a crew who know these stowaways can be nothing more remarkable than human men.

Perhaps. Fae have been too diverse, too cryptic, for Altivo to have ever puzzled out all their contradictory truths.

They're hauled before Cortes for judgement, then hurled down into the brig. Its walls and floor are thick, sturdy oak. The ceiling is a grid of rusted, ruthless steel. Their shackles have left red behind behind on their necks and their wrists. One has red burning in his deep blue eyes. The other has thick, rectangular pupils better befitting a goat.

After the crew retires for the night, the fae give up on their glamors. The blond flickers into a milk-white stallion with a golden mane thick with reeds. His hooves strike the wall just once, before he oozes into his true form. The stallion's back legs melt into a serpentine tail with ragged fins. His gleaming hide darkens into mottled green scales and slime. His mane is a mess of tangled pond plants. The kelpie tiredly slumps to the floor.

His partner frantically whirls through a variety of forms. Blue flames wreathe his feet as his head vanishes in a bloodied stump. In the black of an eye, he's a white cat scratching at the prison walls, a rabbit turning in tight circles around the kelpie's coils. When he becomes a mangy mongrel, his form distorts. He swells to the size of a bear, gaunt and vicious. He bares his fangs up at Altivo.

The kelpie groans, burying his equine head into shaggy dark fur. "Don't be rude, Tulio."

The canine's red eyes only blaze brighter. "He's staring."

Altivo twitches an ear, too curious to care. In all his long centuries, Altivo has never seen a black dog with such a thoroughly human glamor... or at least one with its head intact. He must have learned it from the kelpie.

Finally Altivo swishes his tail and retreats to his own corner of the deck. He barely dozes. Just as dawn is breaking, he lightly creeps back to the brig. Even Cortes will realize the 'men' in their hold somehow turned into a horse and a dog overnight. The crew's memories can't be scrambled that badly. Not when the fae are languishing under iron bars.

He peaks below. The kelpie is coiled around the black dog's furry form.

Altivo is about to snort a warning when the kelpie stirs on his own. His form ripples. The black dog flickers like lightning through the crowds. A blond man cradles a headless phantom.

"Tulio."

A stern squeeze of the hand, and Tulio's human face reluctantly manifests. With a sleepy grumble his eyes once more slide closed. His partner sighs and cards fingers through his thick black hair.

Altivo grants them privacy. As the first bleary sailors stumble above deck, he snorts imperiously in their faces, and demands his rightful breakfast.

Days trickle by. Boredom always brings Altivo back to the fae. Once he gets over snarling at him, Tulio huffs and just snootily shows him his back. It's Miguel that actually makes their introductions. Even as a freshwater spirit stranded at sea, he has more energy than his partner. Black dogs are rooted to solid places like crossroads and cemeteries. While Tulio sulks, they sometimes nicker conversations in the dead of night, horse to water horse.

These two fae are called Miguel and Tulio. Miguel is especially proud of his blasphemous little alias. They might use it with each other, but on this ship there are always listening ears. Their true names are jealously guarded. For all their fleeting natures, every fae is bound by some secret, ineffable truth.

Altivo finds the concept quaint. He doesn't care the earliest name invoked by his own followers is long lost to the fog of history. That had only been his first name. It is no more or less true than the many other epithets used during his divinity, and those in the centuries afterward.

As the days drift with the doldrums, the fae start to flag. They stop taking their true forms at night, for fear of being trapped in them.Their glamors still start to slip. Miguel's pupils are disconcertingly rectangular. Red burns in Tulio's irises. Tulio gouges a tally for each day they're prisoner, before he bangs a permanent indent into a beam. Miguel's polite conversations with Altivo taper off. He dozes more often than not.

When their memories start to fray, they lose their handle on Castilian. Their weary bickering devolves into Galician and Leonese, then into increasingly arcane forms of Latin. Altivo's heart breaks to hear Gallaecian and Celtiberian. When was the last name he had heard any form of Celtic spoken, before the Romans buried it in their tide of tongues forever?

Just as Altivo begins to fear the dawn the fae will have faded away entirely, an apple tumbles into the brig. Miguel is desperate enough to stand on Tulio's shoulders to stick his bare arm through iron bars and cajole an iron pry bar from him? Are they nuts? Altivo isn't gonna...

It's a delicious apple, red and juicy. Cortes has him on half-rations.

Altivo's just in it for this for the sweet, sweet tribute. He doesn't feel sorry for these idiots for anything.

First he snags a pair of leather gloves. No need to have anyone burn their fingers off. Then he snags a set of keys; still metal, but smaller than a heavy iron bar. Altivo nickers a warning before dropping them down. The fae have already scrambled clear.

They break free that very night. Immediately they stand taller, lose the manic glint to their eyes. Tulio regains the forethought to start loading a longboat with supplies. Miguel joins them. Altivo watches from a distance. They are still days away from Cuba. Maybe these fools make solid land. Maybe they don't. A death at sea is gentler than one withering under iron bars. Miguel's kelpie form might actually give them a chance of reaching an island.

All Altivo wants in return is his apple. Never, ever did he want to get stranded on a longboat with two predators. Fae have always had a shaky sense of gratitude.

Altivo settles at one edge of the boat. Tulio takes the other. One fears the fangs that might sink into his throat and the other iron horseshoes. Oblivious to the tension, Miguel weaves his way between them. He covers them both in a tarp against the rain and soaks in the downpour. He feels the simmering silence with idle prattle.

Early on, Miguel spends most daylight hours fishing and scouting. He's a freshwater predator, but for all he can't breathe the salt he can still hold his breath a long time. The fresh fish he hauls aboard gives Altivo a larger share of the rations. He tugs the boat through doldrums.

Even his kelpie form can't handle the sea forever. His slimy scales lose their protective coating, grow cracked and dry. His mane of vibrant green reeds starts to dry and wither. Tulio wipes away the salt, uses a bit of their precious freshwater store to rinse the red from his eyes. It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough.

The day the salt cakes Miguel's eyes closed is the day Tulio stonily bans him from going overboard again. The kelpie's weak, raspy protests are quick to peter out. Once his partner finally rinses out his eyes, his eyelids flutter wearily back closed, and do not open again.

Above his head, fae and horse exchange a look of grim resignation.

These two canny fae have helped each other survive a thousand years beyond the slow extinction of their kind. Altivo himself has outlasted empires and whole cultures, always finding a new niche and new purpose to carry himself forward. In his bones, he knows he's finally reached the end of the line. So have the fae.

For all the fish Miguel brought back, it's never been food he and Tulio truly needed. Fae feed on mortal fear and human hearts.

Altivo sighs and rests his head against the prow. It's been a good run.

If he only can quietly drift away. He's stranded with two lovesick idiots that now fill every conscious hour wearily bickering and waxing poetic with each other.

Chapter Text

Already in this early age, the dirt roads that cross the Iberian highlands are ancient. Travelers have walked them since time immemorial. Traditions are already embedded deep within those dirt paths; beware of solitary travelers, depart on lucky days, always look forward. Never be caught at a crossroads after midnight. In such thin places a traveler might fall somewhere else entirely... or lure something across boundaries otherwise impassable.

Along one particular crossroad, the warnings have become more dire of late.

After midnight one unlucky night, pale blue wisps of flame start flickering up. The black dog manifests in the same spot it always has. It sniffs the particular patch of grass beneath its paws, greener then the rest. Its burning red eyes stare down the road, to the lights of a distant village. Like always, it will stalk this route until sunrise... or until he takes a victim.

The black dog tilts its head back. Just as it inhales, the wind shifts. Its vengeful howl dies in its throat. Instead it sniffs the air, then sniffs again. Its ears prick not toward the village, but down another road that veers off to the west. Growling uncertainly, it trots after that strange new smell.

This road drops down into the valley below and comes to wind beside a river deep and dark. The black dog flinches back, baring bone-white fangs. It cannot cross running water. But this road doesn't either. The phantom prowls onward.

Until something stops it in its tracks.

Up ahead, the stallion's pale pelt glows silver under the moonlight. A mortal man winds his hand into his golden mane. His eyes are glazed as he starts to climb astride and-

"Hey!" snarls the black dog. "That's mine!"

Snapped out of his spell, the man whirls around. He tries and fails to tug his hand from the stallion's mane.

"Excuse you!" the stallion huffs. "This is my dinner."

The man gapes at the jagged fangs in that stallion's mouth, his rectangular pupils. Then his eyes roll back. He sinks in a dead faint.

The black dog tilts its head down at him. The stallion shakes him free of his mane. He sighs and nudges him with a hoof.

"Great," the stallion grumbles. "Just great. It's no fun to drown them when they're unconscious."

"Serves you right," growls the dog. "You were stealing my prey."

The stallion proudly tosses his mane. "Please. I caught this idiot fair and square."

"You tried stealing the kill from me!"

"We're next to my river!"

"Yeah, on my road!"

The stallion whinnies in the dog's face. "They can't be your roads if I've never seen you on them before, you mangy mongrel!"

"Well, they're mine now you... you mincing, prancing twit!"

"You call that an insult?"

"All I've heard from you are compliments!"

"Braggart!"

"Hay-eater!"

Somewhere in their volley of insults, the mortal man regains consciousness and tiptoes off. Their furious blustering tapers off as they blink down at the empty spot their disputed meal once occupied. They sniff the air. Once more the wind has turned against them, taking the human's trail with it. Each tears off to try tracking him down anyway. They find only each other, whinnying and barking insults.

That lucky, lucky man eventually makes it to his village. He leaves a generous offering for the wind god that saved him from such monsters catching his trial. The Lord of Winds graciously receives his tribute and breezes on. He's lived far too long to dwell on the sentimentality of a single insignificant moment like this.

A rivalry sparks. They could just stick their niches; the black dog to the highland roads and the kelpie to the river valley, but where's the fun in that? The kelpie trots up into the hills and gallops back to his river with prey on his back before the black dog can run them down. In turn the dog runs down prey on the riverbank before the kelpie can pounce. It's almost a game; who can steal the most from the other?

The black dog grows cunning. Instead of simply running down every last meal, it diversifies its strategies. It learns to stalk prey invisibly, always accompanied by the constant rattle of chains. It learns to shift shapes. Darting before horses as a cat or rabbit startles them into throwing off their riders. Disguising itself as a common stray allows the black dog to ambush its prey like the kelpie does.

The night after perfecting its latest shape, the black dog smugly sneaks down into the valley in cat form. This is its chance to finally spook the kelpie.

Tonight the kelpie is not shaped like a stallion, but a slim-shouldered man with reeds in his long blond hair. He has his arms around a mortal. Rather than drag this man down to the usual watery death, the kelpie seems hellbent on eating him on the riverbank. He's doing a terrible job of it.

The little white cat stalks close as it can. Then the black dog springs up in its newest shape. If not for the spectral blue flames burning at his feet and the bloodied stump where his head should be, this form would look perfectly human. The headless phantom cackles manically. The kelpie squeals and tumbles back into his river. His mortal meal promptly keels over.

By the time the kelpie finally peaks above the water, the black dog has resumed his true shape and gorged himself on this human's fear.

"You?" the kelpie splutters. "H-How... How in the-"

The black dog smugly wags his tail. He shifts back into the headless phantom and starts rooting through his victim's pockets. A kill this good needs a trophy. Tossing worthless knives and coin purses aside, he chooses a set of loaded dice that always land seven. This delights him to no end.

The phantom salutes the bewildered kelpie. "Better luck next time, peewee," his disembodied voice calls.

With a furious whinny, the kelpie charges out of his river. The black dog has already sprang back for the cover of his crossroads, tail wagging the whole way back.

Their game evolves. Instead of simply stealing each other's prey, they start leaving trophies behind. The kelpie is fond of flutes and ocarinas, but his favorites are trinkets from lands far beyond their own. In turn the black dog appreciates things that look valuable, shiny coins and pieces of colored glass. He buries them in caches along the road.

His dice go somewhere special. They never leave his person.

Fae are fickle beings. A heated courtship that lasts a century can fizzle out with no acclaim one day. Sometimes the kelpie moons after fair-haired xanas and other pretty water spirits. The black dog is rooted to his roads... unless he hears rumors of a big treasure hoard in the area. Then he uses his shape-shifting to gleefully steal from right under a dragon's nose. Always, they grow bored of these other things, they wander back to each other.

The black dog wishes their game could last eternity.

All things must end. This the black dog can never forget.

Gods have come and gone. God proves more resilient. His follows claim not only the temples of great divinities as their new churches, but go after the lesser beings that thrived in the shadows of the old cults. Minor shrines are burned beside groves and names stripped from stone and stories. Xanas are driven from their springs. Cuelebres are slain in their very dens.

Those that have long endured warding off predators find the faith to not only fight back, but to conquer and kill. The black dog anxiously trails travelers with new tales of water horses tamed with bridles stamped with the sign of the cross. A water horse can even be killed by piercing its flanks with two sharp iron spears. They'll leave no bodies behind, only soft jelly-like masses of flesh and turf. Not even black dogs are safe. They might be claimed as servants or protectors under the right rituals. 

The black dog no longer gorges himself. He eats only when he must, now buries the bodies after. The rumors about his presence persist. Most nights are spent guarding the roads beside the river. He searches every traveler for bridles stamped with the cross or carrying iron spears. He's always ready to bay his warnings down to the water, or even attack if he has no other choice. Never mind that iron can kill him too.

The kelpie roams up and down the river valley. His favorite spot is always beside a secret pool tucked deep into the trees, far past the road. On his patrols the dog always drops by. He has a standing invitation.

One night he finds the kelpie in his human glamor. The black dog tilts his head in confusion.

The kelpie is almost always soaking wet, fresh out of the water or still partially submerged. Tonight the kelpie has been out of the water enough for his hair to have dried in a lank, frizzy mess. He swears up a storm as he drags a wooden comb through the snarled mess. Even stranger, he's not nude, but dressed in deep blues and greens.

Sighting him, the kelpie beams with flat white teeth. "Excellent! I could use your hands."

"...What?"

The kelpie angrily shakes out the bedraggled mane clinging to his back. "For my hair! It needs to look like... like..." Even under the moonlight, his face flushes. "Like I'm not about to drag someone underwater and drown them."

The black dog's head tilts further to the side. "But that's what you do."

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, but do I need make myself so stupidly obvious to humans?"

Ah. The black dog understands now. His friend is trying to tighten up his disguise. Red eyes narrow thoughtfully. "I'd have to trim off all those ragged ends. And cut down on the beard." He swallows uneasily. "Your... Your reeds would all have to go."

The kelpie sucks in a breath, then sighs and rolls his eyes. "Well, obviously."

The black dog shifts into the headless phantom, his only form with opposable thumbs. He picks over the kelpie's collection of grooming supplies, combs missing most of their teeth and razor blades rusty after years stored underwater. Some are gifts from the dog himself. He picks up a small knife, then hesitates.

"A-Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The other fae starts by carefully snipping off every last reed. Separated from the kelpie, they immediately crumble into pond water. The phantom flinches. Most of the kelpie's mane is too snarled to save. He shears it down just below the ears. The hair cut loose shrivels into withered grass. The kelpie's ragged beard is trimmed down just to his chin. Only then does the phantom exchange the knife for a comb. Once the snarls are teased out, the comb easily slides through the kelpie's golden hair. His friend sighs and leans back, green eyes half-shut.

"You're better with your hands than any xana, I can tell you that."

The phantom says nothing.

Eventually his gentle brushing no longer soothes the kelpie. His friend sits back up. He runs a hand through his sheared hair and frowns down at his reflection. Only his true face frowns back.

"H-How do I -the glamor, the glamor-... How does the glamor look?"

Still beautiful is always an option. The phantom tugs anxiously at his sleeve. He wants to say perfect, but...

"Your pupils," he murmurs. "Maybe a little smaller and... a lot rounder?"

The kelpie goes cross-eyed with the effort. With much blinking and swearing, he gets it. He still smells like a water horse, like mildew and waterlogged flesh. Now if a human stands upwind of him they'll never know the difference.

"How about now?"

"Perfect," the phantom breathes.

The kelpie bites his lip. "Perfect enough to face a village in broad daylight?"

The phantom flinches back. The blue flames at his feet envelope him entirely. He falls back onto the familiar face of the black dog. "You're leaving."

The kelpie shrugs uneasily. "I won't fool anyone if I spend the rest of my life chai- er, always by this river, will I?" Green eyes wistfully peer past his pool, to the distant hills beyond. "And I've never had the courage to really leave this region before."

The black dog's ears fold back. "Who says there's anything out there worth seeing?"

"I... I'd hoped you'd want to come with me to find out."

The black dog nearly bowls him over and licks his face. Instead he dwindles into an ordinary mutt, tail wagging furiously. "Why didn't you just say so?"

The kelpie's grimacing smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, what's the next worst thing to being recognized as fae?"

"...What?" The mutt frowns down at himself, ears drooping as he puzzles it out. "Oh."

"Yeah." The kelpie's shoulders slump.

Now that they've largely succeeded in burning out the old gods, mortals these days have instead fixated on remnants of their worship. Solitary men might be demons in disguise. Travelers with animal companions might be a warlock and his familiar. The mongrel glumly dwindles down into a white cat, then a rabbit. Neither is better than a dog. After a long moment, he fades out of sight.

"How about this?" He takes a few tentative steps back, spectral chains rattling with every move. "No one will suspect a thing!"

"Oh, come on! We both know those aren't your only forms!"

He laughs sharply, flaring into existence as a headless terror. "Yes, because this is so less terrifying to mortals than a man and his dog!"

The kelpie manages a hopeful smile. "See, you've nearly got it already! All you need is the head."

"...What?"

"It has to have occurred to you before, right? You're this close to a human glamor."

"Um..."

The kelpie grins even wider. "I'm sure you can do it in no time at all. You already have twice the number of shapes I do!"

The black dog can't dispute that. Pride makes him try. Gods, does he try. He clenches his fists and strains against every fiber of his being. He flickers madly between his shapes; rabbit, cat, mongrel, black dog, invisible threat, headless horror. Frustration mounts into boiling rage. Beneath the fire yawns a pit deep and dark. He's never felt existential terror himself before. He wildly tries to pinpoint its source, to shut it before... before...

"You!" the black dog snarls.

The kelpie yelps, falling flat on his back. "Me? W-What did I do?"

Gaunt and vicious, the black dog looms into his face. "Don't try to distract me with something impossible! If you really don't want me tagging along, just say so!"

Green eyes water. "I want you to come with me," he murmurs. "More than anything. I just... I wanted..." His voice grows too soft for human ears. "...to not just be a man and his dog."

"What?"  Spittle drips from his fangs. "What did you want from this, from me?"

"...A partner."

The black dog staggers back, sitting flat on his ass. "W-What?"

The kelpie sits up, leaning fearlessly against his side. "We haven't been friendly competition in ages now, and enemies in even longer. I don't... I don't want even want those blind, stupid mortals to mistake us for anything less than what we are." His fingers twine into thick fur smelling of grave soil. "If that means staying with you, then so be it."

The black dog shifts into that headless phantom, a portent of death if there ever was one. "There is no future here."

A sad, earnest smile. "Then come with me."

"I..."

The kelpie's fingers wind into his own. He leans in close and breathes a single word. His beard tickles.

Oh.

"Y-You're..." His partner stammers on the name, too sacred to be uttered aloud.

Green eyes sparkle. "Miguel," he supplies as an alias, pronouncing the archangel's name in the vulgar tones Latin on this land has taken of late. "Call me Miguel."

An incredulous laugh bubbles up from his partner. Before he loses his courage, he dredges deep into the depths of his being, and reciprocates with the only answer he can. His whole body shakes with it.

A-Miguel blinks back tears. His watery smile pauses, then widens into a delighted smirk.

"Wow," he purrs. "I knew you were holding out on me."

"I-"

Miguel tackles him. He twines his fingers into his partner's thick hair and mashes their lips together.

What?

WHAT?

...Oh.

A blissful eternity later, they flinch as dawn looms on the horizon. The kelpie glances to the shelter of a deep, dark pool. His partner stares up into the hills and a quiet patch of grass by the crossroads. They glance wearily back at each other.

"Fuck it?" Miguel mumbles.

His lips tug upward. "Fuck it."

Instinct be damned, they cozy back against each other, and slam down into sleep.

When the fae stirs hours later, the noonday sun is shining bright overhead. Miguel is already awake. His nimble fingers caress his (his?) cheek. He shivers at a sensation strange and innate.

The fae sits bolt upright. Their reflections in the pool reveal the truth, a kelpie coiled around a gaunt black dog. His other sensations are more easily deceived. The fae's hands start at his bare shoulders. They freeze at his neck, then trail upward. He fumbles for empty air. Instead his fingers grope at a stubbly chin, a nose, drag wisps of black hair down into his eyes. What. The. F-

Miguel rests his head against his shoulder, arms carelessly slung around him. His partner stops trembling. "It's a nice face," he carries on. "I don't know why you were so shy about it."

He snorts snidely down at the reflection of the black dog. "Is it?"

"Yes!" Miguel's grip tightens into a hug. "You have a lovely face. It's... rugged and roguish and... and too damn handsome for its own good. I just want to... to..."

"Go on," his partner murmurs, liking every word so far.

"Oh." Miguel blinks. "You still need a name."

"You know my name!"

"One I can call you."

His partner ponders this, scratching his impossible chin. He ponders all the names travelers are going by these days. "Tullius," he rules at last. "Call me Tullius." Common, unassuming, and with a shadow of truth to it that makes him pleased beyond words.

"Tullius," Miguel tries, stretching out every syllable. "Tul-li-us."

His partner sags weakly at the sound. Yep. Tullius it is.

Some while after tackling each other once again, they finally stand and languidly stretch out pleasantly sore muscles. Eventually someone remembers humans wear clothes. Miguel dutifully manifests another set in cool blues and greens. After much squinting and muffled cursing, Tulio puzzles out how to do the same.

Miguel grimaces.

"What, Miguel?"

"It's a good start, Tullius! Really. It's just... maybe a few centuries out of date. And a little... ratty."

Tullius frowns, plucking at the rags the phantom has always worn. "This is..." Me. Only, ew, no. He can do better than this. "This is... what I've always worn in this shape."

Miguel peers thoughtfully up into the hills. "Is there any decent clothing up in that village you like to haunt?"

The black dog's growl escapes his throat. "There's nothing decent about that place."

His partner shrugs and tilts his head elsewhere. "What about on the any of the other villages around here?"

Tullius slumps. Huh. He's never given them much thought before. "...Maybe?"

Miguel perks up. He takes him by the hand and tugs him away from his pool. Once they reach the road, they don't trek back up into the hills, but follow the route west as it winds beside the river. They wander farther down the road than the black dog has ever prowled before, to the lights and laughter of a village he doesn't recognize.

Neither looks back. Not once. Fae don't regret.

"T-Tulio?"

Deep blue eyes crack open. He blearily rises from a murky tide of memories. His back lolls against his partner's. They're the only things keeping each other upright. The sun presently roasting them has not let up in the slightest.

"Y-Yeah, Miguel?" he chokes out.

"Tulio, did you ever imagine it would end like this?"

He ponders all the twists and turns that have dragged him from his quiet place by the crossroads. "The horse is a surprise."

Altivo snorts, then slumps back down into his own malaise.

"Any... regrets?"

Tulio's breath hitches at that unspeakable word. He sighs. Any fae that claims they've never regretted anything have clearly never faced inescapable death before. There is no outwitting an apathetic sea, no way to slip away from that beating sun. "Besides dying? Yeah." Sarcasm fails as he ineffectually grabs at thin air, trying to name the feeling that's eluded him a very long lifetime. "I never... had enough..." He fails yet again to find it. "Gold," he sighs at last, if only to give his partner an answer.

"My greatest regret beside dying is... our greatest adventure is over before it even began, and no one will even remember us." Miguel is silent for a long time, before he speaks again. "Is... Is all my..."

Tulio squeezes his hand tightly, and strangles that terrible thought before it slips into the world. "Well, if it's any consolation, Miguel, you... made my life... an adventure."

Miguel twines his fingers into his own. "And if it's any consolation, Tulio, you made my life... rich."

A few dry sobs shudder out of them, for each other and their own inadequacy to bridge the gap yawning between them. Altivo wearily rolls his eyes. Without tears, Tulio sighs, and slumps in grim resignation against Miguel.

There are far worse ways to die. Tulio might have been in iron again, left to wither in the dark away from Miguel. They're under an open sky. No stars this time, but they have the scorching sun, and each other and... and even the stupid horse unwittingly responsible for this whole mess.

Their free hands reach down to at least feel cool water pour through their fingers.

And instead fill with warm, dry sand.

"Is... Is it?"

"Hm?"

They both turn to frown blearily down at a golden beach and then gape up at the verdant jungle beyond.

"It is."

"It's-It's-"

"Land!" they whoop as one.

New strength surges into their limbs as they spring from the longboat that should have been their grave. They reverently kiss the beach, their new beginning, without ever looking back.

Chapter Text

Reverently kissing the sand leads to Miguel slavering a human skull. He pulls back and wipes his mouth. There's nothing left to these bones but traces of pain and mortal terror. The scavengers have picked them clean of all else.

Altivo whinnies shrilly and gallops back for the boat. Tulio bares his teeth and backs away, blue eyes flashing red. He doesn't snarl at the bones, but at the blades embedded inside the skeleton. Miguel flinches too. Then he frowns, wondering why he doesn't taste iron too. All he can sense is the faint presence of Altivo's horse shoes, all still attached to and mitigated by his not-quite-mortal aura.

Miguel squints. Then he bends and yanks a sword out from its skull pedestal.

"Miguel!"

A carefree laugh tumbles from his lips. He proudly waves the weapon to his partner. "Everything's fine, Tulio? See." He runs a hand along the blade, then shows off his unmarred skin. "No iron!"

Curiosity lures his partner in. Tulio gingerly taps the carved wooden hilt, then the blade itself. He wipes some grime to reveal a night-black surface. "I... I don't even think this is metal."

"Ouch!" Miguel cuts a finger on its edge. His wound swiftly weaves shut. "Still plenty sharp to me."

Tulio snatches the blade from, inspecting it critically. Altivo indignantly whinnies from the boat, waving a paddle in thin air. Miguel ignores him. His wide eyes instead fully take in their surroundings; the whistling rock, the stream, even the mountains. He fumbles in his shirt and tugs out the map he's jealously held close to his person since Seville. His hands tremble as he checks their bearings, then checks again.

"Tulio," he calls. "Tulio! We've done it!"

His partner jerks his way. "What is that? The map?"

"Uh huh!" Miguel gleefully unfurls his map, burying Tulio's face in it. "See? It's all right here! The rock, the stream, the mountains! You said so yourself: It could be possible. And it is! It really is... the map to El Dorado!"

Tulio snatches the map from him. His face skews up with the same mental calculations, finding all the markers Miguel has long pointed out. He squints back down at the yellow paper. "Huh. So it is." He peers past the map into the jungle beyond. His lip curls. "If we make through all that."

"We can go back in the boat and row back to Spain," Miguel points out silkily. "After all, that worked out so well the last time."

Altivo sourly concedes this point. He drops his oar and jumps out of the boat.

"A city of gold, right?" His eyes blaze ravenously. "A city with people."

Miguel grins, showing his rows of jagged fangs. "A city without iron!" Or at least a city that doesn't have the iron to waste in weapons.

"That's all the plan I need!"

"Come on, Tulio, let's follow that trail!"

His partner falters at a wall of unbroken jungle. "What trail?"

Miguel yanks the second blade up from the skeletons. He gallantly strides forward, slashing at the vines. "The trail we blaze!"

His enthusiastic swipes reveal only solid stone. Altivo's tentative faith curdles. With an indignant snort he turns to flounce down the beach and try his luck elsewhere.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Tulio snatches his reins. "You still owe us a life debt, horse!"

The stallion spares him a withering glare but does not dispute this.

Miguel clears them all a route. He carelessly charges into the jungle. Beyond the initial barrier, there is enough space between these vast trees to run. With a giddy laugh he rears up in his horse form. He impatiently shifts his hooves as Tulio climbs on. His partner winds his fingers into his golden mane.

"Hold on. I just gotta check the-"

Tulio's last words die in a surprised squeal. After weeks pent up on a boat surrounded by stinging saltwater, the kelpie thunders into the undergrowth.

Altivo shakes his head after them. Then he squints down at the strange little armored creature they had unwittingly saved from a venomous creature. The spirit (at least) studies the fae with eyes dark and deep. He cocks his head, then squints and peers harder, into depths Altivo doubts the idiots themselves have ever breached. Then the spirit blinks up at him. He twitches an inquisitive ear. Altivo shrugs back.

And rolls his eyes when Miguel gallops in circles not once, but three times.

"Now can I check the crappy map?"

"Sorry," Miguel mumbles.

Grudgingly, Altivo trots after the idiots that saved his life.

The spirit follows.

A tropical forest has no shortage of running water. Tulio's eye twitches at every gurgling stream. The first few days of their journey at least avoid true rivers.

His luck doesn't hold forever. He's mounted astride his partner when a wide river yawns through the trees ahead. Miguel picks up speed.

"M-Miguel! Hey, Miguel!"

The kelpie doesn't hear him. Gills open on his neck, revealing the green skin beneath his gleaming white hide. He's a freshwater fae who hasn't seen his element in weeks.

His partner tumbles off his back, instinctively shifting into cat shape. He lightly lands on his paws. Miguel barrels on ahead. He dives into the river. The last Tulio sees of him is his ragged green tail. Once the ripples vanish, there's no sign of him. Altivo snorts dubiously at the water. He doesn't stray too far near the edge. Smart of him.

After a long moment to catch his breath, Tulio shifts back to dourly consult the map. Their route follows the river. The path ahead also narrows to a ridiculous degree. Its choked by vines.

Eventually a green head resurfaces from the river. "Er, sorry, Tulio. I just a bit... carried away."

Tulio can't suppress his smile. "Enjoy yourself, partner. We're in no rush."

For his sake and the horse's, he starts hacking that path clear by the river. At times Miguel guiltily bobs beside them. Other times another energy rush has him swimming up and down the channel. Crocodiles and pythons frantically scurry out of his wake.

The few hours pass slowly, with aching arms. He envies the kelpie in the water and yet savors every moment of happiness. Yet even this must end.

Eventually even the narrow path ahead dwindles ahead. It continues across the river in a natural stone bridge. Tulio plows to a halt. Altivo pauses too, then snorts and gently nudges his way past. He tosses his head in clear invitation to follow.

"This," Tulio declares, "is gonna suck."

Miguel strides out of the water in human form. He tries and fails to manage a smile. "W-We can always backtrack."

Tulio scoffs. "Please. I already ache from all that hacking. Ten seconds more of unpleasantness won't make things any worse."

"B-But-"

"Miguel."

Black dogs cannot cross running water. Not under their own power. When left without options, Miguel and Tulio have learned to... push that. It's not pleasant for either of them. One fights against the urge to unravel on a cosmic level. The other tries to sprint across a bridge without getting his eyes clawed out by a shape-shifting fae lashing out in blind, primal terror.

"Oh, fine."

Tulio dwindles down into his rabbit shape. Miguel diligently bundles him into his shirt. His partner's heart hammers frantically. He skews his eyes shut and waits for the agony to be over.

"O-On the count of three?"

"Miguel," he mumbles. "Just go."

Miguel breaks into a sprint. Not ten seconds later, he stops. Tulio scrunches his eyes open. How... anticlimactic. Which means Miguel lost his nerve.

"Hey!" He angrily pokes his head out. "Why'd you stop?"

"I... I didn't."

Tulio opens his mouth to argue the point. And instead gapes like an idiot to discover himself on the other side of the river.

"...What?"

Rolling his eyes so hard they almost come out of their sockets, Altivo snorts and prances across the same bridge. Miguel sucks in a breath.

"What?" Tulio demands, tumbling out of Miguel's shirt. He lands as the black dog. "What did he say?"

"Um... 'Old faith is for the Old World.'"

"Uh huh," Tulio drawls. "And a translation for that?"

Altivo snorts into his face, mucus flying. The black dog yelps and lurches back. Miguel laughs, soft with wonder.

"The... The rivers don't know they should hold you back."

Just to prove this bullshit, Tulio slams a stubborn paw down on the bridge. And growls when that invisible, ineffable force doesn't throw him back. He sets two paws onto the walkway, then scoots all four paws on. He takes one stride, then another. To prove the idiot horse wrong, he crosses the river.

...Wait.

Tulio bolts back to Miguel's side without spontaneously combusting. He streaks back for the opposite shore. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, he repeats the miracle, and does it again. Miguel laughs and skips to join him. They race each other back and forth across the bridge.

Altivo hunkers down by what will become their campsite for the night. Miguel catches them a dinner of delicious toothy fish. Tulio shovels his down. It's nowhere near nutritious as human fear, but it keeps his belly from complaining the whole journey. He's too damn smug to care when that little armored rat steals one from beneath his nose. Water can't hold him back anymore.

Without running water to hold them back, they blaze dauntlessly onward. One day Altivo slides into a natural hot spring. The fae eagerly leap in after him. Everyone leans back and lets the warmth wash the weariness from their bones. A few monkeys curiously watch them from the trees above. After an hour, they lose their natural fear of the predators below. Tulio smiles as they creep closer. Mundane animals are normally terrified of him.

It's no laughing matter when one monkey inches too close to the map, their one ticket out of this jungle. Their affable glamors snap with irate snarls. The primates scramble for the trees.

Tulio's just a tad too slow. His teeth snap down inches from a brown tail. He barks furiously up into the trees.

Miguel sniffs and slithers out of the pool. "For gods' sake, Tulio, have some dignity!"

"They started it!"

Some moments later, the monkeys start to taunt him. It's the same moment Tulio recalls cats are natural climbers.

The monkeys bolt. Just as a white cat starts clambering after them, Miguel rears up to his full height. He gently picks Tulio up by the scruff, shifts into human form, and carries his wet, steaming partner onward.

Impertinent wildlife aside, their journey flows swiftly by. Little can hold back intrepid, shape-shifting fae.

Their excitement grows with every marker found.

The last does not take them all the way there, but they still tilt their heads and study it. The stone stele depicts two men mounted astride from horse-headed serpent. A woman kneels before them in supplication, votive offering in hand. Tulio's eyes are drawn to the bearded rider.

"Hey, doesn't that one look... like..."

They're close now. Tulio can taste it.

Fear.

Sweet, sweet human fear.

And she's running their way.

Stolen tribute tucked under her arm, Chel runs for her life. This is the same path her big brother once ran.

Xaya had failed in his escape. Chima and his warriors had caught him and dragged him back. Tzekel-Kan had saved a slow, gruesome execution him. Those same warriors are right behind her... and gaining.

She rounds the stele of the Dual Gods and-

Oh. My. GODS!

Chel slips and falls. The hard stone below does not jolt her from her nightmare. The beast before her screams a challenge, stony hooves lashing the air. Its riders are... are...

Chel is dead. Very, very dead. She gapes up into her killers like a dumbstruck fawn.

Right when her heart is ready to thunder out of her chest, the beast falls back onto all fours. His angry snorting dwindles into bewildered silence. He cocks his head down at her.

His riders fall under the same spell. One with his jaw opened unnaturally wide snaps it shut. His slimy green skin flows into a warmer, almost pinkish tone. The headless horror has a human face flicker into existence. For a heartbeat more, his eyes burn red, before settling on deep midnight blue. They quizzically blink down at her. She gapes right back. When they don't ready to eat her, they like awfully familiar, like-like...

Chima and his warriors finally catch up. The herald bugles, furiously rearing up at the spears swung his way. The warriors gape, but still take formation around him. His riders appraise the situation...

And smirk at the stone spear tips.

Chel, faster on the uptake, shifts into a clear posture of submission and offers up her stupid golden head in tribute. The dark laughter of the riders peters off in wonder.

Chima considers the scene unfolded before him and then blinks up at the stele of the Dual Gods. Finally reaching the conclusion she has, he sharply motions for his warriors to withdraw their weapons. They fearfully do. One god's blazing eyes fades back to calmer blue. Chima bows his head, then waves his spear to the waterfall.

The herald hesitates. His riders grin and spur him on.

Chel sticks close as she dares. She's braver (or stupider) than the warriors. They don't try to apprehend her like the thief she is. She clings to her tribute in a death grip.

Despite every instinct screaming otherwise, Chel settles in the same boat they do. The herald awkwardly squeezes into the back. The gods plop down in front of him. Under the flickering torchlight, their guises are not quite perfect. The darker one is near swallowed by shadow. His partner's eyes gleam like a crocodile's. Their smiles reveal flat teeth still a tad too sharp.

Chel tries not to stare. The gods are not so tactful. Even as they survey the cave, their gazes always flicker back to her. Over their heads, the herald rolls his eyes.

Aside from a few stifled curses from the warriors, no one speaks. They all look stubbornly ahead, and try not to gawk the inhuman reflections the torchlight reveals in the still waters of Lord Xarayes' domain.

Only the golden sunlight of the cave exit turns the gods' attention from her. Their faces slacken as all of Manoa's golden wonder unfurls before them.

"El Dorado," they reverently breathe as one. Whatever that means.

Are they pleased with how far their city has come in their absence? ...If they were even the ones to make it.

Chel bites her lip and stares down at the water in dismay. At least their herald is honest. His reflection shows his chosen form. Even under broad daylight, the reflections of these gods do not match their current guises. Is this the gods hinting at their true forms, or an omen these creatures have only stolen the faces of the Dual Gods for their own convenience?

Clinging to her stolen idol, Chel prays a little harder. Maybe these are the Dual Gods. Maybe they aren't.

Getting eaten still beats a slow, gruesome execution on the high priest's altar.

Chapter Text

El Dorado is paradise, close as mortal hands can come. Magnificent temples rise toward the sky like artificial mountains. Crystal blue canals branch off from a lake where rainbow fish the size of galleons swim. Golden butterflies swirl around their barge and then flit off into twilight skies.

It's not the city Tulio cares about. He squints at its people. They stare right back. Women drop pots at the sight of them. Children cling to their mothers' legs. They gawk down at them like beasts in a menagerie.

Tulio's gaze flicks to the water beneath them. His little voice, the same that's always told him to quit while he's ahead, whispers it's time to bail. A kelpie can disappear in seconds. All Tulio has to do is turn invisible and streak off into the confused crowd. Altivo be damned. They've already saved him once from his fate. Wait until darkness, and they can feast to their heart's content on this unsuspecting city.

Only this city's clear lack of iron calms his nerves. Without cold iron or iron faith to kill them, fae might as well be immortal. So Tulio ignores that stubborn voice inside him and stays put. He's just curious enough to wait this out a bit longer.

When their boat docks, Altivo disembarks. Tulio swiftly mounts him and pulls Miguel up too. A little distance from mortals is always a good thing. The mortal thief sticks to their side like glue. The crowd guides them an open plaza. Still no iron spears.

Tulio frowns up at something that looms above far above the tallest temples. For the first time since the river crossing, true fear worms in his gut. "You ever see a mountain smoke like that?"

Miguel pales, then forces an optimistic smile. "Maybe there's a hot spring inside?"

Tulio pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Behold!" All eyes flick to the man on the steps above him, who gesticulates with the surety of a priest. "As the prophecies told, the time of judgement is now!"

...Well, shit.

Before the fae can flee from the dark power radiating off this priest in waves, he smiles serenely down at them. A solemn man who carries himself like a king comes to stand at his side. The priest's expression gains a self-righteous edge. Ah. One of those types.

"Citizens, did I not predict that the gods would come to us?"

Tulio and Miguel glance fearfully behind them for the vengeful deities in question. Their eyes dart from the smoking mountain, down to a bewildered Altivo, and then to the unassuming little armored rat at his hooves. They finally settle on each other. Miguel's face twists with smug consideration. Tulio bites back a smirk.

The high priest descends from his perch. Up close he's not that tall a man. He's even shorter when he bows. "My lords, I am Tzekel-Kan, your devoted high priest and speaker for the gods."

Tulio ponders the grand response expected of them. "...Hey."

Tzekel-Kan puffs up. His expression sours when the kingly man beside him offers up a placating smile of his own. "I am Chief Tannabok. What names may we call you?"

"Huh?" Miguel blinks, taken aback by the oddly polite phrasing. "Call me Miguel."

"And I am Tulio," his partner announces with every last ounce of dignity.

Miguel grandly tries to dismount. His foot snags in Altivo's reins. To compensate, he throws out his arms. "And they call us Miguel and Tulio!" The stallion stamps a hoof. "Oh, and he's Altivo, called...." A snort. "'The Lord of Winds?' Quite a title."

"Your arrival has been greatly anticipated," Chief Tannabok begins diplomatically. "My lords, how long will you be staying in Manoa?"

Tulio hides a grimace. Ugh. Commitment. "Well..."

Tzekel-Kan's narrowed gaze is elsewhere. He finally stalks forward and claims his prey. "Aha!" He drags the mortal woman out from behind Altivo. "I see you've captured this temple-robbing thief." A bloodthirsty grin. "How would you have us punish her?"

The thief winces and grabs her neck. Even before her protests begin, Tulio understands.

"Release her." His growl rumbles like thunder. "Now."

Tzekel-Kan scurries back as if burned. The whole plaza flinches back, sinking to their knees or averting their eyes. Even Miguel looks askance at him.

All except the thief, who blinks at him, and stands a little taller. "M-My lord, I am no thief," she begins, voice barely wavering. "The gods sent me a vision... to bring them tribute from the temple to guide them here." She holds up her golden idol in sweet vindication, then dips her head in well-rehearsed modesty. "My only wish is to serve the gods."

"Of course it is," Miguel brightly agrees without missing a beat. "And you're doing a lovely job so far!"

Tzekel-Kan takes a breath, then another. He sweeps into a bow. "W-We all live to serve you, my lords. Please, forgive my haste. Your grace can move even the lowliest of acolytes." His gaze shifts back to the thief. "Perhaps you can start your... servitude by returning your... tribute to its rightful place."

The thief smiles beatifically and walks off. The plaza parts before her.

With her goes Tulio's rage. Fae moods can be fickle and unpredictable as the sea. They are not ones to hold grudges. They are swift to punish. Once the subject of their hate is suitably humbled or eliminated, they flit on to more interesting things. Tzekel-Kan has apologized. His contrite, eager to please stance hints actual gifts are on their way. The thief is safe, under their protection.

Tulio's burning stare is still fixated on the priest.

Chief Tannabok moves to speak. His gaze flickers to his people, and the fight drains from his shoulders. He only sighs and bows his head. Tulio doesn't press him to speak. He's never liked being interrogated.

Dignity firmly back in place, Tzekel-Kan clasps his hands together. "O formidable lords! Come. Let me show you to your temple."

"All right!" Miguel chirps. "Temple."

Only then does Tulio truly stop glaring daggers into Tzekel-Kan's back. That strange, hateful vise around his heart releases its grip and slips away quick as it came. Instead he tries to savor the novelty of actually being worshiped for a change. He still gazes up at the temple with trepidation. Holy ground is always defended. The lesser pagan gods shooed him away like a pest begging for scraps. Mosques and churches flat out refuse him entry.

For a heartbeat, their path is blocked by Chief Tannabok. Sweat beads on Tulio's neck. Does... Does he...

No. The chief's stony gaze is for Tzekel-Kan alone.

"Step aside," the priest sneers.

He does.

Tzekel-Kan ascends the temple steps. The fae haughtily freeze at the foundation and let Chief Tannabok climb up first. Behind their backs, Tulio and Miguel exchange a grimace. Together they dare the first step.

No invisible force shoves them back or chokes them into submission. Neither spontaneously combusts. They ascend, more perplexed by the step. El Dorado - Manoa - sinks beneath them. There is no hostile divinity awaiting them here; only empty walls long waiting to be filled. Tulio smirks at his partner. Miguel returns it the same smile he gives all his victims before watching them drown.

Toward the top, they slow to admire the view. Under the late afternoon glow the canals glimmer like liquid gold. The temples are shining mountaintops. The actual mountain is no longer ominously smoking. 

The two most powerful men in the city part the curtains and bow in their wake. Their brand new gods swagger past them. Tulio blinks at the sheer amount of vibrant color. Miguel immediately fixates on the large pool embedded in the floor.

Before they can explore, their high priest bows once more. "To commemorate your arrival, I propose a reverent ceremony at dawn."

Chief Tannabok offers a wide, hopeful smile that does not reach his eyes. "Ah, then perhaps I could prepare you a glorious feast for you tonight?"

"Both?" they wonder as one, then nod at the obvious. "Both. Both is good."

The mortals bow and grant them their privacy. Tulio immediately falls into one of the two lavish thrones gracing the central chamber. Cackling, Miguel plops down beside them. Oh, yes. Could he get used to this.

Not like they can bask in peace. A sour presence lingers on the threshold. Tulio growls his way.

"Get your own temple, horse."

Altivo swishes his tail and doesn't budge. His ears pointedly swivel to the human stinking up their temple with her fear.

Miguel frowns down at the golden idol between their thrones. It's still missing its head. "Didn't we give her a head start?"

The thief immediately scrambles out of hiding. She holds up their tribute like a shield. "You did indeed, my lords, and a generous one at that. Unfortunately I chose to take the back entrance, so as not to sully your grand return with my lowly presence." She reunites the head to its body, backing away with a tense smile. "But here we are, good as new! J-Just like they were never parted at all."

Tulio absently rubs his own neck. "Yeah," he mumbles. "Good as new."

Miguel stops eyeing the woman like a potential appetizer. His gaze slides to his partner, before he gamely chimes, "Just like we told you, right?"

She slumps a bit in surprise. Then a tentative smile flits across her face. "Of course, Lord Miguel. Your vision was very detailed."

"Y-Yes," Miguel chokes out. "So it was."

The woman dips her head, smile growing wider. "You called me Chel in that vision, my lords."

"Right," Tulio agrees. "What else could we have called you?"

"Is... Is there anything else I can help you with tonight, my lords?"

Miguel roves over curves even he might drown in. He purrs. "Well-"

"Clothes!" Tulio blurts out.

"C-Clothes?" his partner echoes.

"Yes, Miguel, clothes!" Tulio plucks theatrically at his shirt collar. "Clothes befitting divinity!"

Chel darts off with the promise to be right back. In the short time she's gone an argument happens involving only scowls and eyebrows. Aggression drains from Altivo's stance. He goes from a war horse about to charge into a morbid bystander.

She returns in no time, dumping colorful bolts of cloth and golden adornments into their laps. Miguel immediately peels out of his shirt. He reveals a naked torso that has tempted countless mortals down to the nude, shimmering wet man beckoning to them on the riverbank. Chel bites her lip.

"Is-Is that all, my lords?"

Green eyes slide from her to Tulio. "You're are priestess, aren't you, what with following our vision and all?"

Chel blinks. "...So I am. "

Tulio grins at his partner's cunning. "Then it's your job to make sure the chief doesn't mess up our feast."

Chel vows to do just that. She hastens for the exit but takes her sweet time closing the curtains, lingering for one last ogle. By that point Altivo has finally snorted and breezed down the temple steps. The kelpie leers after her. His partner sinks into something else.

Miguel jostles his shoulder. "Maybe they should call this place 'Chel Dorado.'"

"Maybe," his partner echoes absently.

"Tulio," Miguel breathes in that soft, sincere tone that makes that alias sound like his true name. "Tulio, what's wrong?"

Tulio startles from his daze. Miguel's hand has wrapped around his own... the same damn hand once more obsessively rubbing at his neck.

"I..."

"It's that god damned iron, isn't it?"

"I..." Tulio swallows thickly. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it."

Miguel growls and rubs at his own neck with his free hand. Weeks after Cortes, their healed skin has not yet forgotten the cold bite of shackles. The memory of that pain will never entirely fade. A fae carries it always.

It always comes back to iron.

"These people don't even have iron." Miguel pauses pensively. "Not that a human would choke any less in any other kind of collar, I guess."

"...Or worse," his partner mutters.

Wanting off this conversation, his eyes wildly search for an excuse to change the subject. Their new subject stares down from the massive carving on the temple wall. Tulio's lips quirk upward.

"We got stupid lucky with that resemblance, didn't we?"

Miguel beams, peering at the image. The polished gold reflects his true kelpie shape. "I'll say! What are the odds of some random deity looking so much like you?"

"I-I was talking about you."

Miguel grimaces, squinting at those four figures this city seems so fond of. "Er, I suppose so. But my head is not that big, thank you very much."

Tulio laughs. "They think that's Altivo, you beautiful idiot."

"S-So where am I supposed to be?"

"Uh, the god with your beard?"

Miguel confusedly rubs at his glamor's short, stylish goatee. The water horse in the gold paws a hoof at his ragged beard of kelp. "Is-Is that what... what the glamor looks like?"

Tulio studies the idol himself and squints past the black dog there. "Eh, close enough."

His partner giggles. "Funny. You kind of look like his partner."

Tulio makes a face. He tugs at his ponytail and rubs the long, defined chin of his human face. His real reflection cocks only its head in very real confusion. He turns away from that double vision. "Well, that suits us in the interim, doesn't it? Especially if we make the connection a little stronger."

They strip off their latest fashions from Spain to don Chel's tribute. Miguel's clothing melts into wet grass and pond water. Tulio's crumbles into dry dirt. Long after Miguel's dressed himself and donned the earrings and gauntlets, Tulio still struggles with securing the stupid hip wrap. His partner laughs and easily  ties it. His hands linger at his waist.

"Priests are still off-limits, right? In... In all senses of the word?"

Tulio rolls his eyes. "Unless you want to get smote."

Miguel bites his lip. "And the same applies for priestesses?"

He puts his hands on the kelpie's shoulders. "Miguel, we throw a mortal into the mix with you and one usually tends to... lead into the other."

His partner pouts, but does not argue the point. No wooing Chel means no consuming Chel. Tulio has not saved her from... from a very bad fate at Tzekel-Kan's hands just to have her devoured by a kelpie with poor impulse control.

They don't shake on this. Fae aren't ones for any type of willing, eternal commitment. Tulio's strange attachment for Chel will probably be gone by this time next week. She's mortal, he's the next best thing to immortal. He's a predator, she's prey. It's the way of the world when fae don't have whims otherwise.

Hell, Tulio still isn't sure how he attached himself to Miguel. He's met many of fellow black dogs in their travels before they largely died out. Their senses of devotion involved prowling cemeteries or particular crossroads until they faded away.

The growing crowd outside reaches his ears, driving all thoughts of this from his head. Tulio blinks. "Do we just go out and greet them?"

Miguel grins and and sticks a feather crown on his head. "I say you smile, act godly, and follow my lead."

His partner fearlessly tugs them both into the public eye. They immediately puff up their chests and put on their brightest, boldest grins. Their crowd try to smile like they mean it. It doesn't reach their eyes. Their merry music and dancing puppets don't disguise the fear and anxiety wafting beneath. Tulio breathes it in and swaggers into the chaos. Even if this city turns on them, it can't kill them. Not without cold iron. The worst he gets is some minor wounds before fleeing into the jungle with his tail tucked between his legs.

Altivo, on the other hand...

Eh. Tulio saved his ass once. He's not the one that owes the debt.

Their first trial is a woman with two small children in her arms and a babe on her back. Miguel flashes her a smile and continues on. Tulio pauses. What's the godly thing to do here?

He tries to tickle the toddler's chin. The kid bites his finger.

"Adorable," he coos to its mother.

A mortal biting back, how cute. Especially with such flat little baby teeth. Even changelings that size have a whole set of fangs.

The woman smiles weakly. "Kuili is still getting used to strangers, my lord."

Tulio hides a wince. "Keeping a little wariness in your kid is a healthy thing, lady."

Her brow furrows. Suspicious children are so harder for that kind of fae to snatch. There's a reason they prefer to steal simple babies or else the most naive, sheltered children in the area. Unfortunately for her, Miguel drags him off before he can explain this.

Chief Tannabok awaits them beside a cauldron larger than he is. He scoops a rich red liquid inside a small blue bowl. With a bowed head he offers up their first libation. Tulio snatches it before Miguel can. He tilts his head and downs a large mouthful of something obviously wine.

A vintage unlike any other slams into his tongue. The grape itself almost too sour to stand. Overlaying it is a thick, almost cloying layer of fear. Tulio's true hunger yawns larger at the taste. He swallows, smacking his lips thoughtfully. Fear, he knows, though never before distilled outside a human heart. An aftertaste lingers. It's light and sweet, swift to burn away. A tingly warmth lingers.

Miguel yanks the bowl from him and drinks deep. His face puckers. Rather than spewing it into Chief Tannabok's face, he swallows. And smiles dizzily as that same giddy aftertaste hits him.

"Nice," he purrs. "Very nice. What do you call this, Chief Tanni?"

The chief's practiced smile grows a little wider. "Wine, my lord."

Miguel blinks. "Yes, but what-"

"Who cares?" Tulio butts in. "It's good."

He snatches the bowl back for another drink.

Chief Tannabok laughs as his cheer becomes almost genuine. A wave of tension uncoils in the crowd.

Good. Lowered guards means deeper drinkers and lowered inhibitions. In a few hours they can pick off stragglers from this party without anyone being the wiser.

...But first, wine.

Chapter Text

While the... gods take their sweet time preparing for their audience, Chel helps herself to the wine. Her new status as priestess allows her to drink a serving barely diluted by water. She downs one cup just to steel her nerves. The gods have saved her from execution. She is now also the one responsible for making them happy. And probably cleaning up after their messes.

Their predatory reflections have simply revealed the obvious. All gods have their appetites. Lady Raima likes burly warriors pushed into her volcano. The Jaguar God gluts himself on the human blood Tzekel-Kan sheds over his altar. Even gentle Grandmother Turtle will sometimes demand a venerated elder be ritually drowned in Lake Parime. So far the Dual Gods have proved themselves insatiable.

Chel's fingers itch for a second cup of wine. The gods swagger into view before she can.

Chieftess Miya watches from the temple steps, her three youngest children held close. Lord Miguel smiles and breezes by. Lord Tulio stops to chat.

Chel squeaks in horror when Chief Tannabok's toddler bites a god's finger. But Lord Tulio laughs it off and carries on. The chieftess blinks after him, confused but not concerned for her child's safety.

Chief Tannabok's first libation is not time-honored pulque. He offers wine, pure and undiluted, the vintage only tasted by idols and the most sacred of sacrifices. Chel's heart hammers at his gamble. Manoa did not have wine a thousand years ago. Grapes aren't even native to Lake Parime's shores. Their cultivation and distillation were plunder from the People of the Vine, her own ancestors.

The gods of the Vine People were exiled from this world by the Manoan pantheon. All except Paquini, Lady of the Vine, who passed on her wine and her parties. Most of the gods here enjoy her tribute. Not Lord Xarayes, Lord of Xibalba, implacable as his mother Lady Death. Not Balam Qoxtok, who refuses any substitute to true mortal blood.

Chel's gods are thankfully not exceptions to the rule. They down one bowl of wine, then another.

And another.

Oh.

...What does lore say about divine alcohol tolerance again?

Lord Altivo whinnies above the music. All eyes turn to him. He imperiously rears up and then prances across a bed of coals. His audience gasps and applauds.

Lord Miguel is not to be outdone. His human form flows like water. He prances away as a moon-white stallion, pompously tossing his golden mane. As a horse he's shorter and more lightly built than Lord Altivo, with finer features. He gambols with grace Lord Altivo's powerful frame cannot quite manage.

The two horse gods circle each other haughtily, shaking their heads and lashing tails. A few people watch in fearful awe. Chel bites back a grin. These idiots aren't preparing to fight, but trying to outdo the other in sheer vanity alone. Lord Altivo leaps over a bonfire. Lord Miguel dances out onto Lake Parime. The water holds his weight. Their feats increasingly escalate until someone snorts a challenge. The other bugles back. Side by side, they race into the night.

"Hah," Lord Tulio sighs fondly. "Show off."

In a burst of blue flame, he vanishes into thin air. Chel rolls her eyes. Hypocrite.

The night air rattles with a sound terrible and metallic. Chel follows it to where a brazier now gutters with that same eerie light. The shadows on the temple walls flare and pulse. Lord Tulio's human silhouette flickers in between half a dozen others. A crowd gathers to tilt their heads at the dizzying kaleidoscope- human, rabbit, feline, canine, big canine, headless-

With a fiendish cackle, Lord Tulio flares into existence before a wide-eyed little girl wandered off from her family.

"Boo!"

The girl throws back her head and wails.

The god skitters back, then winces. The pallid blue light in the brazier flares back up into warm red-gold. "Come on, kid, don't-"

She screams louder.

Chel sighs and wades through the crowd. Time for damage control. Every other responsible adult in the vicinity is inching away from the scene.

Lord Tulio's frantic face lights up with an idea. His shape dwindles. "There! Is this better?"

The little girl blinks. She gawks.

"Bunny!" she squeals.

She scoops one very flustered rabbit into a crushing hug, and brings down a hoard of wondrous children upon him.

Chel wants to keel over laughing. Instead she takes a long, long moment to choke down her joy and school her face into semi-serenity. Only then does she wade into the fray to fish out her god. He leaps into her arms, small and shaking. His mob whines in protest. Their parents, stammering apologies but not quite able to contain their own dumb smiles, rush to collect their children.

Chel strides off still cradling one mortified rabbit.

"My ears," he moans. "My poor, poor ears."

His priestess carries away from the light and all those prying eyes. Only then does she set him down. She almost expects him to disappear again without ever again showing his face on the mortal coil. Let tonight go down in history as the night overly affectionate children destroyed a god's dignity beyond repair.

Instead he shifts back to his human guise, rubbing at one aching earlobe. "Um... Thanks for... that."

"My only wish is to serve the gods," Chel answers neutrally. "In whatever capacity I can."

She's ready to leave it at that. Lord Tulio finally stops staring at the ground. His eyes are wide and lost. "I... I didn't want her to cry."

Her natural fear badly shaken by the bunny incident, Chel rolls her eyes at him. "That's what happens when you scare small children out of their skin."

Rather than devour her for the insolence, he slumps in genuine thought. Does... Does Lord Tulio truly not understand how small children work?

Chel's brow furrows. The Dual Gods last saw Manoa a thousand years ago. They swooped down upon the Feathered Serpent, raised the Fifth World from the ashes wrought by the Jaguar God warring with the Crocodile God, and disappeared without even beholding their final creation. No wonder Lord Tulio's so out of practice with mortals.

The horse gods thunder back from their race, sides heaving. Lord Tulio smirks and turns their way, his introspection ending quick as it came.

"Miguel, you better have won against that old nag!"

Lord Altivo snorts vehemently down at him.

His competitor primly flicks an ear. "We decided it's draw." The Horse God whinnies shrilly. Lord Miguel only laughs and flows back into human shape. "I am not repeating that, thank you very much."

Lord Altivo is not a demanding god. He's content to spend the rest of the night gorging himself on wine and golden apples. Chel isn't his priestess. She's stuck with the two divinities that have the attention spans of gnats. They flit from musicians to dancers to puppeteers, bored each time something new catches their eye. Their only constancy are the wine goblets in hand. Diligent acolytes never let their cups run empty.

As priestess Chel draws up every last ounce of her newfound authority to keep the gods occupied. She summons new puppet shows, livelier songs, sparklers, cigars, anything and everything that can hold their attention for more than ten seconds. The idiots only sit still when eating.  Since this is a feast, Chel stuffs them full. They shovel down everything heaped onto their plates.

...Except the watermelon. Despite their bottomless stomachs, they both look sick when the warriors bring down their cudgels to split the melons open. Chel harshly waves on the servants before they can reach their plates.

When the next course rolls in, they perk right back up, and regain their appetites. Good. Happy gods mean a happy people. Chel even hopes all this food soaks up all that undiluted wine they've been guzzling.

"Seriously, Miguel," Lord Tulio grouses after shoving a cake slice aside, "what is this flavor? They use it in everything!"

His partner laughs. Lazing back in his seat, he lowers a roast fish into his mouth, and strips the meat from the bone. "All that wine soaked up your palate."

"Y-You're holding your glass right now!"

"Um, yeah, because it's good!"

They laugh and clumsily toast each other, bolting back yet another goblet. Wine splatters onto both their chests.

Chel fights for her calm. "My lords, perhaps it's time for-"

The idiots have already stumbled out of their seats in search of the next distraction. They remain stubbornly holding onto their goblets. Chel rolls her eyes and follows.

It's a very, very bad thing if she lets them out of her sight. She knows this like she knows to fear the jungle shadows or the treacherous dark of the river.

Instinct's never steered her wrong before.

Enjoy themselves in moderation, bide their time, enjoy the real feast afterward. It's all the plan they need. Intricacies and contingencies are for mortals.

Ration, wait, hunt. Ration, wait, hunt.

Ration... Well, not that much. A cup more can't hurt. Pft, did I say a cup? I meant three!

Ration... Um...

Seven's my lucky number!

Ugh...

Enjoy, wait, enjoy? T-That's the plan, right? Or... wait, feast, enjoy?

His critical thinking skills drift in a warm, dreamy haze. Instinct never fails. Except... Except he might have fried that too. His only innate sense is to just slump to the ground and sleep. That doesn't seem quite right either.

He consults his little voice instead, that canny whisper that tells him while he's ahead. That little voice always offers such stunning insight as don't date your own cons or don't pass out where strangers can slit your throat. Actually, come to think of it, his little voice might have been saying that a lot tonight. And he might have drank more to drown out the nagging. Now that little voice concurs; sleep. Sleep is good.

Isn't... Isn't he supposed to be hungry?

His stomach heaves at the suggestion. Ugh, no.

He's full. Completely, utterly full. Parts he never knew he had are stuffed to burst.

He blinks blearily overhead. The stars are dancing.

...No, no. They're just spinning. The pretty face that leans into vision spins even worse. All five of her are pretty, even if they're blurry and whirling.

He giggles as something comes to him, some distant night by the riverbank. Pft, he'd thought his partner was eating someone. How could he have ever forgotten sex is a wild, wonderful thing?

His partner also happens to eat people. So does he. He's... He's...

"Lord Tulio," the spinning faces call. "Lord Tulio, we-"

He desperately seizes her foot. "N-No! N' m'name... I'm T-"

An icy tendril snares his heart. His other hand snaps to his neck, in sudden memory at the cold bite of steel. He will never be that careless.

Not ever again.

"Tulio, then?" murmurs the woman, bending closer. "Just Tulio?"

"Yeah. Jus' Tulio." Another terrible realization hits him. "Ch... Sh... Shel?"

"Yes, Tulio?"

He snatches her hand. "I... I can't find my head!"

"...It's attached to your shoulders, Tulio."

"Oh." Tulio slumps back against the stone plaza. "Tha's good."

"I think it's long past your bedtime, Tulio." Only by about eighteen hundred years. He whimpers as she tugs him to his feet. At least he knows he hasn't lost his head again if it's aching this badly. Chel gags. "And you're way overdue for a bath."

Tulio stares into her eyes, dark and bright. All he knows about Chel is her name, her quick thinking and her patience.

"Both," he mumbles. "Both's good."

He knows she will see the next sunrise, and countless mornings after this one.

Chel laughs. "Glad you think so. Either way, they're not negotiable."

Tzekel-Kan will never have her head. He will never have her life.

Not now, not ever.

Wrangling two drunken deities back to their temple is easier said then done. Chel enlists several of the slightly less inebriated acolytes to help. Tulio snarls every time they try to lift Miguel. In turn his partner bares yellow, jagged fangs every time they try to touch Tulio. The acolytes flinch back and murmur platitudes that don't reach the gods. By now the idiots are slurring their threats entirely in gibberish.

And that's all their priestess can take tonight.

"Save it!" she snaps.

Tulio immediately flops over. Miguel gapes at her.

Then he purrs. Her death glare kills his libido. He slumps and mumbles an apology.

The acolytes have no trouble lifting them after that. Chel's eye wearily finds Altivo. He only spares her a curt nod and breezes into the dark. Just fine with her.

By the time they climb the temple the gods are more asleep than not. Tulio slides into the tub with a groan of contentment. Just before he slips under the soapy water, gills flare open on Miguel's neck. Uh oh.

With a spluttering, indignant shriek, an angry god erupts from his bath and uncoils. Those people not bowled over are drenched in water and soap bubbles. Miguel charges for the dark pool at the temple's heart. He vanishes under its surface with a sharp slash of his ragged tail.

Tulio gapes after him. "It's a bath, idiot!"

The ripples in the pool fall sullenly still. A few acolytes inch after him.

"Leave him," Chel grits out.

At least one deity isn't entirely a toddler. He dozes as his long hair is vehemently scrubbed. Chel doesn't know why he reeks like death and dry dirt on top of sweat and sour wine. What matters is that stench purged from every fiber of his being. She doesn't let him out of the bath until he's squeaky clean. For simplicity's sake he's just bundled into another hip wrap and dumped alone into a bed big enough for three.

As soon as Tulio switches shape, the acolytes squeak and flee.... from a little black rabbit. Hopping out to the center of the bed, he kneads into the covers. On each spin, he shifts, making a progressively larger nest for himself. On the first, he's the rabbit, and the second a ghost-white cat. He grows into a scruffy mutt and then a dog twice the size of a tapir.

The black dog has massive paws with bear-like claws, sharply pointed ears, and a tail that thumps into the bed with each wag. His tongue lolls out.

"Comfy?" she giggles.

He cracks open one deep blue eye and wags harder.

"Good night, Tulio."

"G'night, Shel," he mumbles, long snout buried into his paws.

He's snoring like thunder by the time she reaches the threshold. She lingers for a last look. Even under that thick dark hair she can see his vertebrae, the lines of his ribs. No wonder he ate thrice his weight tonight.

Tzekel-Kan will have a real sacrifice for them tomorrow.

Chel shoves such darkness from her head. That's a problem for the morning. So is the snake-horse-fish sulking in the pool.

"Good night, Miguel."

Not even a bubble responds.

She can figure out her new quarters later. Tonight she just collapses on the plushy couch.

Darkness finds her anyway. She dreams of vicious black dogs that run down victims until their hearts give out and headless, vengeful phantoms that choke with icy hands. She dreams of beautiful horses that bewitch riders on their backs. Unable to escape, those victims scream as they're dragged under rivers, away from the moonlight. Submerged in icy depths, the water horses smile wide, and savor every last moment of terror before their dinner drowns.

With Tzekel-Kan, they'll never have to hunt again.

Chapter Text

Haunted by nightmares, Chel snaps awake the moment Tzekel-Kan and his attendants prowl into the temple. The high priest is already dressed for the occasion. He smiles condescendingly from behind the skeletal mask of clay and gold he wears only for sacred executions. Her brother, a mere common criminal, had not been worth the honor.

She smirks coldly back and waves him onward. His sacrifice, his job to get the gods into their litter. The high priest swaggers past her into the gods' bedchamber expecting two placid, human deities.

He gets a large black dog sprawled over the entire bed, all four paws sticking in the air and snoring like thunder. Tzekel-Kan's eyes widen behind his mask. He cocks his head and considers the logistics of getting this single god into the litter. His attendants look uneasily around for what happened to the other one. The pool is ominously still.

Tzekel-Kan waves his acolytes onward. They gingerly approach Tulio. Their eyes never leave his claws and bone-white fangs.

Tulio yelps the moment he's touched. The attendants skitter back. The black dog frantically scrambles onto his paws. His eyes, wide and wild, dart frantically around as if somewhere else entirely. After a heartbeat his hackles rise. His blue eyes blaze red and he pulls back his lip in a warning snarl. Chel's heart skips.

"Lord Tulio." Burning eyes fixate on her. The attendant he'd been ready to pounce on keels back in a dead faint. "Forgive their intrusion, my lord," she continues evenly. "They were trying to prepare you for the dawn ceremony."

"O-Of course, my lord," Tzekel-Kan agrees readily, utterly spellbound where even his attendants are ready to flee. "We were trying not to wake you until strictly necessary."

The black dog flicks an ear. Then he grumbles and shakes himself. "Hell of a wake-up call."

"My lord, I-I deeply apologize for-"

"Uh huh." He kneads the bed in clear preparation to go back to sleep. "Let's reschedule this thing for noon, yeah?"

Before Chel can agree, Tzekel-Kan spreads out his hands enticingly. "If you truly wish to, my lord. This city is yours to command. I can send back the crowds already gathered in your name and postpone your surprise a few more hours."

This perks Tulio right up. "Surprise, huh?" He rolls off the bed, landing on two human feet, and absently brushes bed-tussled hair from his face. "Sure, why not?"

Chel tactfully clears her throat and steals closer to him. "Um, Lord Tulio?" she stresses carefully. "What's the... gentlest way to wake Lord Miguel?"

He smirks and strides past her. Snatching an apple from a bowl of tribute, he chucks it into the pool. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

With a startled snort, a gaunt equine head with jagged fangs and a mane of weeds pops out of the water. He looks blearily around. "W-What time is it?"

"Time for this dawn ceremony."

The water horse whines and starts slipping under the water. "Just go on without me!"

Tulio smiles fondly. "Fine. More for me."

Miguel's ears prick. He emerges a man, dripping wet and reeking of dead fish. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

Chel politely holds her breath. Acolytes pretend to cough just to pinch their noses shut. Tulio shudders. "Miguel."

"I know, I know."

A casual flick of Miguel's wrist dries him off. The hands run through his hair leave it noticeably less limp and bedraggled. Some stifled curses and finger twitching later, his odor fades. He and Tulio sedately climb into their litter. Their bearers grunt at the true weight they bear. Everyone but Chel breathes more easily.

In the fresh morning air, a stubborn undertone of mildew and drowned things still lingers. Chel's the only one to notice. Maybe it's because she's their priestess, or because she's always had the unfortunate knack of seeing more than she's supposed to. Miguel's apparent cleanliness is an illusion just slightly less solid than his human form.

As the procession gets underway, Chel discreetly hands back. She whispers for an acolyte to draw up another tub of water for after the ceremony.

If she can look the gods in the eyes after this, Miguel is getting a proper bath.

Behind the privacy of the curtains, the fae finish making themselves look presentable. Tulio slips on the golden gauntlets from last night. Miguel, who never actually freshened up, switches his hip wrap to a deep, murky green like his kelpie form. His lips purse. After a moment's thought, he brightens it up to emerald. That's a much more flattering color.

"How are my pupils?" he frets.

"Not goat-like." Tulio's brow furrows. "How about my head?"

Miguel chuckles. "Every last hair accounted for."

He snags the earrings from Tulio's lap to put in himself. The kelpie sniffs, then sniffs again. He nuzzles his nose into his partner's thick black hair.

"Wow, this place really makes a strong soap. You don't even smell a little bit like a cemetery anymore."

"M-Miguel," his partner stutters.

He hums deep in his throat. "Not that I'm complaining. You smell good." And not even in the edible way.

"I wish I could the say the same about you," Tulio snarks. "Maybe don't inhale the bathwater next time."

Miguel sticks his tongue out at him. He isn't gentle about putting Tulio's earrings in. "I was only keeping pace with you. Usually you're the one watching what we drink."

"Hey, I was drinking exactly the right- ouch!"

Miguel smirks and pulls away. "All done."

His partner sulks the rest of the journey. In the morning stillness, Miguel's mind wanders to depths not normally delved. He smacks his lips thoughtfully. A phantom sweetness, light and warm, lingers on his tongue. It had grown stronger with every drink, with every bite of food. No wonder they'd drank themselves silly for every last drop could. Now if only he can pinpoint exactly what flavor this-

Their litter finally stops moving. Tzekel-Kan gleefully pops his head in. "We're here, my lords!"

The fae descend to a cheering crowd.

"The gods have awakened!"

Miguel drinks in all he can. They stand at the end of a sheer drop off. Below roars a whirlpool that yawns into abyssal darkness. Beyond that stands a crowd of hundreds, if not thousands. They cheer at the top of their lungs to make up for their enthusiasm. Their dread slams into him in a nauseating, overwhelming wave. Miguel glances wildly behind him. Chief Tannabok stands stone-faced and strong for those who cannot be.

Miguel's mouth goes very dry. He sags against his partner.

Tulio discreetly squeezes his hand. Miguel clings to him in a death grip.

Chel scurries before them, scattering flower petals. Her eyes are wide with mortal terror.

"Hey, Chel," Tulio murmurs, "what's going on?"

She grimaces a smile. "O-Only the beginning of what... what is owed to you, my lords."

"...What?"

Chel blinks at them, aghast. She opens her mouth to-

"This city has been granted a great blessing. And what have we done to show our gratitude? A meager celebration." Tzekel-Kan glares venomously at Chief Tannabok before rounding on the crowd. "The gods deserve a proper tribute!"

Tulio hums thoughtfully. He nudges his partner. His hopeful smile falls.

Miguel isn't sure what expression his own face is making. His heart pounds faster with every word from the high priest's mouth.

"The beginning of a new era, the dawning of a new age... demands... sacrifice."

And faster still when Tzekel-Kan weaves magic, true magic, to summon up a squirming sack. The bag falls open to reveal a human man, prone and bound. His eyes are dull and vacant. He placidly rises under Tzekel-Kan's thrall. The high priest jabs his cudgel in his back. Every step brings them closer to-to-

Miguel screams a stallion scream. He thunders forward. Tzekel-Kan scrambles out the way. His cudgel, a blunt thing embedded with obsidian teeth, clatters to the stone. Miguel rears up. He brings up his hooves, again and again, and smashes that awful thing into splinters and shards of glass. Chest heaving, he snaps to the high priest groveling some the feet away.

The sacrifice, the man, pitches alarmingly forward. Miguel swerves to him. The man weakly falls against his side. Gently, the kelpie nudges him off the precipice and back onto solid earth.

Only Chel dares approach them. She slings the man's arm under her shoulder and hauls him away. At her curt command, the litter-bearers rush forward to see the man to a healer. Miguel exhales. Some alien sense of hysteria drains from him.

His gaze snaps back to Tzekel-Kan. The priest's platitudes are meaningless noise.

Tulio waves a calming, dismissive hand. "We get it, Tzekel. You 'misread the heavens.' Maybe the stars just weren't in position. Maybe we just took offense to being woken up at the crack of dawn to be force-fed after gorging ourselves the night before. To err is human. Don't worry about it." He smirks, eyes flashing red. "This time."

Miguel snorts. Tulio arches a brow at him.

With the man safe and his head no longer ringing, Miguel isn't feeling quite as enthused to trample Tzekel-Kan into mush. He's still hungover and too queasy for his own good. This is a meal best saved for another day.

Chief Tannabok clears his throat. With a hopeful smile, he presents them a parade of beautiful women. They enticingly hold up their real tribute. Their arms are laden with baskets of gleaming gold. Tulio whimpers longingly. Miguel slumps in mild disappointment.

"My lords, does this please you?"

Above a tight smile, Tulio's eyes bulge. "What do you think, Lord Miguel? Is this worthy of our impeccable standards?"

Miguel blinks. Shiny things have always been more his partner's thing. He prefers objects with stories behind them. To be polite he inspects the baskets anyway. He shifts into human form just to pick up a bowl in his hands.

In Spain, gold is cold and hollow.

In Manoa it radiates a heat all its own. Miguel nearly drops the bowl at such a sensation. Its warmth is not unlike the one brought by the one the wine, but this one doesn't cloud his mind. He basks in a fervent glow that reaches into the dark, icy depths of his being. A smile tugs his lips upward.

"Yes," he agrees. The woman holding the basket shyly averts her gaze. He grins wider. "Very nice."

"Good." Tulio clears his throat. "Er, good. Certainly acceptable."

Chief Tannabok smiles earnestly this time. "To Xibalba?"

Miguel possessively hugs his tribute. His lip curls as he glances back to that roaring whirlpool. Its depths are far deeper and darker than his river ever reached, with far more dead bodies. Such warmth is squandered down there.

"Perhaps you and Lord Tulio wish to bask in the reverence that has been to show from the comfort of your temple?" Chel gamely suggests. 

"Bask," Miguel blurts out immediately. "Basking is good."

Chief Tannabok relays their wishes to the people. They roar with approval. The thick cloud of fear over them lifts. Miguel breathes in deep, and no longer chokes from the force of it.

Surrounded by heaping piles of tribute, Miguel and Tulio parade back to their temple. They gleefully celebrate their good luck from atop their litter. Fae have no need to ponder anything else. What happened minutes ago is an unpleasant bump in the road, water off a duck's back, all forgotten. (Never forgiven.)

Beside them, Chel gracefully carries herself atop Altivo. The stallion catches his eye and refuses to let go.

Breathing hitching, Miguel rips his gaze away regardless. He rubs that old ache at the back of his head, where his skull meets his spine, and stubbornly throws himself back into the moment.

"Tons of gold for you, hah. And tons of good for me, hooh. Tons of gold for we, ah!"

(Never forgiven.)

(never forgotten.)

Chapter Text

Upon arriving at the temple, Chel informs Miguel in no uncertain terms that the bath he requested is ready for him. His eyes longingly flicker to the beautiful ladies carrying in heaping piles of tribute. He pouts at Chel, realizes she won't crumble like the usual victims, and instead turns his look on Tulio.

His partner only grins and pushes him along. "A bath will do you good."

"B-But-" Miguel truly takes in the bare chests of the attendants responsible for his bath time. "Well, if you insist."

Acolytes sweep him away. Tulio fondly shakes his head after his beautiful idiot. Then he turns to far more important matters, gloating over his gold. Chel instead starts dictating strategic spaces for the tribute. Tulio boggles as he realizes the endless procession inside. Huh. They are running out of floor space rather quickly.

As the tribute piles up, Tulio stops admiring it to help Chel with organization. Together they keep the temple from being too claustrophobic.

The line is nearly done when Miguel finally swaggers back out to them. His hair looks especially soft. Tulio wastes no time in running his fingers through it. His partner leans in to his touch.

"Well?" he prompts, ready for his stream of compliments.

Tulio inhales appreciatively; still Miguel, without the layer of dead fish. "I say you clean up nicely."

"A-Are you saying I wasn't clean before?"

"...Not as clean."

Miguel huffs in mock outrage. "Well, are you sure you still don't smell like wet dog?"

Tulio waves a hand at Chel. "I leave that judgement up to our impartial priestess."

Chel bites her lip to keep back her laugh. Her eyes playfully dart to those last lingering acolytes. "My lords, you smell like nothing less than perfection."

The last of the gold stacks up quickly after that. Huh. Not that Tulio minds the privacy. Without prying eyes he gleefully shifts back into the black dog, sniffing every last heaping pile of tribute. Then he rolls onto the back of one. Miguel falls onto another. He uncoils into his kelpie form, basking like a snake in sunlight.

Chel's gaze sweeps from them to their tribute. Her smile falters. She self-consciously fingers one of her earrings. Tulio narrows his eyes. Hers are plain green stone. Most of Manoa wears gold.

"Help yourself," Tulio blurts out. Two heads snap his way. "To the gold! The gold. There's, um, enough for everyone to bask in."

Dark eyes flicker to one bewildered kelpie. "It's... It's Miguel's tribute too."

The kelpie flutters his tail. "And you're our priestess. That means our gold is your gold, right?"

She beams so bright both fae sag from her joy. "If you say so."

Immediately she starts poring over their tribute. Her enthusiasm soon dampens into frustration. There's a lot to go through. Even picking out small earrings from larger gold pieces is a nightmare. Finding the pair that suits her is downright impossible.

Tulio considers the pile beneath them. Reflexively he shifts back to his one form with opposable thumbs. He picks up the square earrings embedded with green jade, tossing them in his hand like he does his loaded dice. He rolls back down to the floor.

"These," he states with utter certainty. "These are the ones."

"Oh," she breathes. "Thank you."

She removes the old green stone from her ears, and stands all the prouder with gold in them. Chel beams. Tulio grins dizzily back, her sparkling eyes sending the world just a little out of tilt.

"Y-You're welcome."

Miguel lifts his head from the gold. Green eyes squint. "Why didn't you have a pair before? Most others seem to."

Except the people serving them, Tulio realizes. They too wear green stone.

"Manoans are the Golden People." With a bitter twist to her mouth, Chel tosses up her old pair. "The People of the Vine privileged enough to serve under divinity are allowed green stone. It's not real holy jade, but close enough to still be appeasing to the gods."

Miguel brightens with understanding. "So, they're sort of like torcs?"

Chel blinks. "...What are torcs?"

"Stiff, fancy neck rings from back in the day." Tulio rolls his eyes. "Only important people got to wear them."

"E-Excuse me!" Miguel yelps. "It's just what we wore back then."

"Oh, you had one? How come I never saw it, Mr. High and..."

Tulio trails off. Miguel isn't even facing them. He's slipped off the gold. In human form he sags against a column, gazing out over the city. His shoulders are hunched, arms curled to his chest.

Wordlessly, Tulio comes to his side. Chel leans casually against the pillar behind him. Before them Manoa unfurls like a dream.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she murmurs.

The desolation on Miguel's face gentles in wistfulness. "Yeah," he sighs.

"You know, you two have been gone a thousand years already." Chel's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "You shouldn't miss a minute more."

"You're right," he laughs. "You're absolutely right!"

"Hey, Miguel, maybe we- hmph."

His partner cuts him off with a fierce kiss. "Oh, you worry too much!"

With a giddy laugh, Miguel pulls away. He leaps down the temple steps as a milk-white stallion, gold mane flashing in the sun. Tulio splutters uselessly after him.

Chel arches a disbelieving brow. "You worry too much?"

"I worry exactly the right amount!" Tulio flushes. Even the flimsiest thread of forethought is downright gauche by fae standards. That little voice in his head, those bursts of serendipity, is the reason he and Miguel survive where so many others have faded. "Like you're one to talk. You only set Miguel loose on an unsuspecting populace."

An overeager kelpie in a city of canals. There's going to be so much human entrails washing up a few days from now. And that just seems... downright rude after Manoa just thoughtfully tried to offer them up a sanctified breakfast and all. Why did Miguel have to be so... so...

Stallions can sound downright terrifying. A joyful call to friends can sound near indistinguishable from trumpeting to challengers. Why should a city without horses better know the sound of their terror?

At the sacrifice, Miguel had screamed.

Chel starts descending the temple steps after him. "He'll be just fine until we catch up."

Yeah. Maybe Tulio will just find him in a dark corner with yet another tryst before he digs in for the main course. Not that Chel needs to know that. His brow furrows at the steady nonchalance of her voice. She hadn't sounded half so confident last night.

"What makes you think so?" he wonders aloud.

Chel flashes him a certain smile, the tension from the sacrifice long gone. "Faith. That's how being a priestess works."

Tulio's blood runs cold. His gaze rivets to her loose black hair, her easy gait, the brightness of her eyes.

If he and Miguel had not hesitated outside the waterfall, if he'd never dared speak up for her before Tzekel-Kan, then... then... Chel would be gone. And they wouldn't have even known her name.

Swallowing thickly, he follows.

Miguel trots down immaculate roads beside vermilion temples and crystal blue canals. He marvels at the birds flying overhead with sweeping tails and plumage all colors of the rainbow. He basks in the warm sun and the humid air. It's the polar opposite of winter, the ice that once once froze him into his pool and into hibernation.

The deeper he ventures into the city proper, the further his unease goes. Every last alleyway is empty. What should be a bustling marketplace suffers in silence. The people are still here somewhere; he feels their eyes peeking out through curtains and behind doorways. His nostrils flare at the fear and frustration hanging heavy in the air.

The kelpie fixates on the one mortal in sight; Chima, the same warrior that had led their escort yesterday.

"Excuse me." Chima turns. His look of irritation soon twists into familiar fear. Miguel tries placating him with an equine smile. "Hey, where is everybody?"

"They've been cleared from the streets, my lord, so the city can be cleansed as you ordered."

The stallion's ears fold ominously back. This man reeks of Tzekel-Kan. "'Cleansed?'"

"Y-Yes, my lord. So the Age of..." Chima blinks at his equine form, then nervously coughs. "So your age can begin, my lord."

Before Miguel can question him further, a commotion breaks out further down the street. A lone man cowers back from the two armed warriors advancing upon him.

Miguel bugles. He charges.

All three men stumble onto their backs. The warriors drop their spears and grovel apologies. Their target, splayed onto the road, trembles wordlessly. His heart hammers hard as Tulio' victims do right before he pounces. Nudge him an inch further over the edge, and he just die of fright.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He near chokes on their fear.

"Whose brilliant idea was this?" he grits out.

Chima leaves what he thinks is a safe distance between them. It is nowhere near enough to stop an enraged stallion from running him down. "E-Everyone who disobeys y... your orders must be punished, my lord. Tzekel-Kan has made your commands clear."

Inhale.

Exhale.

Miguel rears. Everyone braces for death. His hooves smash the spear shafts to splinters. That short, dry crack cannot quite compare to the wet crunch of a shattered rib cage.

"Here's an order," he hisses through yellow fangs. "Take the day off."

The warriors scatter. Good. They've heard it straight from the kelpie's mouth.

Miguel considers the last man left in the street. He's still prone on his back, too stunned to move. The kelpie's stomach squirms. He flows back into his human shape, deceptively harmless. He smiles with flat white teeth and considers the words mortals use for comfort.

"Are you all right?" At the sound of his voice the man only shrinks back further. Miguel doggedly bends over and offers him a helping hand. "Here." The man yanks off his earrings and offers them up. Miguel chuckles at the simple misunderstanding. "Oh, no! I'm just trying to help you-"

The man drops his earrings and bolts blindly past him. In his desperation he runs into a market stall, trips over its goods, and keeps on running.

"Wait!" Miguel calls, reaching for his unwanted tribute. "You forgot your-"

He drops the earrings as if burned. The gold in the temple is warm like sunshine. This metal is cold and brittle with fear.

Oh.

Miguel sucks in a breath and checks his palm for burns. All that lingers is a chill touch. At least it doesn't hurt him. He winces, quickly picks up the stupid earrings, and sets them on the stall for their true owner to find. His gaze flickers to the objects spilled out on the street. He returns most of it.

A few scraps he keeps for himself.

Rather than sulk in the closest body of water, Miguel settles down in a quiet corner. He occupies his mind with a tangible project. With a drum as a base, he fashions himself a crude guitar. He idly strums and tunes it to make it sound half-decent.

He's just settling into a rhythm when Chel and Tulio find him. His partner sags in relief.

"There you are!"

Miguel rolls his eyes. "What, no comments about how my terrible music scared everyone inside?"

Chel lightly nudges his shoulder. Miguel freezes at her touch, light and trusting. The guitar squeals. "I know this was Tzekel-Kan," she murmurs. "The tradition might have started after your time, but now the streets are ordered emptied before our most sacred events so they can be cleansed." A scoff. "He should have asked permission first. You're my gods. And nothing should have happened without your command."

A bitter laugh escapes him. "Doesn't matter now, does it? He got what he wanted. No one wants to come outside and... Oh, hey, Altivo. Where have you been?"

Altivo rounds the corner with two little girls walking beside him and an even younger boy on his back. At the sight of them the girls gasp, clinging to the stallion's legs. Tulio freezes with the same dread he always has for tiny human beings. Chel squeezes Miguel's shoulder encouragingly.

Biting back a smile, he starts a slow and simple love song. The girls are mesmerized by his fingers. Gradually they sneak out from behind Altivo. They giggle in delight. Miguel's heart soars at the sound.

They're not alone. Shutters open. Faces peak out from windows and behind corners. People ease into the street.

Once their fear is buoyed by curiosity, Miguel strums a little faster, a little louder. His energy weaves into the song and invites the crowd closer.

The little girls join hands and spin around. Altivo gently bounces the little boy on his back. Tulio squirms and struggles to hold onto what he thinks godly composure. Miguel grins and kicks up his melody another notch. His partner's resolve crumbles. Upon gallantly offering Chel a hand, he whirl with her into the fray with no grace whatsoever. Tulio's grandiose steps falter with a dance partner unused to this style.

As Miguel winds down his song, someone is finally bold enough to approach him. The man squints intently down at his fingers. Miguel demonstrates the basics to him. Then he stands and gently presses the guitar into his hands.

"My lord, what do I even call this?"

Miguel laughs. "You tell me. It hasn't a got a name in Manoan yet."

Leaving the brand new guitarist to ponder this, Miguel sweeps his way between two flustered dance partners, and steals away with them tucked under his arms.

"So," he asks brightly, "what next?"

Tulio flushes bright red. "Um..."

Chel ponders this.

And smirks.

With all of Manoa's marvels waiting before them, Chel immediately knows the one that might make even these two toddlers think twice. Out of all their shapes, she's yet to see one with wings. She drags them to the dancers of the pole. The last round is just descending. Miguel gasps. Tulio turns a little green.

"We can try something else if you want," she chimes sweetly.

Miguel laughs. "Are you kidding? This looks amazing!" He rushes forward and yanks his partner with him.

Chel hangs back to finally enjoy the show. The other dancers unanimously decide to let the gods go up alone. Miguel is attached to one side and Tulio the other. Right as the pole starts lifting them off the ground, Tulio yelps. In a flash of blue fire he's streaked out of his restraint. Now he's a trembling white cat, clinging to the pole with all four sets of claws. The attendants swiftly halt it.

"Tulio!" Miguel calls, still tied up. "You're... You're not scared of heights, are you?"

"N-No!" insists the shaky white cat that leaps off the pole, fur bristling and legs jittery. "Why would you think that?"

"Back in the jungle you climbed trees three times the size of this!"

"Yes, because I was firmly attached to a tree trunk and not catapulted through the air." A beat. "B-But that doesn't mean anything!" Tulio shifts into human shape, still thoroughly disheveled. "I was just demonstrating the... um... traditional first feline avoidance maneuver."

Miguel tries suggesting they find something else to try. Tulio blusters his way back onto the pole. His fingers claw into the dirt, slowing the first rotation down. Eventually the attendants work up enough momentum to get them airborne. Once he stops caterwauling, Tulio whoops in exhilaration. His only leans back with a wide smile, watching his surroundings and the wind whip through his hair.

Chel needs no convincing to join them the second time. Or the third. On the fourth she and Tulio wisely abstain. Everyone below Miguel discreetly inches out of the blast radius. He makes it safely down. Only on the verge of asking for a fifth round does he finally vomit wine and chunks of dead fish onto the grass.

To help them all unwind Chel next takes them to the gardens where the sacred messengers are tended. The birds are wary of the gods for all of five seconds. Then they swarm their bowls of seed. Miguel grins as the tallest birds start riffling their beaks through his golden hair. Tulio yelps as they inquisitively tug at his ponytail.

Chel purses her lips in thought for where to take them next. Last night the gods fluttered buzzed from distraction to distraction like hyperactive butterflies. Today they've repeated the pole multiple times, and stood still long enough to let birds thoroughly inspect them. Today they've mellowed out. Or have gotten their excitement from the arrival of their systems... Or maybe they're just still recovering from their hangovers of godly proportions.

She hopes this is their normal energy level. They won't drive her into an early grave so quickly this way.

From there they cross Lake Parime on one of Lady Eupana's turtle children. Miguel is delighted for a change in the usual perspective. Tulio grins tightly and clings to his arm. He's the first to hop off before the turtle even finishes pulling up to the dock.

The bone-sticks require patience and preparation for ten seconds of one picture becoming another. Her idiots immediately start bickering on competing visions. Why not both? There's plenty of room in the plaza.

"You can just-"

"Yes, Chel!" Miguel butts in. "Brilliant idea!"

"Yeah," Tulio agrees immediately. "You're our priestess. Give us something to build off of here."

Chel blurts out her gut answer. After a beat, her boys promptly agree. Every hand in the plaza donates their bone-sticks to painstakingly bring a united vision to life. A moon and stars form in the plaza around a deep blue sky.

When the last piece is laid, all three insists the others have the honor. Miguel and Tulio are the gods and Chel the humble priestess. Chel both brought them back to Manoa and brought this idea to life.

Someone in the crowd tentatively raises her hand. "...Why not do both?"

They blink at each other?

Both? Both. Both is good.

Three fingers awkwardly come together to push one tiny bone-stick. A golden sun ripples into existence. Miguel and Tulio grin at their handiwork.

Chel instead smiles at the crowd. They faces are wondrous as they behold the vision their gods have helped wrought. No few eyes water with tears.

Miguel tugs them onward. When he glimpses Altivo through a window, he races to meet him. Tulio shakes his head and smiles dazedly after him.

Ahead of the Horse God race three little boys after their ball. They freeze in trepidation.

Miguel smiles. The boys smile back. One holds up his ball invitingly.

"Go ahead, partner," Tulio murmurs. "I'll just-"

"We're play," Chel butts in.

Miguel wades right in. He copies the boys, rolling the ball down his arms and lightly tossing it back. Then he grins and kicks it Tulio's way. His partner yelps and catches it with both hands.

"Hey!" shouts a boy. "Using your hands is cheating!"

"Yeah, kid?" Tulio retorts. "By whose rules?"

"Um, yours?" blurts another. "The Hero God invented this game."

A beat. "Well, excuse me, I was playing by the older rules."

Three curious heads tilt. "Older rules?"

"Yep. From... From when we were your age." Tulio smirks at his partner. "Isn't that right, Miguel?"

"Um... Yes. Back in those days we used our hands and everything. And... our balls weren't made of whatever this... stuff... is."

The tallest boy's eyes narrow skeptically. "The world didn't have rubber yet?"

"Nope." Miguel accepts the ball back from Tulio, dribbling it once under his hand. "Our balls were lighter and didn't hurt so hard to get by."

"What were they?"

Miguel and Tulio smirk at each other. They pause long enough for the boys to near explode in anticipation.

"Pig bladders," they answer together.

Chel motions for Miguel to pass the ball her way. The game continues by the modern rules, casually tossed between three adults because the boys are currently scrambling for all questions pig bladder related. Yes, real bladders, all dried out and blown up by mouth. What are pigs? Fat animals that lived in mud, ate your garbage, and squealed like demons when you picked them up. What happened to pigs? Maybe people ate them all because they loved bacon so much. Maybe they died out during one of the worlds ending. It was all so long ago.

Their game soon attracts a crowd. Boys and girls fearlessly join in. Among them are Chief Tannabok's oldest boys. Their dad soon joins them.

Above the playing field, Chel glimpses a familiar shape. Tzekel-Kan stares down and consults his holy text, obviously clueless as to how the god that came close to trampling him dead hours earlier is now playing with children. She gleefully waves his way. The high priest tenses, offers a smile just shy of being a snarl, and stalks off.

Tzekel-Kan has long preached the dawning of his era, the formal end of the Fifth World to usher in the Age of the Jaguar. In truth Balam Qoxtok's cult has long dominated the city. The Lord of War and Conquest rampaged across surrounding cultures, including Chel's own ancestors. His priests have repeatedly reported spiritual leaders for decades now. Balam Qoxtok, who failed to create a world of his own when the last one was destroyed, all but stole what the Dual Gods raised.

The Jaguar God has ruled a long, dark night.

Two deities have returned with dawn. One saved a thief from execution. Another stopped an unimportant man from being sacrificed in his name.

Whatever gods these are, they are not Tzekel-Kan's.

Chapter Text

As the afternoon wears on, even the boundless energy of small children wears thin. One by one the ballgame shrinks as players are led off for naps and late lunches. When Chief Tannabok must bow his head and shepherd his yawning boys along, Miguel and Tulio nod at each other.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we decided it's a draw," Tulio announces to the crowd. "Thank you all for playing."

Miguel waves. "You've been great. See you again soon."

Sweaty and tired, Chel turns for the temple. Her boys follow without complaint. Their banter is light and habitual.

Upon climbing those grueling steps, Chel shamelessly collapses onto the couch with a cup of cool honey and pineapple. Acolytes have laid out bowls of fruit and lighter, simpler foods for the afternoon heat. There is no shortage of beverages, all richly flavored and nonalcoholic. Chel has no ordered no wine or pulque be served unless the gods specifically request it.

She expects the gods to sink into their thrones or Miguel to slip into his pool. Instead they plop down beside her. Tulio yelps as the cushions nearly swallow him. Miguel bounces a few times, delighted by the fluffiness. They proceed to demolish the platters of fruit and tortillas. Chel wolfs down her fill before they devour everything.

Popping the last slice of melon in his mouth, Tulio groans in contentment and sprawls out into Miguel's lap. "Gods, is this the life."

His partner laughs, fingers ruffling his hair. "But, Tulio, we're the gods."

They laugh like this is the best joke in the world. Chel rolls her eyes and stretches out her arms. She's too damn comfy to stand up yet.

"Is that all you need from me, boys?"

Their laughter trails off. Miguel bites his lip. Tulio, in direct line of sight with her chest, flushes and looks away. In turn Chel tries not to ogle at their naked torsos. She's close enough to feel their body heat.

"Um..."

Chel studies her nails and steadies her voice best she can. "I'm free now if you are."

Tulio splutters. His eyes bulge up at Miguel. "W-Well, Miguel?" he squeaks. "Do we need anything else? Anything at all?"

Miguel's face breaks into a sultry grin... and then fades into a pensive frown. Green eyes flicker to the golden stele of the Dual Gods. "They-We-We... Er, we were gone a rather long time, weren't we?"

"A thousand years," she answers neutrally.

"And what a lovely thousand years they were," Tulio scoffs. His mouth twists wryly. "Makes me wonder why t- we left all this to begin with. It... It was so long ago I can't even remember."

"One thousand years is a long time," Miguel murmurs. A thoughtful pause. "So long the- our people might be total strangers. We gods have trouble enough with it. You mortals might have... forgotten things entirely. Or lost it in translation with all those stupid language shifts." He clears his throat authoritatively. "Better refresh us with the mortal side of things, Chel. Just... Just to see what you remember differs from what... what really happened back then."

Chel starts with the very beginning, when Lady Eupana raised the First World from the primordial waters and later drowned it for mankind's impertinence. Lady Raima's Second World ended with her raining fiery death upon humanity. The Third World ended when the jealous Crocodile God ambushed the Two Suns, mauling one into the Moon Goddess and condemning the Sun God to die each night.

The Crocodile God's hunger is bottomless. Where the Lords before him had demanded only occasional sacrifice, Youalan had devoured human lives like people do grapes. Their pleas for mercy had only made him level whole cities with his earthquakes. His Age is one of death and despair.

And Balam Qoxtok had only made it worse. The Jaguar God devours on the blood spilled in war. He had warred against Crocodile God only to prevent more souls from being lost to a rival. The only reason humanity survived is Lord Bibi, who helped them through every catastrophe before. This time the Trickster God teaches them the secrets of lesser sacrifices, incense and beast blood, that could sway other deities into sheltering mortals from two warring gods.

Balam Qoxtok had slain Youalan. Every earthquake since is the Crocodile God's death throes. But the Jaguar God had not won himself a new world - every one he tried to create was black and barren.

"Then down swoops the Feathered Serpent." Chel whooshes her hand by their hands. "And the Dual Gods that raise a new, thriving world from one of dead obsidian." She taps her gold earring. "And they left us not only a new world, but something not even the gods can get enough of."

Tulio snorts and rubs his golden gauntlets. "Well, you at least got that part right."

Miguel blinks at her. "And then what?"

"That was it." A purposeful pause. "Until you two came back yesterday."

Tulio's smirk slides off his face.

Miguel stares at the two gods that so uncannily resemble the two of them. "T-That's it?" he murmurs. "You... You didn't even record th-our names?"

Chel shrugs. "Until yesterday, we had nothing better to call you by."

Her boys glance uneasily at each other. A conversation unfolds in one long stare.

"W-We, um... We might not be-"

Tulio snaps up from Miguel's lap, eyes blazing red. The whole temple falls dark. His shape flickers. For a heartbeat, he's that headless horror Chel glimpsed their first encounter, in tattered rags and a bloodied stump for a neck. Then shadows and spectral fire flare around his form, swirling into the gaunt black dog.

With a thunderous snarl, he leaps for the threshold.

Tzekel-Kan is no stranger to the mysterious whims of divinity. Balam Qoxtok is an elusive patron. He prowls the darkest dreams, glimpsed as only the shadow of a jaguar, and offers only fragmented visions of his will Tzekel-Kan must interpret correctly. Even his high priest might pray and meditate and breathe in incense for hours without a single sign of the Obsidian Jaguar.

Despite their physical forms, the ability to voice their own desires, the Dual Gods have proven no less cryptic. Tzekel-Kan has jumped too quickly to conclusions with them. That must be why they chose such a lowly acolyte as their priestess, to chastise him for his assumptions, to make himself prove this city worthy of a new era.

After rumors of how the gods had feasted the night before, Tzekel-Kan had known they were starving. In his haste to feed them properly he had settled for a safe sacrifice, the customary rituals intended to please a broad number of divinities when the omens were vague; a lowly man of the Vine brained by the customary cudgel, his body offered to the subterranean Lords of Xibalba. Even in the worst case scenario, that sacrifice should have served as a first course, and not have been rejected entirely.

Faced with such divine displeasure, Tzekel-Kan had next ordered the streets cleared for spiritual cleansing to atone for its earlier errors. Lord Miguel had rejected that too. Then he and Lord Tulio had romped through the streets to rub its flaws in even further.

Tzekel-Kan dearly hopes neither of his new lords are direct relations of Lord Bibi. The Armadillo God is unpredictable enough for the whole pantheon.

"My lords?" he calls from the temple steps. With no response, he dares the threshold. Its interior is steeped in shadow. "Hello?"

From inside echoes a metallic clanging, furious and forlorn. Tzekel-Kan is drawn closer. When that sound rattles its loudest, Lord Tulio manifests in a burst of pale blue fire. The high priest is already bowed before him.

The massive dog, gaunt and vicious, sniffs disdainfully down at him. "Oh," he mutters. "It's just you."

Tzekel-Kan drinks the god's true form in. Such a more majestic sight than his pale human guise. "I-I-I humbly request an audience with you and Lord Miguel, my lord."

Lord Tulio flicks an ear. "Right now you'd find my partner rather disinclined to speak to you."

Ah. Lord Miguel is still rightfully displeased for misreading his omens so egregiously. "T-That is why I've come, my lord. Reparations must be made."

The black dog tilts his head with predatory interest. "How so?"

"My lord, you are perfect."

Lord Tulio's chest puffs up. He sits back on his haunches. "Oh, well, go on."

At least one of the Dual Gods is reasonable. Tzekel-Kan musters up his courage and forges onward. "In your perfection, you cannot know how imperfect humans are. Even the most pious priests, m-myself included, fall short in interpreting your wishes."

To prove his own power, Tzekel-Kan lights up with the darkness with his spells. Red eyes watch in interest as spectral pests scurry past his paws and glowing spiders spin webs overhead. Invigorated by Lord Tulio's approval, the high priest ramps up his illusions.

"Humans are like snakes, spineless and slippery. They are untrustworthy as rats, stealing and cheating with no remorse. Spinning webs of lies, like spiders!" Tzekel-Kan takes a deep breath. "We are beyond disgusting."

Lord Tulio smirks with bone-white fangs. "Way, way beyond."

The high priest perks up. "Then we're in agreement. The Age of..." He considers long snout and yellowed fangs that emerged from the pool earlier. "Um, my lord, how may I refer to Lord Miguel's... aquatic form?"

He thinks it over. "'Kelpie' is close enough."

With that sinuous form, Lord Miguel must be either child or little brother to Lord Xarayes. Tzekel-Kan shivers in excitement.

"I'll begin the necessary preparations immediately. Do you wish to have your victims bound to an altar, or would you prefer them free-range?" Caught up in his vision, Tzekel-Kan gleefully rambles on. "And will you be devouring their essence whole... or piece by piece?"

Lord Tulio cocks his head in thought. Then he sniffs, licking his chops. "The hunt is half the fun."

"Free-range it is then!" Tzekel-Kan claps his hands. "But never fear your supply of tribute again, my lord. This will be a sacrifice, as it is prophecized. The history of your age will be written in blood."

"Blood?" He considers this, then shrugs. "Eh, I guess maybe for Miguel. I mean, Miguel likes everything except entrails and..." Lord Tulio shakes himself. "Oh, right. I should probably consult with my partner before we make any hasty decisions, again." Tzekel-Kan winces. "This is fairly important stuff. I should discuss the whole... uh, blood issue, right away. Excuse us, won't you?"

"Of course, my lord."

Deeply bowing, Tzekel-Kan takes his leave. He steps out into the crimson sunset. Once his back is turned to the temple, he wipes back a happy tear. Finally, they're connecting.

Even without detailed specifics, he thinks of the basics. He turns for the Jaguar God's temple.

The Lord of War and Conquest does not destroy every last piece of the peoples he takes. The archives beneath the temple include trophies from across the wide world. What was traded by one people became stolen by another and conquered by Balam Qoxtok. His libraries detail bloody battles and the names of fallen gods devoured by his insatiable maw.

The ceremonial cudgel long used for sacrifices has been smashed under Lord Miguel's hooves. There is no clearer sign a new weapon, a new tradition for Tzekel-Kan to encode, the first of the new age. It must be one of a kind, and worthy of the gods alone.

"No!" Miguel snaps immediately.

The black dog tilts his head. "Why not?"

Chel's blood runs cold.

"I-I-I..." Miguel stammers. He waves a hand in forced casualness. "That's all so... trite, isn't it? Over fifteen hundred years out of fashion."

"Yeah," the black dog scoffs. "Thanks to the Romans killing any one that tried keeping up with the old ways."

"And the Romans are over a thousand years gone." His partner rolls his eyes. "Can't you let them all rest?"

"Why?" the black dog snarls. "They never let us rest." He whines plaintively. "We had to hunt for ourselves since the days we were born. Isn't this what we wanted, El Dorado on our plates? Now they're throwing themselves on."

Chel remembers the smell of old, dead things she washed from his hair, how Miguel reeked of drowned things, and knows this very well.

"Oh, yes," Miguel sneers. "That willing sacrifice was drugged and bound."

Chel almost retorts her own mother volunteered for it... to save her only daughter from the high priest's wrathful gaze. She bites down hard on that truth. These 'gods' don't deserve a secret so deep and dark. They've lied and hid themselves since their arrival. All she knows for certain is their names and that they are utter fucking idiots.

"Who said the sacrifice had to be human?" she grits out instead. "We have plenty of animals."

Miguel smiles weakly. "Y-Yes. Blood is blood, isn't it?"

"This isn't a blood issue!" the black dog growls, shadows around him flaring. "It was never a blood issue! Not for me!"

A dismissive sniff. "Animals still-"

Pale blue flames erupt around the black dog's paws. "No, they don't! Their brains are so primitive I get nothing out of it. I'm meant to-"

"Yes, yes. You feed on fear, and fear alone." Miguel laughs scornfully. "With how you've been gorging yourself the last few days, I forgot you were a picky eater!"

"I need it. I NEED it." The black dog's growl distorts into an echoing wail. "They deserve their fear. They need to run until their hearts give out. They need to feel. Just. Like... I... I..."

The flames around his paws gutter out. The pulsing shadows shrink further and further around him. Then the black dog fades too. In a forlorn, metallic rattle, he flees into the growing dark.

Miguel blinks helplessly after him. Then he scoffs and turns away. "Fine. Go and sulk."

Chel rounds on him. "You call that sulking?"

He hesitates far too long. "By fae standards, yes." Miguel falls onto the couch, scowling up at the stele. "Greedy mutt. How can he want more? We don't need anymore, not with..."

Chel looms over him. "A city of unsuspecting suckers to shower you with gold and prayer?"

His gaze darts away. "I... I-"

"What happens when it isn't enough?" she presses. "Your temple's stuffed to the brim. Your prayers will eventually plateau. Then will you need sacrifice?"

Even when the last high priestess to the Jaguar God had lived, he had demanded far less blood spilled on his altars. His high priests had called for sacrifices only slightly more often than the other cults. Tzekel-Kan has glutted his god at every opportunity, interpreted every vague warning as a sign for sacrifice. Balam Qoxtok grows thirstier by the year.

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong!" Green eyes widen in horrified realization. "It was always... always... I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry! So, so sorry."

Chel inhales sharply. She dazedly recalls yesterday, a headless horror intended to paralyze her in fear, a wide maw opening up to-

"Why?" she rasps, for her dreams have been haunted by a thousand souls not so lucky. "Why was I different?"

"I-I saw you," Miguel whispers hoarsely. "You... You just wanted to live. You're a human being. And-And I was going to... Oh. Oh, gods." He sits up so sharply that Chel stumbles back. Only a choked sob escapes him. "Y-You're people. They were all people and I... I..."

With a ragged scream, a stallion blindly gallops into the night.

Chel weakly huddles at the edge of the couch. The temple's silence is almost as terrible as the empty eyes of the real Dual Gods boring holes into her soul. Like hell she's leaving. This is the last place either of them wants to be.

After an eternity, the night wind stirs, and hooves clop against the stone floor. A warm snout nudges her shoulder. Altivo nickers. Chel buries her head into his thick mane. He smells of the wind and summer grass, like fresh-cut hay and like any animal should smell.

If Chel cries, it's for those she hasn't been allowed to mourn in years; her mom, her dad, Xaya, her grandma and grandpa torn from their family so long ago. Those tears are Altivo's secret. He barely flinches at the mess she makes in his luxurious mane. When that well finally finds its bottom, Chel sniffles under her words come back.

"If those idiots had really tried to eat me yesterday, would you have tried stopping them?" A resolute rumble. Chel hugs his neck. "Thank you, Altivo. At least one of you has your priorities straight." She looks up enough to catch his eye. "But couldn't you have brought any two others like you with less emotional baggage?"

The stallion snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Sorry, Altivo, had to ask." Her breath hitches. "Those... Those utter fucking idiots."

He bobs his head. No arguments there.

Chel gnaws her lip. "Have they eaten anyone tonight yet?" An ambivalent twitch of the ear. "Anyone human?"

A firm shake of the head. Chel releases a breath she didn't even realize she was holding.

"Good. That's... good." Chel gazes up into unfathomably ancient eyes, and squeezes the neck of the one god she absolutely knows not to eat people. "If they do, then tomorrow dawns the Age of Altivo, and we drive out all other false gods." Especially Balam Qoxtok.

Altivo bows his head.

Chel rips cushions and pillows off the couch to make the stallion a soft bed on the floor. He plops down with a grateful nicker. Without hesitation Chel grabs a blanket and curls up beside him. Altivo nuzzles her before laying his head down.

Some things she has to take on faith... if she wants to take them on at all.

From the direction of the city outskirts, a black dog howls.

And the shriek of a monstrous rat cuts off abruptly.

Chapter Text

In the ungodly hours of the morning, the black dog prowls. It paces the route etched into the fiber of its being; from its crossroad down to the village.

After months stalked by the dog, the villagers have learned to live with it. They bundle themselves up in their beds at night, close their shudders, and repel bad luck with the charms and household shrines that have served them since time immemorial. The black dog throws itself at the boundaries, howls in vain, and hates them all the more.

With yet another failed circuit of the village, the dog slinks back to its crossroad. It sniffs the patch of grass that it sprang from, still damningly greener than all the others, and rejuvenates its rage.

Once this particular spot rekindled the dog and drove frustration from its insatiable heart. This ritual no longer purges failure like it used to. Every fruitless night wears the connection a little thinner. The dog huffs, bored and agitated. It hopefully turns down toward the river. Maybe messing with the kelpie again will shake it from ennui.

Instead its ears prick toward the faint, distant sound of crying. Veering off from the road, the dog lopes into the surrounding meadows. It fades from mortal sight, known only by the forlorn rattle of chains.

The black dog finds her crouched down in a ditched, shins bloody and snot running down her face. Absurdly tiny and round-faced, at first the dog wonders if she's even human is. She smells mortal. Her terror is... different, so sweet it's sickening. Loved and nurtured all her short little life, she's never known fear like she has tonight.

Kid, a little voice inside the dog whispers. She's just a kid.

The black dog whimpers uncertainly. The little girl startles at the sound. She looks wildly around, then wails even louder.

The black dog freezes. Leave the kid behind and something else will come to snap her up. Manifest and its true appearance might stop her heart on the spot.

Standing upon a precipice, the black dog makes the only choice it can.

A small, scruffy mutt ventures down into the ditch. The little girl blinks through her tears. The mutt hopefully wags its tail and slides down a little closer.

"Puppy!"

This is all the warning the mutt has before surprisingly strong arms yank it close. Its yelp is muffled by being squished against the little girl. She smears tears and mucus into his thick black fur. The mutt doesn't pull away or growl in disgust. It doesn't trust itself to move.

A lifetime later, the little girl sniffles and pulls away. She strokes the mutt's pointed ears.

"Good boy," she murmurs. "Very good boy."

Smart kid... Well, smart for a kid that wandered off from her home in the middle of the night.

For just a moment, the mutt allows himself to lean against her, and savors a sensation that is not fear. He never loses dignity to lick her face. He's not really a-

Then the reminder stabs too deep, and this stupid whim passes.

The mutt squirms out of her hold. With an authoritative yip, he tugs at her skirt, and retraces her scent back to a farmhouse far away from his roads.

Once the little pest is bundled inside, her parents scolding her between their thankful sobs, does the black dog slip back into the shadows.

He spends the rest of his night shifting from little mutt to black dog and back again. He doesn't understand where this ability came from, but by gods does he now know why the kelpie is such a smug bastard about his shape shifting.

In time, the black dog surpasses his friend. He plays coy about how he found his shapes, especially the earliest three. They definitely did not involve the words 'kitty' or 'bunny', thank you very much.

(Except they totally do. What is with stupid toddlers sneaking out at night?)

Leaping down from the temple steps, Tulio hits the plaza with a strained whimper. He invisibly and aimlessly circles the square.

In Spain, no matter how far he and Miguel had wandered, he could always find his way back to where he'd had once belonged. Even if he loathed that crossroad by the end, the route had always unfurled in his heart on ancient paths expanded into modern roads. He could trace his way back to that green patch of grass like a goose can find north.

Now he's a tree severed from its roots. His mind's eye dazedly retraces his adventures around the city this morning. His oldest trail, the one blazed with Miguel, ends on a desolate beach an ocean away from their birthplace. It's another bitter reminder of what he's lost, truths of his nature he thought could never be stolen from him, not like-

Snarling, Tulio charges into the night. He falls back on other instincts true to all black dogs and follows the scent of the dying.

When not death itself, he is its harbinger.

Not all homes are grand as the manses surrounding the Great Temple. The further away from the city center, the duller and more drawn together the buildings grow. The master paving under his spectral paws devolves into rough stone and then trampled dirt. These low, ramshackle homes are squeezed next to wild jungle, the terrain any farther too rough for building. People, thin and gaunt, hasten into their homes and slam their doors to the sound of clamoring chains. Little jagged shadows watch his passage with eager eyes. 

Out here there are no grand temples. Yet a whole corner is devoted to the life-size stele of an ample goddess. She holds out a bowl overflowing with grapes. It is shaped much like the one that offered up Tulio sacrificial wine in his first night in Manoa. At her feet rest tribute of fresh fruits and flowers, small bowls of pulque and fermented wines. Such a goddess should have a wide and generous smile. Instead her face is stony, bordering on dangerous. Tulio averts his eyes and slinks past.

Tulio stops where the smell of death and disease is strongest. He manifests as the black dog and sprawls himself across that ruined threshold.

And bolts right back onto his paws when a kid inside stifles an ugly cough. It's not a lethal one.

...Yet.

Tulio passes through the door like smoke. He immediately fixates on the boy, wearing only a drab brown hip cloth and with deep shadows under his eyes. An emaciated rat with patchy fur perches on his shoulder. Its scabby tail coils around his neck in a stranglehold tighter by the day.

The rat leers with yellow teeth. "You're here for the one upstairs. You'll be back for mine soon e-"

The black dog lunges. He rips that rat from its perch and bites. It disintegrates into a noxious cloud, oozing out from between his teeth.

Then he becomes the one strangled as the little boy throws his arms around him. Tulio freezes. The kid only snuggles deeper into his fur.

"You came," the boy mumbles. "You heard us, and you came."

Upstairs, his mother loudly gasps for every breath.

"Yeah," Tulio croaks out. "So I did." His eyes narrow at the rickety stairway. "Stay here, kid."

"Patli."

"Okay, Patli." The black dog pulls away, and holds up a firm paw when the kid heroically tries to follow him. "I won't be long." A beat. "E-Everything will be just fine, all right?"

His lip trembles. "All right."

On a threadbare mat upstairs lies a frail, flushed woman. Eyes closed, she fights a losing war for her life.

The child-sized demon on her chest sucks every breath from her lungs. It is little more than leathery skin stretched taut over a rat's skeletal frame. Its glittering eyes, set deep into their sockets, fall disdainfully upon Tulio.

"Who," it rasps, "are you supposed to be?"

The black dog growls. "Wouldn't you like to know."

The plague demon actually thinks this over. "We really, really would. You came here smelling like us, like Xibalba's. And yet it was Bibi that convinced the gods to let you in."  Its head tilts. Tulio instinctively bares his teeth and steps back. "We wondered if that old trickster had finally gone senile. When had he ever spoken up for those like us?"

Tulio is too slow to look away in time. They lock eyes, and he cannot escape. The rat wrenches its diseased claws into his subconscious. Tulio retaliates by tearing into the rat itself.

Their struggle is one-sided. The rat demon is made of simple truths; filth, bottomless hunger, and the little pests that fester into killers. It holds no shame and no secrets. The rat gleefully tears way through him and his house of cards. Tulio whines and staggers back, flickering rapidly through his all forms at the festering truths ripped open inside him. He falls dazedly to his hands and knees, vulnerable as he hasn't been since...

The rat demon laughs and laughs. "So that's why the old armadillo took pity on you two fools. You're not gods at all. You're not even proper demons, are you? Under all those scary faces, you're still just a-"

With an ugly snarl, the black dog rediscovers his rage, and leaps. At the same time the rat demon lunges for him. Its yellowed, broken teeth slice into his fur.

Tulio barely feels the bite. God or not, he's far, far past fearing mortal sickness. His bone-white fangs sink into the demon's neck. Its shriek cuts off. In a single violent jerk of his neck, the sickness disperses in a foul cloud of vapor. He gags.

Ew! Ew ew w-

"Mama!"

Patli races for his mother's side as she takes her first big, shuddering breath. Her eyes, bright and alert, fly open. They naturally focus first on her child. Some color floods back into her cheeks as he helps her sit up.

"Patli?" she murmurs in a voice thick with only disuse. "W-What--"

She can say no more before Patli's dam finally bursts. With the weight of the world finally off his shoulders, he throws his arms around her and sobs like the utterly exhausted little boy he is.

Even as she too embraces him, she gapes on the black dog now awkwardly loitering in their bedroom. Tulio blinks out of mortal sight before he gets caught up another smothering hug.

His instincts pull him back into the streets. Sicknesses that have no courage for Manoa's heart run rampant in its outskirts. Across Manoa's poorest quarter, there are too many souls in conditions barely better than Patli and his mother. His ears prick at the scraping claws of little parasites boldly scurrying through alleyways. He smells them on their victims, fever and plague and pustule.

Passing by the stele from earlier, he pauses. The goddess has changed. She roasts him with a wine glass. Her smile is wide and vindicated.

The first few times, his prey sneer. Then demons learn to fear.

Where Tulio stalks that night, sickness flees. The largest he devours as the black dog. Not even the minor ailments are beneath him; as a mongrel terrier he digs pestilence up from its hiding places or runs down plague with a cat's agile grace. In his wake, the whispers follow.

So do tears and hugs and countless bits of food shoved his way. He only wolfs them down to be polite. Besides, hunting is hard work.

The demons out there give him an excuse to avoid all the tearful reunions and incoherent sobbing.

Chapter Text

Instinct drives Miguel to water dark and fathomless, where the sun can never shine, and nothing ever hope to harm him. There he can submerge himself back into numb, nourishing stillness. He leaps into Lake Parime. The last see Manoa need ever see of him is his tail frantically splashing for deeper waters, and the ripples in his wake that soon fade altogether.

Even here he cannot find refuge. Manoa hails Lady Eupana as the matriarch of their pantheon, whose nourishing waters has fed their civilization since the dawn of the First World. Grandmother Turtle's waters are sacred down to the lakebed. As the bewildered eyes of those rainbow kingfish turn upon him, the kelpie twists and aims for depths even deeper, an Otherworld separate from this reality.

The water in this realm is thick and foul. The kelpie surfaces with a choking gag. He angrily charges from that fetid lake into streets paved with mud and filth. It splatters his milk-white coat.

This world is a dark reflection of Manoa, its buildings ramshackle ruins and its filthy streets bathed in sickly yellow light. As the muck becomes too thick to tolerate, the stallion rears back in disgust. He turns to bolt back for the lake.

His ears fall back at the sound of growling. He canters back into the streets.

At the edge of an alleyway stands a little dog, bald and frenzied. It barks ferociously at a leering man with broken yellow teeth and sores weeping puss.

Miguel trumpets a challenge and thunders relentlessly forward. With a squeak the man devolves back into a rat, scurrying for the shadows. The dog immediately turns toward its new target, snapping at its new target. It refuses to back a single step into the alley, closer to what it so fiercely protects.

The kelpie grinds to a halt. Instinctively he flows into human form. Slowly, he crouches down and offers a hand to sniff.

"Good boy," Miguel murmurs. "Brave boy." 

The dog creeps forward to smell him, sneezes, and trots anxiously into the alley. Miguel follows. He stops as soon as he spots the little girl huddled atop a pile of garbage, huddling into a thick white shroud. She gasps at the sight of him. Her dog scrambles onto the trash pile to soothingly lick at her fingers.

"Hello," Miguel calls lightly. "Your dog is very brave."

"He's a good boy," she answers quietly. "The best boy." Her dog wags his tail furiously. "He kept Lord Hueza from eating me. Is... Is he gone?"

Green eyes glance back. That awful rat is nowhere to be seen. "I don't think he likes me or your dog very much."

"Mochi," she says a little louder. "His name's Mochi. Mine's Cera."

"Hi, Cera." He ventures a few steps closer. Neither the girl or her dog shrink back. "My name's Miguel."

"Hi, Miguel." Her dog yips. "Mochi says hi too. And thank you for driving that awful Rat God away."

"No problem. I've never much liked rats myself." After a few moments, Miguel gentles his voice even further. "Cera, are you and Mochi lost?"

She nods, lip trembling. "G-Grandma. I'm supposed to g-go t-t-to..."

Miguel opens his arms. Cera immediately falls into them, trembling arms wrapping around his neck. She sobs long and hard. Mochi squirms over Miguel's shoulder to lick soothingly at her face. Her cries quiet into sniffles, then giggles. Mochi refuses to cease.

"If you'd like, I can help you and Mochi find your grandma, okay? We can go together."

Cera stares at him intently. "Do you promise not to feed Mochi to the Jaguar God?"

"No one's getting eaten by the Jaguar God," he vows.

Cera blinks dubiously, but nods along. Miguel flows back into stallion form. She sits safe and tall astride him, hands tangled into his mane. Mochi yelps indignantly. He's also splayed over over the kelpie's broad back, secured between his neck and Cera.

"Oh, hush," Miguel tells the dog. "I'm faster than you'll ever be."

They leave the cumbersome funeral shroud behind. Miguel smoothly canters onward. The same magic that once prevented his victims from escaping their watery death now keeps his passengers safely astride him. They breeze right past the snake woman and her fiery house. His stride slows in the gloom past her burning lights. A desolate wind blows through ruins now little more than tumbled stone and wooden frames. Cera whimpers and buries her face into his mane.

Miguel's eyes search for another route around this darkness. His hooves tug him relentlessly forward.

"He can't have you," Miguel hisses. "Not now, not ever."

Mochi growls in agreement. On they forge.

They are not alone. A ragged shadow looms from atop a skeletal building. Shrouded in a tattered leather croak, the big-eared man twists his squashed face into a genial smile.

"My friend," he purrs in a voice scarcely louder than the night wind. "I do believe you have something that belongs to me."

Cera's arms squeeze around Mochi in a death-grip as she tries and fails to contain her whimper. The man's serrated grin widens.

Miguel's eyes sweep across their surroundings. He plasters on a suave smile as his own as he inches down the street. "Sorry," he calls. "I don't see anyone here fitting that description."

That ugly face twists into a snarl. "I have what is mine," he hisses. "You have what is yours."

The kelpie thinks of a pool in across the Atlantic filled with the bones of his prey. He shivers, but does not retreat. "I had mine until they drowned in my pool. You had yours until they drowned in their own fluids." His eyes narrow. "And now she's not yours. Not ever again."

Miguel thunders forward. Behind him the night wind rises into an ear-splitting shriek. Ragged wings unfurl and bear down upon them. Cera screams. Mochi snarls.

At the last moment, the stallion grinds his front hooves into the earth. The momentum swings his back legs up. He kicks that monstrous bat square in the face, and makes that squished snout even uglier. The bat smashes to the ground.

"Thief!"

Miguel laughs. "No arguments there!"

Rearing up, his hooves stomp down on the bat's rib cage, and cuts that furious shriek off into a wet wheeze.

"Again!" Cera roars. "Do it again!"

He eagerly obliges.

When all that remains of the bat is a black smear on the ground, Cera spits on it. "That's what you get for taking me, Lord Tzinacon, and then trying to take me again."

Miguel primly swishes his tail. "Well, if he ever comes back, we find him and trample him all over again."

They continue on their way. The filth on the street grows deeper and murkier. It's now close enough to water for a kelpie to gallop above the mess. Crocodiles and caimans swim these waters. They scurry to avoid him just as their cousins did in the world above. The Caiman Goddess resting in a sprawling, half-drowned palace scowls irritably at them as they pass. She doesn't stand a fighting chance against a kelpie in his element.

Deeper in the mire the waterlogged bones progress into full, bloated corpses. Cera and Mochi both bury their faces in his mane. Miguel, no stranger to the drowned and rotting, calmly continues onward. He calls polite greetings to those that turn to peer their way with empty sockets and glazed eyes. Cera chucks a large piece of resin at the ugliest, smelliest corpse.

"Thanks, little lady," croaks the corpse.

Cera peaks out from Miguel's mane. "You're welcome," she squeaks.

The corpses all jerkily wave them goodbye. Bemused, Cera waves back. Mochi tilts his head. Miguel calls out farewells and gamely trots on.

The streets ahead are cold and dry, bleakly white as the bones strewn carelessly across them. Skeletons start to stir, their eye sockets black and hungry. Miguel pauses to stare a skull in the face. The cold of the grave is colder than even iron. His old ache flares up, right where his skull meets the base of his spine.

Then the moment passes. Miguel leans down to whinny in their faces. "Come on. We're all long past that."

Skeletons flinch back in bewilderment. Their hands stop snatching for his hooves. Miguel stares down at them in neither fear nor revulsion, but callous indifference.

The hungriest skeletons are quick to forget their fear. They start clawing their icy fingers up his sides to reach for Cera, for Mochi. Miguel kicks their skulls into the darkness. He tramples their bones down into dust.

Ahead looms a grand palace white as alabaster. Despite its cold exterior, a warm glow emanates from inside. The Skeleton Goddess waits expectantly on the steps, clad in sumptuous garments of red and gold. Her long black hair and elegant bearing make her beautiful, though her naked bones glow like ivory. Miguel trots up the steps to meet her.

"So," she rasps in a voice rich and deep, "you are Miguel, the heathen and braggart?" 

The kelpie cringes. Exactly what sort of gossip has been spreading the Manoan divinities. "Well... yes."

"Hmph." She takes his chin in one bony hand. Her fathomless sockets stare into the depths of his being. "Not heathen. Not when it mattered most. Your bones sing that truth."

Miguel blinks, mystified. "...Okay."

The bones of his victims lay still and silent at the bottom of his abandoned pool, long buried under mud by now. Even when he still dwelt there, he doubts any of them would have spoken at all. Their souls had all left their bodies after death, gone to wherever souls go. He isn't and was never like Tzinacon, to devour his prey twice over.

Cera nervously clears her throat and leans over his back to present the goddess a small gourd. "Here, Lady Iztaya."

Lady Iztaya delicately takes her tribute. She pops the top on the milky white pulque and downs it all in a flash.

"Acceptable," she rules. Her fathomless sockets turn back to Miguel. "You will not find Balam Qoxtok so generous tonight. He will not accept the dog as trade, or your passage through his domain." Cera chokes back a sob. The light from inside the palace shifts, bathing Lady Iztaya's face in gentle, tender light. "You would not to be the first soul to seek shelter here, child. Not quite Eupana's paradise, but we have light and laughter and an endless feast for endless hungers."

"I-"

"No." Lady Iztaya jabs a sharp finger at Miguel. "This does not concern you. You will find no contentment here. Not as you are now. My offer is for the girl and her dog."

Cera sucks in a ragged breath. "Thank you, Lady Iztaya, but I have to go to grandma." Her dog yips. "And Mochi too. Balam Qoxtok won't eat him. Miguel promised."

"Of course he did." The Skeleton Goddess turns back to the kelpie, thoroughly unimpressed. "It is your and your partner's fault for enraging Balam Qoxtok beyond even the barest concept of reasonableness. He believes you two are out to steal his high priest."

Miguel lashes his tail. "Tzekel-Kan is all his, don't you worry."

Lady Iztaya turns her back upon them. "Should you ever return, I expect a proper libation as an apology."

Her dismissal gives Miguel free rein to grimace.

Beyond the White Lady's palace the road is swallowed by jungle. Peering through the trees Miguel sees only darkness. Even the outskirts are littered with picked bones and fallen weapons. Mochi glares out into the dark with raised hackles.

The kelpie pricks his ears. Past the silent jungle, he hears the distant hush of running water.

Miguel takes a moment to collect himself, then bounds into the dark. He ducks under massive roots, weaves around choking trees, and leaps over the gnawed-on bones of those souls not so fortunate. The ground is littered with them and centuries' worth of broken weapons. Balam Qoxtok's hunger is insatiable. 

Long before Miguel hears the Jaguar God, he smells him. Blood and brimstone hit him in a noxious cloud. He tears through the jungle as a massive cat with blazing green eyes and an obsidian hide. He is a stealth predator built for power and short bursts of speed. Miguel is a stallion that has raced the wind. He is a kelpie locked onto water. His trajectory is unstoppable.

Heavy paws thud after them. Trees topple.

As Miguel leaps out of his domain, Balam Qoxtok shrieks in vain.

They explode out of the undergrowth. Miguel's hooves kick up mud sliding down the muddy slope, then sand as he plows to a halt on a white beach. The sea beyond is black and vast. Tonight he doesn't have to swim for it, for the island he seeks has beached itself right in front of them. Lights twinkle from cozy homes and grand palaces. Miguel squints up at it. He has seen no shortage of bountiful Otherworlds, its inhabitants fickle as they are beautiful.

In the warmth of those lights, the gentleness of those trees, his cynical gaze sees no deceit. His eyes water at a paradise, honest and open.

Barking in excitement, Mochi leaps off his back and dashes for the old woman waiting on the shore. He yips and spins tight circles around her, but even he knows better than to lunge up and place a paw on that emerald skirt.

Miguel sinks to his knees. Cera drops straight off him. "Grandma!"

The old woman upon the shore is small and stout, yet in a resplendent green dress with a deep emerald shawl draped over her. Her ancient face breaks into a warm, maternal smile as she scoops the little girl up into her own arms.

Then her dark eyes fixate on Miguel. He can sink into that peace and never resurface.

"A long way you've come," she rumbles in a voice vast and deep, "to deliver a child to my door."

"She-She needed me."

"So she did. So do they all."

Miguel trembles.

Lady Eupana waves a casual hand toward her palace, grander than anything wrought by mortal hands. "We will be sitting down to eat soon. A seat is waiting for you."

"No."

He staggers back. On the verge of fleeing, he realizes he stands before a goddess mighty on her as the Three Queens were together. Too late does he remember manners. He swallows thickly, sweat beading on his human brow and his human neck.

"Er, no thank you, I mean. Thank you for the generous offer and all, but I'm not, um..."

Grandmother Turtle sighs. "For dinner, child, not eternity. We both know you don't have the patience for it."

Miguel smiles wide and frantic, knowing submitting to one  is submitting to the other. That's how the fae snatch their victims; one little nibble from their feasts, and hapless idiots get themselves trapped in the Otherworld all eternity. Who cares if the paradise is genuine this time? He's not d... like Cera. Or even like Mochi.

"Thank you, my lady, but um... maybe some other time, some other place?"

Manoa's oldest goddess watches him with an expression unfathomable as her lake. "My offer always stands, to you and those you hold dearest."

Lady Eupana turns away. Without even waving goodbye to Cera, Miguel tears for the water. He swims for sunlight and stars and air in his lungs.

He'll take a thousand years apologizing to Tulio over an eternity of peace, a thousand years of bickering and mischief and laughter and life.

Cold iron will have to kill him first.

On a moonlit night, a traveler sleeps away from the main road under the trees of an isolated copse. No unsavory strangers can find his hiding place.

None would ever dare too. Only the transients passing through this place know to never, ever bed down in a kelpie's hunting grounds... let alone fall asleep next to the silent, secret pool the kelpie calls his lair.

Very confused by this, green eyes peak out of their pool. This human is either especially bold or especially stupid.

...No, not stupid. Naive. Inexperienced. 

Young.

This traveler is small. Too small to be on his own.

The kelpie sniffs the air suspiciously, nostrils flaring. This boy is a trap so obvious it's downright insulting. What sort of parents does he have, to let a hunter use him to bait a kelpie in his lair?

The night air is still and silent. Even the crickets fall silent in the kelpie's presence. The boy isn't pretending to be asleep. His breathing is even and deep, though a bit ragged. He smells like salty tears. No one with him. No one to miss him.

He's an easy target, so easy the kelpie doesn't even have to bother luring him in. Spring up from his pool, drag the sleeping boy under, and enjoy that sweet, tender flesh. Children are a delicacy to kelpies.

The kelpie's gut churns. He's yet to have ever killed a child himself. Most adults are too attentive to be that stupid with their offspring around large bodies of running water. Adults are easier and more plentiful in the valley. The kelpie far prefers reeling in dinner in with his human glamor. As a stallion he still prefers to carry off comely men and women not... not...

The kelpie shifts. The pondweed hanging from his neck becomes a thick golden mane. His slimy hide sprouts a glamor of soft white fur. Slowly, without even a splash, the stallion starts easing out of his pool. Like this he looks far less scary.

...Until he starts to talk. Even little children know horses shouldn't be able to talk. And the kelpie is too curious for his own good.

His form shifts again. He stands waist deep as a man, nude and glistening.

Color floods to the kelpie's cheeks. Clothes. People wear clothes. The only nude, beautiful people tempting people down to the riverbanks are fae in disguise. After scrunching his eyes in thought, he tries again.

A golden torc settles around his neck, tight and heavy as a collar. Among the Celts, his clothes would have marked him as practically a prince. Now they're centuries out of fashion. With a grimace he tries again. Those clothes flow into cool blues and greens in a style far better suited for modern rustic Romans.

The kelpie slides out of the water. He settles on the bank a safe distance from the boy. His tongue licks his jagged fangs. He grits them down smooth and flat. With a flick of his wrist he banishes the water from his form. His clothes dry. His dripping hair falls limp and dank. He tugs self-consciously at the reeds knotted in his hair and his short golden beard. His glamor is never entirely convincing. He can no more remove them than change his reflection.

"Good evening," the kelpie calls lightly.

The boy nearly jumps out of his skin. He stares at the kelpie like he just spoke gibberish.

The kelpie actually might have. Clearing his throat, he purposefully reaches for the strange tones Latin has adapted lately, and not a dead form of Celtic. "Hi."

The boy stares at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "...Hi."

"What?" the kelpie demands hotly. All this effort he put in, and the kid's still afraid of him. "What's wrong with one traveler meeting another?"

The boy blinks. "Um... Are you a..."

"Well?" prods the kelpie. "Spit it out."

"...Ghost?"

"Ghost!" splutters the kelpie. "Why do you think that I'm a... Oh."

He frantically tugs at the hemline of his tunic, fingers just brushing the stiff golden collar still clinging to his neck. Torcs have long fallen out of fashion. Vehemently he yanks it from his person. Free of the glamor, that lustrous gold darkens with centuries of silt and scum. It clatters into the grass beside him.

"I'm not a ghost," grumbles the kelpie, sullenly pulling his knees up to his chin.

"...Sure," answers a little boy far from convinced.

The kelpie rolls his eyes. "What are you even doing all alone out here?"

"What are you doing all alone out here, Mr. Ghost?"

"I live here." The kelpie grimaces. He waves his hand vaguely outward, drawing the boy's fearful eyes from his pool out toward the wider valley and its villages. "Well, around here." He clears his throat again and thinks of all the names he can. "Call me... Call me Miguel."

The boy immediately relaxes. 'Miguel' is a modern name in these lands, a regional twist on the archangel's name, and as declarative a name can get on the ever-touchier subject of faith.

"My name's Felix," the boy answers.

'Miguel' smiles. "Nice to meet you, Felix."

He grins wider as their conversation falls into the typical human pleasantries, like how pretty this place is or how their nights are going. It's downright novel for a kelpie. The ritual puts Felix at ease. Some tightness falls from his shoulders. During a lull in conversation, Miguel asks again what a boy so young is doing out here all alone.

"Running away," Felix answers succinctly.

"R-Running away?" Miguel squawks. "From what?"

"My wicked stepmother. She's a witch, and she's gonna cut me up and eat me once the new baby's here."

"...What?"

Felix starts from the beginning. His real mama died when he was real little. Two years ago a witch put his dad under a spell and her marry him. She tried to do the same with Felix. For awhile she even fooled him, because she treated him like she was his mama. But she was only trying to gain his trust. His wicked stepmother ordered a new baby from the Devil. Once it gets here she'll have no reason to keep Felix around. He tried to break the spell on his dad, but Felix gave up on him as a lost cause.

"H-How do you know your dad's under a spell?"

Felix's lip trembles. "Because he loves that witch, and n-now he's got a new baby to replace me too."

Miguel frowns. By fae standards, Felix's logic checks out. Love is a potent, fickle force. Many fairies will gladly trade their own sickly biological children for human babies. If they remember to keep those babies alive long enough, they grow out of cuteness and into food. Others will adore mortal lovers until they wither away from the sheer force it or drag them under the waves, to be parted only by death.

(but)

"B-But your dad is human, isn't he?"

Felix parted. "Yes?"

"Then he won't love your baby brother or sister any less than he loves you," Miguel declares with utter certainty. "And your stepmother will love her baby just as much as she loves you."

Felix scowls. "How do you know that?"

Miguel freezes. He's never kept a meal long alive to call his hunger alive. "I... I come from a big family. Much bigger than yours." 

"Really?"

Centuries ago, a kelpie woke alone in a cold deep pool he knew his own.

"Y-Yes," he blurts out. "Fourteen kids. Always plenty of love to go around. Could never reach the bottom of it."

The boy is far from convinced. Miguel rambles on, pulling sixteen direct family members from thin air. He's a middle child who knows how to idolize older siblings and in turn be idolized by those littler than him. He's had fights and feuds and things he childishly swore could never be forgiven... until they were. Sometimes family is just like that. Other times they were his rock, his everything, and always worth fighting for.

Felix tries asking their names, his brothers and sisters, his dad and his second mom. Miguel blanks, laughs it off, and pulls another lie about prankster little sisters to get him off his tail.

"Hu- Er, love isn't like money, Felix," he concludes. "There's always more of it to go round. Your family grew from two to three, and now it's just gain one more person to love." He laughs. "One that drools and cries a lot and likes tugging your hair... but make it past that stage and you've got a friend for life."

Felix cocks his head. "Then how come you aren't with yours now?"

The kelpie's mind goes blank.

"I..."

Felix nods sagely, and sagely. "Yeah. I thought so." He stands and starts to gather his meager belongings together.

Miguel blinks after him. "W-What are you doing?"

"Going home," he answers calmly. "I... I might know now my stepmom didn't put me under a love spell."

Miguel beams proudly. Green eyes dart down to the torc forgotten by his side. Without closing the cautious distance between, he tosses it Felix's way."Wait! Please, take this too before you go."

Felix crinkles his nose but politely takes it anyway. Beneath the thick layer of pond scum, he will discover golden wire pure as the day it sank into his pool. Woven into its strands is potent kelpie magic. It will guide him back to home just as the kelpie's instincts always draw him back to his pool. Every potential danger within reach of its magic will be bewitched away from him.

"Thank you, Mr. G- Miguel." Felix's eyes flick to the pool. He near explodes with the question he's holding back.

Miguel sighs. "Ask away."

"Hypothetically, if you were really a ghost, would you have... drowned?"

The kelpie snorts. "Me, drown? Not even hypothetically."

"But-"

In the distance, a faint voice carries, then another. And another. More than just Felix's direct family are looking for him.

"Go on." Miguel waves his hands. "Off you get."

"...Goodbye, Mr. Miguel."

A grin. "Goodbye, Felix."

The kelpie watches him until he slips past the trees. Glancing down at the pool, his strange smile falls. He rolls his eyes at the water horse reflected there, and slips back into his pool.

His glamor falls as he circles the width of his pool. Gouged into the upper levels are rocky shelves for his treasures, combs and necklaces and a hundred gifts from the black dog. He swims over them without his usual fondness. Even the brightest treasures have grown dull under silt and pond scum. Most have long rotted beyond recognition. The bottom of his pool is littered with the bones of past victims, all cracked and gnawed for their marrow. The oldest have long slipped into the muddy bottom. He glumly coils on the pile.

"Me? Drown? Pft." The kelpie rolls his eyes at a skull's empty sockets. "What did he think I was, one of you?"

He buries himself in his coils, until his head and the most vulnerable parts of his being are covered up.

(not forgotten)

(never forgiven)

(At the bottom of this pile, long buried under victims, is a skeleton newly robbed of its torc. Its bones are unbroken.)

(...Except at the base of the skull, smashed in the same blow that had severed its spine.)

Chapter Text

Tannabok is so used to being woken up at the crack of dawn by small children that he automatically rises with the sun on the downright morning their boys have slept in. Miya sighs in relief, kisses his cheek, and peacefully shuts her eyes to savor the silence. It's clear a sign as any to let his wife enjoy some solitude.

Upon dressing, Tannabok strolls outside. He inhales the crisp morning air and sets down to the water. In the newborn the sight is beautiful beyond words. Standing upon Lake Parime's sacred shores, he feels the unfathomable age of its waters, and a goddess just as wise. Manoa has survived four separate worlds to spring up anew in this valley. Tannabok takes comfort in the knowledge it has survived capricious and warring deities before. One day, this too shall pass. His people will outlast Tzekel-Kan just as they will outlast the Dual Gods' stay among them.

Just as the chief is thinking this, a shape explodes out of the water. For a split second the shape is green and vaguely serpentine. Then Lord Miguel scrambles ashore in human form. He sprawls out on the ground, soaking wet and gasping for breath.

Tannabok considers sneaking away and granting a god his dignity. His cursed empathy roots him to the spot. "Good morning, my lord," he greets neutrally.

"It-It's morning?" Green eyes blearily crack open. Lord Miguel grins deliriously at the rosy skies. "Oh, it's morning!" Realizing his audience, he clears his throat and scrambles to stand up. "Er, good morning, Chief Tanni...bok. Chief Tannabok."

He chuckles. "'Chief Tanni' is just fine."

"Um, thank you, Chief Tanni."

The morning falls quiet. Tannabok nonchalantly admires the lake while the god makes himself presentable. Out of the corner of his eye, he still glimpses Lord Miguel's shape flicker several times. He dries himself, fixes his off-kilter hip wrap, and fluffs up his lank hair without ever once consulting his reflection.

"Did... Did Manoa have a quiet night?"

Tannabok, still mercifully oblivious to all the miracles that unfolded in these streets mere hours ago, smiles placidly. "We did indeed, my lord."

"Oh, thank gods." They blink at each other. Miguel blushes and looks away. "Well, thank the other gods that kept watch. I was..." He waves a hand vaguely downward.

Ah.

"Some gods find Xibalba more pleasant than others," Tannabok answers carefully.

Despite their fearsome appearances, Lord Tlilihui and Lady Iztaya are empathetic deities. Lady Eupana keeps palaces on the bottom of Lake Parime and in Xibalba. The rest of the Lords of Xibalba, especially the Jaguar God, are... not as pleasant.

Lord Miguel snorts. There are deep bags under his red-rimmed eyes. He stares aimlessly out over the water, mind worlds away. Tannabok inches a few steps closer. Lord Miguel doesn't even twitch. Alarm worms into the chief's heart. Why is the god here, when he has both a partner and a priestess?

Unless...

"Is-Is everything all right, my lord?"

The god plasters on a frantic smile. "All right? Everything is just... just..." His face crumbles. "The utter opposite, really."

As a father Tannabok has defused explosive fights between six boisterous boys. As chief he has pacified feuding guilds and balanced out a zealous priesthood ruled by a tyrant. All that pales in comparison to what might sunder the very foundations of the pantheon. Are the Dual Gods having a normal fight or facing an impending schism? And yet Tannabok would navigate these dangerous waters a thousand times over than let Tzekel-Kan turn one god against the other.

"Is there any way I might be of help?" the chief ventures.

Lord Miguel gnaws his lip. His eyes knowingly flicker back to Tannabok's. "Y-You... You wanted that sacrifice yesterday as much as I did, didn't you?" The chief's blood runs cold at a blasphemous secret Tzekel-Kan has long tried to trick out of him. A dark laugh chokes out of Lord Miguel. "Not that you could stop it anymore than a chief could stop a druid."

A deep inhale buys him time to respond. "However things may have been a thousand years ago, Lord Miguel, my power is entirely secular. I can no more interfere with the spiritual than I can command the sun to rise."

Green eyes sorrowfully gaze into his own. "Even if the signs all point to one your children as the next sacrifice?"

Tannabok clenches his fists. "Then... Then I might do something blasphemous, my lord," he chokes out. And finally knock Tzekel-Kan's head clean off his shoulders.

"W-What about your other children?" the god mumbles. "When every protest just wants to make that drui-er, priest - take even more from you a-and the only thing you can do is just... just..." One hand defensively shields the back of his head.

Tannabok places a steadying hand on his shoulder, unsure whom it even benefits. A deep, calming breath. "All I can do is pray that day never comes."

"It-It's wrong. It was always..." Miguel trails off with a bitter laugh. "Not that it's my place to get so high and mighty about it. Talk about stones in glass houses."

"Whatever gods may be, to err is human," Tannabok tells him. "We can only try to be better than we were yesterday."

Miguel blinks, eyes watery. It's all the warning Tannabok has before a god slams into his arms. He hugs him as that young man in his arms shudders with the force of the emotions he wrests back down.

"Yesterday," Miguel mumbles. "Yesterday I couldn't even remember that love could be positive, without eating or bewitching or holding someone against their will. That love can be just wanting about someone to be happy and safe and... and... Oh. Oh." He pulls away, giggling hysterically. "Oh. I'm an idiot, Chief Tanni."

Well... He and Tulio have only blatantly broadcasted the obvious for all the city to see.

"Out of practice with mortal emotions, perhaps," Tannabok rules diplomatically. "But picking it up quickly."

"Sure." Miguel laughs. "Only eleven hundred years to recognize." His brow furrows. "Um, Chief Tanni, exactly how long does love take again?"

Not about to delve into that one, the chief only smiles, squeezes him one last time, and pulls away. "That's between you and the... person in question, Lord Miguel."

Miguel pensively returns to his temple. Tannabok smiles after him in fond exasperation and pulls out a cigar to properly unwind from that. Whatever problems his boys may come to him about in the years to come, no conversation will ever be quite so difficult as this one.

He and Miya have at least taught them emotional awareness.

Chel blinks awake just after dawn. Miguel stands in the threshold, illuminated by the rising sun. At the sight of her the last dregs of strength drain from him. He stands trembling, exhausted, and terrified.

"I'm sorry," he croaks. "So, so sorry."

She releases a shaky breath. "Yeah. I know."

Altivo nickers and nudges her shoulder. She pats his nose in assurance and stands up. The stallion nuzzles her once more, blinks unfathomably at Miguel, and breezes into the new morning. Miguel quakes as if he wants to flee once more. This time something keeps him rooted here. Her burrow furrows at his pale cheeks, the deep bags under his eyes.

"Have-Have you been up all night?"

"She needed me." He swallows thickly. "And Mochi too."

Chel's mind flashes elsewhere, a pyre now burned down. All that remains mixed with the ashes are charred bone fragments. Not all of them all canine. She envisions a gleaming stallion, charging defiantly through all the horrors the Lords of Xibalba try to throw at him, a little girl and her dog clinging to his back. She thinks of her own family, all cast down into the underworld without such a stalwart protector.

"They were lucky to have you," she murmurs. So, so lucky.

Miguel tries to scoff. He only chokes out a wounded, ragged sound.

Instinctively Chel hugs him. He clings to her like a life-line and buries his head in the crook of her shoulder. He still doesn't smell like Xibalba, or dead things. His scent is wet moss and crisp air and petrichor.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No-Not yet," he croaks out. "It... It's still coming back to me."

They stand in silence for eternity.

"Morcant."

"W-What?"

"M-My father's name was Morcant. I... I think he was our chief." A hum. "Or close enough to one."

His grip on her slackens somewhat as he readies to disengage. Chel frowns as she unpacks the heavy insinuations in the first real truth he has revealed about himself.

"My dad's name was Teo," she whispers. "He was a farmer."

They lapse back into stillness, cling a little tighter to each other, and await the third piece to truly begin their nervous breakdown.

Tulio circles the streets, then circles again. He's rooted out every last cough and minor ache. There's nowhere left to hide, for predators or prey.  He finds only happy families, gratitude and glee and love that threaten to unravel him entirely. The morning sun has cast out the nocturnal shadows. Every time he tries to drag himself out of mortal sight, he flickers right back into visibility. The rattle of the chains, his chains, is too terrible to stand.

He wants his crossroad. He wants the quiet of his g-

With a wounded whimper, he flees for the last place he wants to be. He needs it. No, he needs-

Miguel and Chel stand like two trees against the storm, twined together. The black dog skids back. He bristles under their watery, empathetic stares and... and...

Tulio slams them into them anyway. He squeezes them close. "I-I'm sorry," he rasps. "So, so sorry."

"I know," Miguel murmurs, beard tickling his cheek. "You... You understand."

His partner queasily shuts his eyes. "I... I don't..." I don't WANT too.

"I know, I know. And yet you need too anyway." A bleak laugh. "Wonder why us so long to recognize it, considering-"

"No," Tulio begs. "Not... Not yet. Please."

The sound of that name will make him unravel. This time not even Miguel will be able to help him put the pieces back together.

"I think we're all tired beyond belief," Chel rules, "and that we need sleep before all... that comes out."

Tulio grimly stares down at her. "You won't anything else to do with us after that, and you'll have every right to call your real gods upon us. We're... We're not-"

A peck to the cheek shuts him up.

"Some things you take on faith."

Gently, relentlessly, she drags him both to bed. They drift after her like ghosts. They collapse together in a weary heap.

Tulio struggles to stay awake. He wants to relish their warmth, the gentle rise and fall of their chests, every last sacred moment. His eyes still close.

The black tide of dreams surges up to meet him.

So do the memories. And there is no escaping them.

Not ever again.

Chapter Text

Despite heavy rains the night before, the village children gleefully barrel after their ball, splattering mud in their wake. Their oldest player is already a man proud of his short golden beard. That doesn't stop him from racing after his youngest siblings. When the ball bounces out of control, he brings it back into the game, and arbitrates the fights that sometimes break out over the tiniest things.

Some roll their eyes at his antics. Others bite back smiles at his fearlessness. The young women watch in admiration and fond exasperation. The young man is a shameless showoff, rolling the ball over his shoulders or leaping over the shortest players. It doesn't matter how many older brothers he has, how he's the shortest and the least martial of the chief's son. He's handsome, kind, great with children... and has already had torrid affairs with a fair majority of the villagers his age, men and women.

This is not the beginning of the end. The storm has long been brewing.

The young man is no child. He knows all too well the heavy snowstorms that have broken the trees in their orchards and starved their flocks. A devastating thaw has been followed by ruthless rains. The river has washed away fields, pastures, and whole families. His older brothers and their father have argued themselves hoarse over it. His older sisters have been no less fierce.

Their druid has fallen silent. He is an old and haggard man, made bitter by years of loss. Where the chief's family has flourished, his has withered from disease and fickle misfortune.

The young man is not a wise leader like his father, or strong like his older brothers. All he can do is smile wider, laugh a little louder, and distract the children from the dark mutterings of their parents. He does his best to keep them young a little longer.

With the ball solidly under control of the littlest players, he hangs back to watch the stragglers. Green eyes instead flicker up to the small shape watching the game from uphill. His gormless smile falters.

The druid stares down with a craggy, impassive face. His gaze, shrewd and calculating, is not for the young man. Despite the mud splattering their faces, all of the chief's children can be distinguished by others from their bright heads of hair.

When the omens are announced, and the will of the gods declared, the young man impulsively blurts out the obvious solution. His father gasps. His stepmom claps horrified hands over her mouth. His brothers and sisters stagger. The druid bows his head.

The chief is powerful. The chief is loved and respected.

The youngest of his fourteen children, sired by a second wife, are superfluous.

...So is the middle son, hopeless in war and romance, that killed his first wife when she brought him into this world.

"Backstabbing, cowardly, sniveling son of a bitch! M-Mincing... fast-talking...twit."

The thief is no stranger to running for his life or cursing out treacherous business associates. Yet he is a stranger to these roads the last rat bastard insisted he knew like the back of his hand. His breath falters into weary, ragged pants.

No honor among thieves.

Behind him, the thunder of hooves grows closer.

Blue eyes frantically raking his surroundings, he veers for the shelter of the hedge.

Fuck this village. Fuck this road. Fuck these-

In the dark, his foot stumbles into a dip in the road. His ankle twists until it screams. He falls with a scream.

The hooves are relentless.

The thief's plans and pleas unravel into blind panic. He stumbles along on his hands and knees, ready to be cut down like a dog on the highway. That death will be swift as is ignoble.

His pursuers don't even grant him the dignity of that. They haul him back wounded and beginning, making him limp along until his twisted ankle goes numb.

Come tomorrow night, that agony will no longer matter.

His last night in this world is spent in prayer and meditation, or so the druid claims. It's only to spare the son's dignity, and that of his family. Once the adrenaline wore off and he argued his family into surrender, the young man's primal fear kicks in. That night involves ugly sobbing and crazed, blasphemous plans all surely doomed to fail. He will only endanger the brothers and sisters he's supposed to save.

The druid quiets those thoughts with brews of his own concoction, rituals so sacred his order are prevented from ever writing them down. They pray together before fires sweet with herbs. Then the man drifts out of his fears and into a new world. He dreams of white horses and dark, peaceful waters. When morning dawns, his terror is utterly drowned beneath a wave of dizziness and bliss.

He goes to the gods naked as the day he was born, but for the golden torc upon his neck. It is a sign of his high status, the weight of tribute offered up today. His hands are tied behind his back. Only a precaution, the druid vows, for what... might happen afterwards. Some beasts die harder than others, kicking and jerking until properly finished off. The druid an older man, no stranger to beasts or men. His first blow will be his last.

A procession forms from their village down to the riverbank. An undercurrent of whispers is soon drowned out by prayer. The young man serenely grins at those he's known all his life. Some friends weakly return it, their smiles not reaching their eyes. Others blink and look away entirely. His older siblings are red-faced from the sheer emotions repressed, clutching each other or whispering darkly. There are no children here.

Their journey continues downriver, to a sheltered pool long sacred. It is past time it be consecrated properly. The young man is meekly led to the water's edge. He smiles dreamily as stone weights are wrapped around his legs. His eye finds his family.

His father is stone-faced and strong... except for the eyes welling with tears. His older children, sons and daughters, let their tears flow freely.

The young man's grin falters. A terrible truth churns below his bliss.

This... This isn't-

The druid prods his iron-tipped cudgel into his back. The young man weakly falls to his knees.

With its last feral struggles, his fear thrashes its way back to the surface. He-He doesn't want to-

CRA-ACK.

By the time sun sets, he has long passed joking and cajoling, begging on his knees and screaming himself hoarse. His voice has failed him like every last frantic, half-baked plot. He's yanked at the bars of his cell and clawed at its walls until his fingers bled. He's shredded his wrists trying to slip the shackles from them and tried all he could to break their chains. He's banged his head to try knocking himself into unconsciousness and prayed to all the gods he's never properly believed in. His only answer is stony silence.

It's long past dark when the door to his prison is flung open. The thief squeezes his eyes against the harsh glow of their torches. It suddenly occurs to him this is his last true light. He'll never see another sunrise.

The men march relentlessly forward. He limps behind them, dragged by his chains. The forlorn clanging echoes through the silent village, then the empty road beyond.

The thief weeps in pain, in fear, and finally, in rage. He hates as he never has before. The emotion seizes him and makes his heart beat in frantic fervor. He-He'll get out of this... somehow. Somehow, he'll make them fear, just like he h-

Heavy hands force him to his knees. The thief trembles at this lonely crossroad, this shallow pit beside it. This-This-

Above him, the chosen executioner unsheathes his iron blade. "Any last words, thief?" 

With a ragged breath, the thief glances upwards. His last scornful comment withers on his tongue. His gaze trails past his executioner to the stars, cold and clear. At least he has this beauty, constellations that have turned since before his birth that will keep rising long after he's gone.

"I-I..."

"I thought so," sneers the brute.

A rough hand grasps the thief's thick black hair and his gaze downward, into the dark pit below.

An iron blade swings down.

Sheltered in this valley is a sacred spring beside the river. Its location should now be known only to the druids alone. A few of the grayest elders remember that solemn procession from so very long ago, made by their parents and grandparents. They had been mere children then, with fond and hazy memories of a blond-haired man. His resting place is not to be disturbed, not now and not ever.

In that village is a young man who has grown up cocky and bitter. He's picked fights, stolen from his grandmothers, and been all but disowned. He's never cared for gods or fae or spirits. All that matters is the pool the village avoids at all costs, and the free treasure resting at the bottom. It's no secret that sacrifice went to his grave with heavy gold clasped around his neck, gold enough for this exile to live like a king himself.

After hours of searching, that man discovers a pool nestled under the shade of great oak trees. He smirks.

With only a full moon to light his way, he jumps in. The coldness of the water startles him. Despite the warm summer night, this is a pool dark and deep, shaded by ancient trees. The man splutters, shakes himself, and dives for the bottom. His hands blindly grope through thick mud, skim over smooth rocks, and tug at slippery pondweed.

Lack of air forces him to surface once, then twice.

On this third dive, the man feels what he thinks to be brittle twigs half-buried in the silt. Some sort of tree branch, probably. Then his fingers brush something cool and coiled, something that can only be a torc. He positions himself to yank it free of the bottom, bracing his legs on either side of the tree branch.

Beneath him, two green eyes open. Their round pupils broaden and distort.

The man screams and thrashes for the surface. He can't. A force tugs him down, down, down.

As his vision goes black, jagged fangs split into a grin.

Some miles downriver, a mass of pale entrails washes onto the bank. The shepherd who discovers them cannot determine what creature they came from. Away from the river itself, a village wakes that morning to discover the black sheep of the village has finally left all on his own. They only briefly search for him.

Even if they'd put in the effort, they would have found nothing. The man's belongings have all been dragged under, displayed as trophies. His mangled skeleton disdainfully rests at the bottom of waters dark and deep, burying the bones beneath them.

As dawn lights the sky, the water horse peaks up the surface. The colors, gold and bloody crimson, mesmerize him.

When the sun itself pierces the shade of his copse, the kelpie hisses as its goat-like pupils contract. He's an ambush predator, open and exposed under such direct light. He dives back into his pool, half-buries himself at the bottom, and vows to never dare the daylight again. Its glamors are strongest under shadow and starlight.

Outside a particular village, small shoots of grass are swift to sprout from a fresh pile of upturned earth on the crossroad. Knowing eyes look upon it and quickly dart away. In the dark of night, that patch of grass becomes innocuous, impossible to distinguish from all the others.

Even when blue wisps flit up, these are easy to ignore or else dismiss. They're fireflies or tricks of the moonlight. The grass grows higher.

Rather than blend back into the surroundings, it remains ominously green.

On a moonless night, those disparate sparks finally unite. They rise and coalesce; feet, legs, torso, neck, h-

(Head! Head! Where's his h-)

A wail, tortured and forlorn, echoes across the roads.

(noNONO)

Shadows surge in. That dissonant wail deepens into a feral, blood-curdling howl.

The black dog shakes itself. With a confused whine, it circles the crossroad, and seeks its purpose. Roads veer off in every direction. It-It can't...

Sniffing the patch of grass that birthed it, the fae suddenly knows its purpose. Its deep blue eyes blaze red as it fixates on one village in will haunt until the end of time.

The black dog fades out of mortal sight. In a damning rattle of chains, it prowls off to feed itself on fear, and fear alone.

After gorging itself, the black dog sniffs at what remains, and dismisses it as dead meat. Instead its ears prick at the sky. The stars have vanished, and that deep blue sky is paling into gray. Something inside it stirs. Is... Is this...

The sudden brightness on the horizon burns. The black dog whines and instinctively tries to fade out of sight. That fire in the sky offers no succor. It races sunrise back to the crossroad, fainter with every moment. It's a relief to sink back into its patch of grass, back into the calm and the quiet.

The black dog sleeps.

That midnight, bloody dreams stir it from its slumber, and back to the cold glimmer of starlight.

"Y-You're..." His partner stammers on the name, too sacred to be uttered aloud.

If only. The kelpie wants to hear his partner to say it, to whisper it into his ear, to sc-

The kelpie blushes at that last fantasy. His eyes flick down to his partner's narrow shoulders. The black dog's most humanoid form has opposable thumbs, a lean body beautiful despite its tattered clothing... and a bloodied stump of a neck. Downright awkward to make eye contact with a headless phantom and, even by incredibly lax fae standards, a bit embarrassing to imagine... other possibilities.

He grins impishly, directing his gaze roughly where the phantom's eyes should be. "Miguel. Call me Miguel."

The pronunciation in formal Latin sounds far stuffier, and makes his ears itch at such orthodoxy. 'Miguel' rumbles in his throat, sacred and profane and blasphemous all at once. His fae nature is delighted by the theft. It's a tribute to Felix, the boy from just before who made him realize how ready he's leave all this behind him and...

He also just... just wants to be Miguel... if he can't be-

A delighted, disembodied laugh bubbles up in his partner. Miguel's heart flutters at the sound. Then his partner leans closer and breathes a single word that makes his heart stop. His breath tickles his ear.

Miguel blinks back tears. He's ready to exalt that name when...

Wait.

Miguel blinks, then blinks again. Deep blue eyes stare back at him. They're set into a stranger's face, one intimately familiar, and connected to the same body that has laid a tender hand on his shoulder.

Oh.

His heartfelt smile widens into an intrigued smirk. "Wow," he purrs. "I knew you were holding out on me."

"I-"

His partner's lips part in confusion. Miguel surges forward and frantically kisses him with centuries' worth of repressed emotion. His partner sags.

Oh. Oh, dear. Perhaps this was a bit too sudden. His partner doesn't seem to have quite realized he's manifested a human face yet, let alone contemplated the idea of sex on more than an academic level. The first few times the black dog caught Miguel with a sexual partner, he thought he'd been eating them and-

After a quizzical moment, his partner takes him by the shoulders, and kisses back with even greater passion.

Some clumsy but frantic groping later, his partner's muscle memory kicks in.

OH.

Not hopelessly inexperienced... just very out of practice. (And still very, very potent.)

A blissful eternity later, they flinch as dawn looms on the horizon. Miguel glances to a deep, dark pool that has long ceased to be his sanctuary. His partner stares with dread up into the hills and a quiet patch of grass by the crossroads. They glance wearily back at each other.

"Fuck it?" Miguel mumbles.

His heart skips at his partner's first visible smile. "Fuck it."

Instinct be damned, they cozy back against each other, and slam down into sleep.

(And an invisible cord snaps. The burning need at the back of the kelpie's mind finally goes numb.)

Hours later, after much sleeping and screaming each other's aliases to sunny skies, Miguel snatches Tullius' hand and tugs him past their old haunting grounds. Miguel beams and greets the few travelers they pass. Tullius flinches each time like his head's about to fall off. The mortals, delightfully ignorant, only return them odd looks and confused greetings. Two predatory fae stride right into a human village in broad daylight without a single blade of cold iron swinging their way.

They don't linger long. They gleefully make off with arms' worth of garments snatched from the clotheslines. Tullius deserves more than rags, and has strained his glamor more than enough for today.

With a critical eye, Tullius picks over their loot. He holds up a solemn black shirt.

"No." Miguel rips that awful color from his hands. "Absolutely not." He presents his own favorite option, dyed deep blue. "Try this. It matches your - your glamor's - eyes."

Tullius runs his fingers over the fabric, frowning deeply. "They're blue? Not... not red?"

"Blue deep enough to drown in," Miguel offers shamelessly. He hums. "Makes me wonder how my glamor got stuck with green. Maybe for all the reeds?"

Tullus frowns down at the clothing pile. He gingerly holds up another shirt, brilliant red. "How about you? In the mood for anything new?"

Miguel picks at his own clothing, blue and green for his pool. "Why?"

"Um... Red is a great contrast. It... It really brings out the green in your eyes."

Miguel gawks at him. Slowly, Tullius flushes. It's too much for the kelpie to take. That soft pile of clothes quickly gains a second purpose.

In the early days, they barely make progress in their travels. Every mile ignites something new; the sardonic tilt to Tullius' smiles, the way Miguel tosses his newly-cut hair, and so on. They see little of Hispania, but are avid explorers elsewhere, every ticklish spot and how to make their partner exalt their (alleged) name just so.

Tullius soon learns his partner's human glamor better than Miguel himself.

The opposite holds just as true.

Chapter Text

Chel stirs from dreams of death and darkness. She wipes wetness from her face. Miguel and Tulio are both awake, eyes red and faces haggard. Their pillows are all soaked in tears. They stare heavily into each other's eyes. When they catch her gaze, they flinch and prepare to both flee to opposite ends of the bed.

"Wait," she murmurs, stopping them dead. "I... I want to hear it from you. However much you want me to know."

"Why?" Tulio croaks. One hand rubs his neck, where an iron blade severed it so very long ago. "You know what we are now."

Entwined together, their closeness had permeated their dreams. It had been impossible for Chel to tell her own memories from that of the condemned criminal or the 'willing' sacrifice. She has ran down men until their hearts gave out and drowned them in her coils. She wonders what might have bled over from her own nightmares, her brother's torture and how fiercely she had fought to put herself in her mother's place.

Chel catches his hand in her own. Her other hand gently takes the one protectively clutching the back of Miguel's head.

"From day one, I've been trying to learn who you two are. I've only learned who you've been."

Before either can do so, her own past spills out of her. Her grandpa died in agony when the Snake Goddess' venom had burned through his veins and her grandma drowned in her own fluids when Lord Tzinacon stole into her lungs through the night air. When Lord Xarayes had needed appeasement, Tzekel-Kan's eye had nearly fallen upon her. Then her mom had volunteered. Everyone knows the gods prefer a willing sacrifice.

"Oh," Miguel breathes. "Oh, Chel."

"She didn't have time to regret," she murmurs into his chest. "Not like you did. They dragged her straight to the altar." She chokes on that memory of the cudgel coming down, and a truth far more bitter. "I fought so, so hard to reach her. Someone held me back. I-I nearly ripped her eyes out. Just to put myself back in my mom's place."

"She was your mom," Tulio argues. "And you two were..." He squeezes them both in a hug. "I wouldn't have done any different."

Balam Qoxtok had not been satisfied to see his high priest subverted so. Not long after, one of his jaguars had taken her dad.

Years later, when her big brother had tried to flee for his life, Tzekel-Kan had stolen him too.

"We burn our bodies or cast them into Xibalba. The Jaguar God jealously guards his souls. If not..." She gazes solemnly into their eyes. "He would have made a lot more like you two. I... I might have a found a way out of his claws, just to make others feel like I did."

"Not now," Miguel snarls. "Not ever."

He reciprocates with his own lives. He had been born a chief's carefree middle son and rose again a water horse, devouring the beautiful and gleefully watching the light leave their eyes. So has Tulio lived as a rootless thief and fed on fear as a black dog. They were born men and died men. They both rose as fae, those fated spirits who drag mortals to their destinies or else deprive them, fickle and wild.

"Feral," she mumbles.

"...What?"

She bites back a smile and snuggles comfortably against them. "Nothing."

No matter raised from infancy or beaten into submission, a wild beast is always wild. There is no such thing as a tame jaguar or tapir. Their instincts are ingrained into their bones. Feral dogs are fierce and crafty. Even a stray that is all its life alone needs only a loving heart to remember it is made to live in a warm home and know human affection.

Miguel sucks in a deep breath. He holds it so long his chest might burst.

"...A-Aedan."

Chel staggers. This is the name bequeathed by a Celtic chief on a freezing winter's night so long ago, practically a prayer to all gods listening that they not take his littlest son as they have his mother. It's the name called in fondness and consternation by thirteen siblings older and younger, the same one screamed by his family when the druid swung down and, centuries later, breathed to a black dog.

His partner is not be outdone. "Toirdelbach."

This is the name a shamed mother, thrown from her home, defiantly names the son she loves above all else. She whispers it lovingly and, as the years go on, increasingly shouts in exasperation. It's the name a thief stubbornly takes to his grave, rather than let his captors condemn by it. Only to a kelpie centuries is his secret divulged, when the black dog himself has nearly forgotten all but the quintessential sound of his truth.

Chel makes a sound somewhere between sniffle and snigger. "'Instigator?'"

He chuckles wryly. "I think my mom meant it ironically.... or as an encouragement to make something of myself despite all I had going against me." His humor falls as he gingerly rubs his neck. "And I couldn't let her more down than I already have."

"You saved my life," she murmurs. "And now a city hails you and your partner as gods."

Her boys smile sadly. They are not truly the Dual Gods. They have never been gods at all.

"Chel," she offers instead, with the same innate sincerity they've shared with her.

They blink at her.

"B-But you said just to call you Chel."

"Yes, because that's my name." She bites her lip as she considers their names, old and current. "Which ones would you prefer from me?"

"Miguel!" one blurts out immediately. He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. "I'm... I'm still... I've been Miguel for eleven hundred years. No sense in ruining the classics."

"Tulio." His partner smirks. "Always rolled off the tongue better than 'Tullius.'"

Chel grins. Now she knows the names true to the men they were, and those true to who they are now.

As the heartbeats drag on, they realize how intimately close they're all twined, and how thin the layers of clothing are between them.

She playfully inspects her nails. "I'm free now if you two are."

Tulio's roguish smirk widens into an idiot grin. "Well, Miguel? Do we need anything else? Anything at all?"

Miguel purrs.

Their morning becomes very, very full.

Tzekel-Kan rouses from his stupor, laughing raucously. No sunlight can breach this deep within his temple's sanctum. Embers burn low and smoke still hangs heavy. For a moment more, Xibalba lingers in his mind's eye, the Bat God's jagged teeth and the Snake Goddess' blazing eyes and Lord Tzinacon's wide wings. Above them all looms Balam Qoxtok, whose obsidian hide is darker than the deepest night. His eyes are green bonfires. Then he too sinks back into murk. The Lords of Xibalba cannot tolerate the naked light of day.

Not yet.

"My lord, I now know what they are," he hisses, "and what they are not."

Human eyes are fallible as the human heart. Even the most pious priest can be deceived. The parasites in Manoa's presence have had centuries to perfect their glamors.

In trying to delve into the depths of the 'Dual Gods,' Tzekel-Kan had instead reached true divinity. There is no fooling the Lords of Xibalba. No matter how sharp the black dog's fangs or red his eyes, Lord Hueza had seen right through the cowardly thief hiding beneath. Lord Tzinacon has declared the kelpie's theft of his souls for all to hear. Balam Qoxtok himself had smelled human soul under mildew and drowned flesh.

Tzekel-Kan zealously tears through his book, spells and secrets inscribed by countless priests of the Obsidian Lord before him. He settles on one in particular. On its own, he can bring about the Age of the Jaguar by himself.

His god demands more. And more he must have.

Sacred text in hand, Tzekel-Kan descends into the depths of the temple's spoils. The false gods have been killed once. They can be killed again. Their lives, atop all of the countless humans they've preyed upon... Tzekel-Kan shivers at such power begging to be spilled.

His quest once again boils down to the right weapon. He disdainfully passes over weapons of wood and stone, polished obsidian and vials of potent toxins. These spirits are mortally weak to only what took their mortal lives.

Tzekel-Kan frowns down at one of the strangest objects among the shelves. No matter its point, it is insulting to refer to this thin, flimsy thing as a knife. It better resembles an awl, better suited for working wood or leather than shedding blood. The metal is dark and roughly forged, not any form of bronze or gold or silver. Perhaps it is another one of those strange relics of the mound builders of the distant north, traded to one people and then raided by Manoa. He has seen nothing like it before.

Except in the shoes Altivo wears.

And in dreams. A cudgel studded with the metal once brained a princely sacrifice. A blade of the same material beheaded a common thief.

Tzekel-Kan tests its edge. Still sharp enough to shed spirit blood, to pierce one's heart.

He smirks.

Closer by the day, Cortes and his men troop relentlessly onward. He has commanded his ships to land upon the beach his stolen longboat was spotted. From fresh footprints and clearly hacked trails through the jungle, they must be right behind the stowaways. Better trek through the trail already blazed, then waste yet more hours and manpower on further hacking through virgin jungle.

With every fantastic canyon or rock formation spotted, the rumors grow among his men.

"Do you think those bastards are following some sort of treasure map?"

"Is that why they sneaked aboard? Where are they even going?"

"Do you think it's..."

"It can't be. And, yet, what else could they be looking for?"

In Cortes' presence, none dare breathe the words 'El Dorado.' They think it all the same. Their expedition is for God and glory, yes, but also gold, for the king and Christ and themselves. Cortes does nothing to discourage them. With hope in their hearts, his men march all the faster, and obey enthusiastically.

This jungle is the Jaguar God's. He keeps an open trail for them, a trap too tempting to resist. In the past he has led unwitting stragglers into the jaws of his cats, and armies to be torn apart by Manoa's formidable warriors. Balam Qoxtok, however, eyes their gleaming armor, the blades that effortlessly cut through vine, and knew weapons that explode like cracks of thunder.

The Obsidian Lord sees iron, in weapons and in the eyes of their conqueror. He beholds not only the doom of the golden city, but of all cities.

He thirsts to make that face his own. By one name or another, Manoa and all its neighbors shall know him, and all his terror.

His appetites have long outstripped what that zealous little priest can give him.

Chapter Text

Under starry skies, the city gathers for yet another celebration. The night before saw sickness eradicated from their borders by one diligent black dog. Now the people offer food, libations, and even a spirited play in his and his partner's honor. Tulio flushes tomato red at the news and crumbles into a rambling fit the moment the acolytes leave.

"Why shouldn't they exalt you?" Miguel wonders. "I do it near every day."

"T-That's totally different!"

Chel smirks. "Why can't you have both?"

"Both is good!" Miguel adds. He purrs. "Both is very, very-"

Not even the kelpie's sultry pout can stop Tulio from throwing his hands into the air. "You two know why!"

Chel bites her lip. She knows these two are fae and all that word wholly entails. That does not negate the rest of what Manoa believes true. "And everyone also knows you single-handedly purged the city of pestilence and healed everyone inside it."

Now Tulio pales. "I... I..."

"I know," Miguel murmurs, tenderly taking his hand. "They needed you."

Chel smiles slightly. "Just like that little girl in Xibalba needed you."

"H-How do you even know about Cera?"

She only smiles wider. Tulio chuckles and gently taps Miguel's forehead. The kelpie flushes in understanding. With no boundaries left between them, their dreams had merged on a level beyond the physical. Chel has seen the cruelties that birthed them and the fickle cruelties they committed in turn. So too has she known their tenderness for each other and compassion that neither ever managed to fully abandon. A black dog has healed her city of its ills. A white horse has safely carried souls into paradise.

Her clothes thoroughly destroyed, Chel gracefully dons a new gown of red and white. To complement her new earrings, she chooses a slim set of gold wrist bands from the tribute pile. Now she looks the part of a high priestess.

"Well?" she prompts, gleefully twirling her skirt. "How do I look?"

"Are you sure you aren't a goddess?" Miguel purrs. "Because you certainly look di- hmph."

Tulio clamps a hand on his mouth and spares a fearful look upward. Lady Raima's peak remains calm. The sun continues to set without fuss.

"Beautiful," Tulio blurts out. "Y-You look... beautiful."

Long after Chel is ready to face the world, her boys agonize over every decision. Vanity has little to do with it. Their clothes wildly flicker through eras, Celtic and Roman and Visigoth. Chel finally plops more hip wraps on their heads, vivid blue and bright red. She even gets them to accept most of the gold, the earrings and gauntlets warm with faithful affirmation. Neither wears anything even resembling a crown.

Two thrones await them at the feast. After a conversation held entirely in raised eyebrows and pointed stares, Miguel and Tulio finally take their seats of honor... in the same throne. Chel stares. Miguel beams and pats the chair beside them.

Under the eyes of the city, Chel plasters on serenity, and gingerly takes a throne intended for the true Dual Gods. She doesn't spontaneously combust. Their audience blinks, tactfully avert their eyes, and gamely continue on with the celebrations. Three days with these idiots have have already made them throw out all their other preconceptions of divinity out the window.

The night soon settles into an easy rhythm. For once her boys stay put. They feed each other bites of food and sip wine from the same cup. Chel almost eases her way into a throne that suddenly looks snug enough for three. Someone has to maintain the bare minimum of decorum.

The highlight of their night are the children that come screaming and howling onto stage dressed as demons. There are rats with yellowed teeth, vibrant snakes, and squashed-faced bats. Into their midst storms a boy in an oversized dog mask and thick black cloak.

A girl with rat whiskers painted on her face snarls. The victim sitting beneath her swoons dramatically. "This one is mine!"

"He isn't yours!" booms the black dog, his voice muffled by the mask. "Not now, not ever!"

He strides forward. Demons squeal and die extravagant deaths, with flailing and fake blood. One appears to be an actual armadillo, because Lord Bibi's messengers share his wicked sense of humor. Kids leap up cheering or kick at the dying bodies of their tormentors. Tulio watches in utter mortification.

Miguel beams and playfully bumps his elbow. "That kid does you better than you do!"

A fond smile breaks through Tulio's embarrassment. "Well... he captures my good side."

Chel reaches across the throne to squeeze his hand. "Kids can be like mirrors. They reflect what they see."

Her boys ponder this. Thoughtfulness tempers their joy. When the actors take their bows, their smiles return in full force. They stand to give standing ovations. Chel claps just as enthusiastically.

As their applause winds down, another starts up, slow and sarcastic. The children shrink back. The audience parts for a single man. He stalks forward, lips pulled into a fierce smile. Chel reflexively presses back into the throne. She has not seen the priest so gleeful since he broke the first of her brother's fingers. He gleefully wears his skull mask, intended for only sacrificial rites.

"A moving performance," he simpers. "If only you honored true divinity properly."

Tulio growls, eyes blazing red. Miguel only rolls his eyes.

"Oh, not again," he huffs. "Didn't you learn your lesson the last time?"

Tzekel-Kan sneers. "Indeed I did. I sacrifice to true divinity, so that the wicked and the unrighteous might be devoured."

Chel's blood runs cold. She tries to hiss a warning. Miguel scoffs at the high priest, fearlessly rising from his throne. Tulio does nothing to stop him. Why would he?

"Look, Tzekel-Kan, forget the sacrifices. We don't want any sacrifices."

"All of the sacred writings are not wrong," intones the high priest. "There must be a sacrifice, unlike that of any magnitude yet offered before. I only erred on the subject."

"The gods are speaking for themselves now," Miguel proclaims, protectively placing himself between Tzekel-Kan and everyone else. "The city and these people have no need for you anymore!" He looms closer. "There will be no more sacrifices. Not now, not-"

Cold metal flashes in the night. Tzekel-Kan closes the gap between them and thrusts his narrow, iron awl into human flesh. Miguel's declaration cuts off with a high, pained gasp. His partners freeze in horror.

"I know what you are," hisses the high priest, "and what you are not. And you are not gods!"

He sinks that awl in deeper, and twists.

"MIGUEL!"

Miguel gargles up pond water... and collapses.

He leaves behind only a pile of sodden reeds and a pale, gelatinous mass already dissolving away into nothing.

Tulio's agonized wail rises into a howl. The black dog rises, darker and more terrible than ever. He springs from his throne. Chel snatches after him too late. She screams his name as he bears down on certain death. Tzekel-Kan brandishes his awl. Cold iron makes the fae yelp and sidestep at the last possible second. Miguel's murderer laughs in vindication.

With an earth-shaking rumble, the Jaguar God's temple collapses. Chel at first fears the Crocodile God in another of his death throes. The truth is even worse. A jade colossus pulls itself from the rubble. From the eyes of his idol stares Balam Qoxtok.

The crowd, their shock already crumbling into blind panic, scatter like mice. A few of Chief Tannabok's warriors try to rally. One is crashed by the Jaguar God's paw. Another dies screaming between his serrated teeth. The chief himself keeps pushing children ahead of him, shouting orders to evacuate and make for holy sanctuaries not even Balam Qoxtok himself dare touch.

Chel looks wildly from one place to the next. Those adults with calm enough heads try to help the chief evacuate or futilely distract the Jaguar God's insatiable blood lust. Tulio's ears keep flicking toward their screams. He glances their way with conflicted whines. Always, his gaze draws back to vengeance. He circles Tzekel-Kan, biting through his spells, for all the iron prevents him from pouncing. She... She needs...

In a gust of sweet wind, hooves clatter onto the stone beside her. Instinctively Chel climbs atop Altivo, stopping into pick a rock from the ruined temple. She claims a seat once occupied by gods and conquerors.

Altivo charges with a blood-curdling bugle. Tzekel-Kan turns his way, face draining of color. His little awl is powerless against a stallion with iron shoes. He barely dodges out of the way in time, dropping his iron. Altivo kicks it into the darkness. The black dog's predatory gaze snaps down to a man newly defenseless.

"Come on!" Chel calls.

Altivo never falters. Tulio whines after them. They thunder right toward the city's biggest threat and never once look back. 

Just as Balam Qoxtok is about to bear down upon another wall of warriors, Altivo leaps between them. Chel musters up every last scrap of willpower inside and hurls her rock with all she can.

The Jaguar God shrieks as one gemstone eye shatters. Chel draws her mount to a halt. Altivo rears mockingly so that she can look the Lord of War right in the eye. She waves cheerfully, flips him the foulest gesture she knows, and spurs the stallion on.

Balam Qoxtok ignores armed warriors to chase one very rude woman on a horse. It's her fault two brave, idiot fae are now exalted as gods in his place. She's escaped his jaws twice now. He won't let there be a third time. In his blind chase, war incarnate abandons his priest and the city to follow her into the jungle. Chel has no idea where to lead him, but at least her people have time to retreat to safer ground.

All is not yet lost. Balam Qoxtok is not fully in this world. He's channeling himself through his jade idol, a problem on two levels.

Frenzied barking makes Chel look back. Altivo continues weaving through the trees and vaulting over stairways. Balam Qoxtok implacably follows, heedless of the black dog snapping at his stone tail and back paws. Tulio ducks under his belly to spring at his face. The Jaguar God thoughtlessly swats him off. Tulio flies into the undergrowth with a yelp.

The black dog returns, again and again, springing after every part he can reach. Balam Qoxtok can never put him down long. Tulio is the next best to immortal. Without iron, he's-

Oh.

Oh.

"This is your master plan, is it?" she calls.

Tulio hesitates, then breaks away from another ill-fated charge at the Jaguar God to race beside Altivo. "It's pretty much it," he admits.

"Well, I like it. What's your next step after you distract him?"

"Um..." Altivo finds enough spare breath to spare them a withering snort. Tulio snaps at him. "I'm doing the best I can here! It's a cat creep made out of solid... oh." He laughs giddily, for all its edges are ragged with grief. "I got it, I got it!"

Chel smirks viciously. "Good. I'll handle the rest of him."

"W-What?" Tulio nearly rams into a tree. Panic outstrips his shock, and sends him bolting back to her side. "You can't. Y-You're-"

"Most of him isn't here. You know that."

In this world Balam Qoxtok is limited to a clumsy, lumbering idol of heavy jade. In the spirit world the Obsidian Lord might have already grown iron fangs. Even slain in this form, with his high priest executed, he will inevitably find a way to slink back into this world. Chel already feels another vessel nearby, more destructive than even Tzekel-Kan could have ever managed to be.

"But..."

"We both know I'm not alone!" she shouts. "Not down there!"

Tulio sucks in an agonized breath. He can't even bring himself to murmur Miguel's name. That's all right. They'll both be seeing him soon enough.

The black dog dwindles down into a rabbit, streaking ahead of them into the darkness. Chel slows Altivo down ever so slightly, letting Balam Qoxtok get close enough to swipe at his tail, to become so incensed with the hunt he never realizes his other intended sacrifice has gone missing. Not until it's too late.

"Hey, cat creep!"

From the trees above yowls a sound more hellish than even a jaguar. A small white shape drops down. He sinks his claws right into the gaping cracks in the Jaguar God's glass eye. Balam Qoxtok skitters back with an irate shriek. He blindly claws at his face.

Altivo changes course. He gallops into a new jungle, leaping over gnarled roots and piles of yellowed bones and discarded weapons. No moon or stars shine overhead, not down here. He veers back toward their true target.

In a clearing ahead, a colossal jaguar with a sleek obsidian hide and iron fangs claws at his own eyes. Caught half in this world and half in the other, he attacks a pest not even in this realm. Miguel is nowhere to be seen.

Altivo slows uncertainly. His ears prick skyward. Chel follows his gaze. Roosted in the trees above are three black birds, croaking cryptically to each other. They are not here for them, or the Jaguar God.

"You can't have him," Chel snarls. "Not now, not ever!"

Dismounting, she snatches the closest weapon, and hurls her spear at his other eye.

Balam Qoxtok's agonized scream is music to her ears.

Chel presses on. All the cruelties he committed upon her family, she shall return a thousandfold.

Chapter Text

His mouth tastes of iron and ash, life's blood and pond water. His head splits as his heart is spliced open. An iron awl and iron claws sink into his chest.

Down, down, down he falls into darkness, away from love and light. This time there is no cool haven of his pool to greet him, no silty bottom to cradle his form. For a moment his vision resolves into a moonless jungle littered with bones. The stale air comes alive with the whirring of wings. Three voices murmur lullabies he has not heard in near two thousand years.

As his gaze drifts, a jaguar roars. The ravens shriek right back, single voice uniting in tri-tonal rage. Cruel black beaks bear down.

After a war that rages eternity and the briefest of seconds, warm arms cradle him like a child, and bear him into oblivion. They croon a truth older than war, than death, one inscribed into his being long before the river marked him as her own.

He's...

He bolts awake, gasping for air that freely comes and clutching at a heart that aches worse than dying.

When the worst shock fades, he frowns and plucks at his tunic. Yes, fine enough for a chief's son, but centuries out of fashion. He leans against an apple tree, the silvery branches overhead ripe with golden fruit. His gaze flickers east, where a silver sea comes rolling onto a golden shore. The sight mesmerizes him. He might stare at it forever...

If a lyre behind him doesn't suddenly squall to a halt, then unceremoniously drop into the grass. He skitters away with a yelp.

Another face peers behind the apple tree. He gapes.

Green eyes, some shades darker than his own, stare right back.

"D-Dad?" he breathes, scarce able to believe it.

This isn't the father he left behind, with a stoic face and haunted eyes, or even the gray-haired, jovial patriarch from a few days before the end. This man is young, younger than his earliest memories of him, without a gray hair in his honey-blond beard or a paunch from many years of feasting.

"Aedan?"

His name, his true name, shatters every cynical thought about face-stealing fae.

"Dad!"

They fly into each other's arms. Aedan weeps, shameless as a child. So does his dad, chiefly dignity forgotten. Their joy echoes far and wide across this land. One by one, their family answer. His moms find him first, the one with his nose and the one with his grin, who squeeze him tight and plaster his forehead in kisses. Thirteen siblings are swift to pile on. The oldest are as he's always known them. The younger have their faces flicker. First Aedan sees them as the children he left behind, before he embraces them as the men and women they've become.

Eventually, between an endless bombardment of questions and prayers, Aedan peaks past his family for his first true look of their surroundings. Colorful plains adorned in flowers and bountiful orchards stretch on for eternity, broken only by rolling hills and shining villages. His eyes water.

"This... This is..."

"The Land of the Young," chirps Nuallan.

"The Plain of Delight," chimes in Ninian.

"The Promised Land."

"The Land Un-"

Fedlimid rolls her eyes. "He gets it."

"The Land Under the Waves," Aedan murmurs.

The land of everlasting youth and abundance, reached by entering the ancient burial mounds or venturing into the mist.... or by traveling over the western sea, following the golden path made by the sun sailing across the waters. Green eyes flicker east, to where the tide is coming in. Aedan trembles.

"I-I'm dead."

"We're all dead," Luigsech reminds him.

Aedan chokes on a bitter truth that has finally returned to him. "I've been dead for eighteen hundred years, and I've never made it here before."

His moms press him in close. Several siblings look on in sympathy. Others exchange dark looks or... those of morbid curiosity.

"Eighteen hundred years," Eogan muses pensively. "Has it really been that long?"

"No," Aedan breathes, soft as a child. Too late does he remember how fickle time is in the Otherworld. His blissful family reunion might have taken three hundred mortal years. All he loves on the other side might already be long dead. "Nononono."

He struggles his way to his feet and pushes past his family. He looks frantically around him, trying and failing to find the way he came. Only the Old World lies across the sea. Sweat beads on his brow, streams down his neck. Kelpie or stallion, his other forms can cover so much ground.

No matter how hard he pushes, strains toward something once instinctive, the shift refuses to come.

"No. No no-"

Firm, gentle hands close around his own. Aedan lashes out on instinct. He remembers his hands tied behind his back, the blow of the cudgel, his partners screaming his-

"Aedan mac Morcant," Eithne, his second mom, scolds. He goes boneless at the sound of his full name, last heard from her lips when he got caught in a haystack with two more partners than usual. She kisses his brow, sighing. "I know, baby, I know."

His father eases his hold on him, instead squeezing his shoulders. "Son, you're dead. The people out there are beyond your help now."

He stubbornly clenches his fists at the memory of a thief that had stirred him from eternal slumber. "Dying didn't stop me the first time."

"You... You didn't go gently the first time," Morcant murmurs. "No matter how hard the druid tried."

Both his wives spit and damn him thrice more. Then Eithne combs her hand through Aedan's hair. It is no longer neatly sheared just beneath his ears. "You were the river's," she murmurs. "And now you are not." She squeezes him in a hug, voice breaking. "Finally, you came home."

Aedan's stomach churns at the word. The kelpie's lair had been his cradle. He had stopped thinking of it as home long after his rebirth. That pool had become his daily prison instinct had driven back to every dawn, filled with rotten bones and rotten treasures. His relationship with the black dog had only fueled his desire for adventure, to leave all his old life behind but the partner at his side. Home had been at Tulio's side, no matter how far they'd wandered.

More recently, home has been a golden city beside a sacred lake, a warm bed snug between Chel and Tulio both.

His family slowly ease back in. Aedan clings to them. His heart is far from full. This time his brain notes the niggling details; his Celtic clothes don't hang quite right, his shoes are far too tight after weeks barefoot through the jungle. Siblings playfully tug at his too-long locks, or brush against a beard far too bristly. It stretches from his ears to his chin. His family see nothing out of the ordinary.

...Except for one thing.

"Hey, Aedan, what happened to your torc?"

"Hm?" He rubs his barren neck, thankful that heavy gold wire is at least stuck in the past. "Oh, I gave it away ages ago."

His siblings, who all proudly wear theirs, gape at him. "You gave it away?"

Aedan simply shrugs. "Someone needed it more than I did."

His siblings exchange looks of disbelief. Then they grin and hug him for what they think yet another quirk. Their brother certainly doesn't let them know he's damn glad that heavy collar is stuck in the past... or that he misses the warm gold that hung in his ears and hugged his wrists the past few days.

He certainly doesn't tell them his own name, the same his birth mother bestowed upon him, no longer rings quite right either. This... This is who he really is, under all the memory loss and fae instinct. His latent humanity has prevented him from taking Felix's life, from harming Chel. In a convoluted manner, it has finally led him across the sea and to his final death, to at last find the Land of Youth.

All is as it should be.

(It isn't.)

(They... They need him.)

Home for his parents is grand as a castle and cozy as a cottage. There's just enough room for everyone to comfortably gather around a table heaping with endless platters. At first an endless amount of relations pop into the dining hall, in-laws and nieces and nephews and distant descendants. Aedan blanks in sudden existential panic. Siblings chase spouses and children from the room.

"Sorry about that, sweetheart," Eithe murmurs. "Everyone's just so... enthused to meet you."

Lorcan winks and elbows him. "We only passed down the best stories about good old Uncle Aedan."

Rathnait swirls her mead. "You're also the first new arrival we had in... quite some time."

An intimate family dinner still makes him one of seventeen. Aedan squirms. None of the sumptuous dishes taste quite right. He halfheartedly pushes food around his plate. He keeps irritably brushing too-long strands of hair behind his ears or tugging at his tunic collar. His adventurous siblings boast of adventures across the Otherworld. Those happiest at home start to talk about their children. Some have a dozen each.

Head spinning, Aedan glances woozily downward. His eyes settle on a bowl of golden apples. Homesickness slams down on. He remembers the tangy golden apples of Manoa, its sour wines, the spicy chili, all heady with that wonderful flavor neither he nor Tulio had ever been able to place.

Conversation dies down. Some siblings try smiling for him. Others just look stare with blatant concern. Eithne and Muirgel each start inching toward him with maternal tenderness. A haunted look returns to Morcant's young, unlined face.

"Is everything all right, son?"

He plasters on his bravado. "Everything is fine, dad. I just... need to excuse myself for a moment."

A quizzical silence falls over the hall.

"Hey, Aedan," Lorcan whispers. "We don't need privies down here."

"Oh?" He blinks, then slumps. "Oh." There goes one of his likeliest excuses. He considers his empty plate. "Then I'll just-" The plate dutifully disappears. "Drat."

A silent conversation breaks out around him. Siblings stare daggers into each other. Some nod. Others shake their heads. A few kick each other under the table. Their parents don't stop them. Morcant and his wives are locked in their talk within a talk.

Aedan rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm not going to wander off and get myself sacrificed a third-"

He bites down hard on his tongue, but not swift enough. His father's goblet smashes onto the floor. His mothers choke back sobs.

Aedan stands, knocking his chair over. He stammers out an apology and flees from the house before any can catch him.

Outside his vision warps, layers upon layers of the same village nested into each other. One is a reflection of the place he grew up in. Others are far smaller, predating his grandfathers, and others stretch out into the age of his first hunts. His family know Aedan's old hiding places, where he sulked and made out. They do not know the kelpie. He bolts for the roads.

Seville is his first desperate thought, the place where it all ended and began, the last place he and his partner were happy in the Old World. But then Sevilla distorts into Hispalis and then Hisbaal, roots too foreign for the Otherworld to have truly taken root there. His thoughts turn north, to adventures just a bit older.

"Salamanca," he blurts in the Castilian inflection.

He remembers a thriving city with a bustling university, a new cathedral just starting to be raised. The kelpie had delighted in the easy hunting grounds of the Douro, and the black dog in shadowing the many travelers upon the Via de la Plata. Even the pilgrims up to Santiago could be preyed upon, if charmed to cast aside their crosses. The Otherworld instead spits Aedan up into its smaller, older Celtic predecessor. People blink at him.

He staggers back onto his feet, laughs it off, and fast-walks out to the countryside. Once in private, he lets out a shaky breath. Rage and shame boil over. He tears at his hair and screams into his hands, because gods forbid he punch over a stupid silver apple tree and infuriate some ancient deity within his first day dead. If... If the Otherworld even has consistently measurable days.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Across the Land of Youth, his true name starts being called in familiar tongues. He feels each one prickle his soul, summons born of love and grief and worry. None belong to the voice that's been at his side for over a millennium. Aedan swallows his guilt. He can't rest, not until...

Inhale.

Exhale.

"T...Toirdelbach." Nothing happens. He groans to sapphire skies. "Not enough for your illustrious standards, is it?" More than one Toirdelbach across this realm pauses, not sure if this drama involves them or not. "Ugh, fine."

Aedan bites his lip, and considers his partner's full name, a past he and Chel learned just this morning. "Toirdelbach mac Sorcha!"

Nothing happens. A weak, sobbing laugh escapes him. Tulio's not here. If the Three Queens haven't taken him, then he's still-

A spear tip presses against his throat. Aedan blinks up into blazing blue eyes and a long, dignified face twisted with hate.

"Who are you?" she grinds out. "And how do you know that name?"

"Oh," he murmurs. "Oh. You're-"

"This isn't about me." The spear tip digs in a little deeper, just enough to draw blood and prevent the wound from simply healing itself. "How do you. Know. That. Name."

An incredulous smile spreads across his face. He knows this woman, first from dreams that bled over involuntarily, then memories willingly and lovingly shared. "You're Tulio's mom."

"...Who?"

Even as the spear edges away from his throat, he flushes. "Um, I mean-"

"Tulio. Tulio." A tongue that has only known Iberian Celtic carefully enunciates Castilian, strange and rolling. A wry, wistful smile so like her son's spreads across her face. "So that's his name these days."

He winces. "Well, yes and no. That's just what he... prefers to be called."

Sorcha arches a knowing eyebrow. "I heard how you said that name, young man. If that's what you call my son, then that's as true as what I named him." His breath hitches. She waves an expectant hand. "And what does Tulio call you?"

"M-Miguel," he breathes. "My name is Miguel."

For a heartbeat, his tone reverberates with a wondrous multitude. He hears Chief Tanni's voice beside his own, and Chieftess Miya's, and all their boys, and Cera's and countless others. Above them all echoes his partners. His eyes water at their love, their fond exasperation, the utter rightfulness of those syllables dripping from their lips.

And the primal unease he's been feeling since awaking in the Land of Youth finally dispels. He sighs, finally comfortable in his skin.

Sorcha's bemused gaze trails downward. "Hot summers where you two live?"

Miguel blinks at his naked torso, the vibrant hip wrap keeping him decent. His bare toes curl into the grass. Gold sits warm around his wrests and in his ears. A warm breeze stirs his short hair. He beams and gleefully rubs at his goatee, short and stylish.

"Tropical, actually," he chimes. "Lovely city, lovely people. Chel is... oh."

Oh.

His gauntlets, his tribute, glow from faith willingly given. Golden motes of light flicker up from them. They slowly drift south, following that strange tug on his gut, his heart, his very sense of self.

"Chel," he chokes out. "Tulio."

They need him.

He... Their people need him.

Sorcha smiles, all sharpness gone. "Tell Tulio how proud I am of him. He has a life, a name for himself, and... both. Both is good."

Miguel pulls her into a hug. She puts up only a token protest before leaning into arms that have embraced her son. It's close as she can get... for now.

Taking off his earrings, he gently puts them into Sorcha's hand. She startles at the warmth, a faith that burns bright as sunlight, shared between three partners that have entwined themselves on a cosmic level. Chel and Tulio have not failed their people yet. Miguel certainly won't.

"Aedan mac Morcant," he tells her. His name blazes bright as a beacon, one that will guide his family straight to answers he doesn't have the time to give. "T-Tell them I'm... I'm sorry." His lip quirks up. "If they can still stand the sight of me, I'll properly introduce myself and my partners the next time we drop by."

Sorcha's hand clenches around the earrings. She scowls. "Whatever you're thinking, it's a terrible idea."

He beams. "Probably. Chel and Tulio have the brains. I'm just the pretty face."

Miguel reels away, hooves pawing dramatically at the sky. He thunders south, coat gleaming white as milk, and golden tail streaming like a banner. Fruitful plains and silver orchards blur from the speed of his charge. Fae and deities alike leap out of his way. He vaults over sacred springs and groves, shouting apologies, but cuts a clear line for the bonfire on the horizon.

When he finds a way back, his parents will probably try to ground him. He actually looks forward to the lecture to end all lectures. He's eighteen hundred years overdue for the last one.

The Otherworld blurs into formless mist. Wavering shapes flicker like mirages in the distance, endless worlds layered upon and beside each other. None are his.

Not until he charges into a starless jungle, littered with forsaken weapons and broken bones. Skeletons stir weakly as he passes. Some scrap of willpower still cling to these bones. Their raspy whispers spur him on all the faster.

The endless jungle abruptly ends in a clearing of toppled trees. An black jaguar with baleful green eyes relentlessly bears down a pale gray stallion. He might as well be trying to strike the wind itself. His rider is a warrior who blazes bright against the darkness, face pulled into a snarl fierce as Balam Qoxtok's. She splinters a dozen spears against his stony hide. Arrows and broken spear shafts stick out of his eyes, his ears, every area that might be vulnerable in a creature of flesh and blood. His hide is obsidian.

Their battle has fallen into stalemate, one that might rage all eternity.

Screaming a challenge, Miguel charges into the fray, and turns that tide.

Chapter Text

The black dog has killed mortals without laying a single paw on them. He has purged a city of pestilence and made demons fear his shadow. Even he cannot kill a massive rock possessed by war incarnate.

...Not unless he gets creative.

As a white cat he claws glass shards from the idol's shattered eye. When Balam Qoxtok tries to swat him off, Tulio gracefully leaps out of his way and, persistent as gnat, goes right back to gouging at his eye. He stirs a war god into frothing rage. And invites the storm down upon himself.

After thoroughly pissing off a deity, Tulio springs off his face and lands as the black dog. Against the Jaguar God his largest form is the size of a tasty mouse, a target more tempting than all others. Balam Qoxtok charges. Tulio weaves through the trees, always just out of reach, toward the distant sound of roaring water.

He expects a clear run through the jungle. Instead the trees ahead give way to the sheer walls of a stone canyon. His nose frantically twitches. Brimstone? Why does he smell br-

Balam Qoxtok thunders after him. Under his paws the brittle rock cracks, releasing noxious fumes and a hellish red light burning just beneath. His paw pads burn as if running over gravel baked under the summer sun. A mere mortal would be roasted by sheer proximity to the heat. His head swims more from adrenaline than the toxic vapors. Geysers spit up from the earth. Tulio yelps as he plows right through one. The stench of singed fur lingers only for a moment, before he casts it off.

He easily leaps his way free of the widening rifts. Balam Qoxtok is a graceful predator trapped inside a stone colossus. His attempt to free himself only makes the crust crumble beneath his bulk. He thrashes in vain as a lake of molten stone swallows him like quicksand.

Tulio gawks. Then he guffaws. "Hah! You played yours-"

Burning green eyes rise from the fire. The black dog yips and streaks off. Balam Qoxtok claws himself out. Still steaming from the rock cooling on his jade surface, he zealously follows.

Their chase briefly dips back into jungle before exploding out into the open. Ahead looms the idol where Tzekel-Kan had nearly spilled human blood in their name. Below roars the waters of Xibalba. Tulio shivers at how close he came to the edge. If Miguel hadn't screamed at the high priest raising his cudgel, then his partner would have... have...

Tulio slinks out to the precipice, to stand where that sacrifice once had. A very real whimper escapes him as he peers down into the ravenous maelstrom below. Miguel knelt before a spot right like this before his condemned him to the depths of his pool. Tulio himself has stared down into his own grave. For countless souls, Xibalba has been an abyss just as dark.

Balam Qoxtok stalks to the edge of the altar. His stony face convulses into a smirk. From the shadows, Tzekel-Kan laughs uproariously, and cheers his god on.

The Jaguar God crouches.

He pounces.

The black dog's form dissolves into shade and spectral blue flame under heavy jade...

And reform in the air beside him. Tulio smiles lazily, faerie fire ringing his form, and drifts above the abyss. "Ghosts float, peewee."

Stone jaguars, on the other hand...

The altar snaps like dead wood under Balam Qoxtok's weight. He skitters back too late. The whole thing gives way. Heavy stone topples into Xibalba's whirlpool. The Jaguar God's cry cuts off as gravity and merciless waters shred his avatar into lifeless stone slabs. Tzekel-Kan roars in rage and dismay.

Tulio floats back to solid ground and lands on two bare feet. "Quite the god you've got, Tzekel."

"D-Do you think you've won?" hisses that voice in the darkness. "My lord is the son of Xibalba, who rules between worlds. Already he devours your kelpie, piece by piece. Soon he return to claim you too."

For a moment an icy tendril snares Tulio's heart. He recalls Chel's declaration she and Altivo will not fight Balam Qoxtok alone.

"No," he drawls with utter certainty. "The cat creep doesn't have my partners, and he'll never have me."

"I know what you are," growls Tzekel-Kan, "and what you are not."

Tulio smirks. "Do you, Tzekel? Do you really?"

With a mindless bellow, the high priest explodes out of the undergrowth. He's found his awl. Now that cold iron twists into Tulio's naked chest. He sways. Tzekel-Kan snarls victoriously, leaning his weight against him as he tries to throw him down into Xibalba.

Tulio's vision flickers. He tastes hot blood and cold grave dirt. As blackness creeps into the corners of his eyes, they resolve into shapes with dark wings. The ravens advance with his fading sight. Then they are ravens no longer. The Three Queens open their arms to bear him onward. The Maiden is vibrant as spring and the Crone gentle as snowfall. It is the face of the Mother that makes him nearly weep. She wears Sorcha's face to ease him into the next life, to finally embrace his true mother.

"N-No," he chokes out.

Tzekel-Kan blinks. The Three Queens regard him with fathomless eyes. They have no reason to obey him. Even fae are powerless against the inevitable.

"No."

Tulio's voice resonates with ineffable certainty. It does not speak alone. His partners lend their refusal to his, their words amplified by the multitude. Manoa is praying especially hard tonight. The majority have sheltered in the Great Temple, his temple.

Tzekel-Kan flinches back. Tulio seizes him with an icy, implacable grip. The high priest gapes, eyes wide and wild. He struggles in vain against the vise of a phantom, one with tattered rags and a bloodied stump of a neck. Iron shackles still cling his wrists. He went to his grave in them. Even if his executioners had failed to keep him dead and buried, his chains would have always warned them of his coming.

"The thing about iron, Tzekel? Turns out I never really escaped it." The phantom disdainfully yanks the awl from his chest. "Why should it be allowed to kill me twice?"

Tzekel-Kan stammers wordlessly. Tulio drops cold iron into the maelstrom below. His form flickers on instinct. The wound on his bare chest gushes red for a heartbeat more, before weaving itself shut. What blood remaining evaporates. He quirks a smile. Dead things don't bleed.

The god's face settles into grim finality as his attention shifts back to the horrified priest. "What was it my partner said, before you so rudely interrupted him?"

He taps his chin in mock thought, before his blue eyes flash red. With the high priest already so close to the edge, Tulio can gleefully feast upon his fear, and eat away at him until there's nothing left for the Jaguar God. Instead he looks downward. As he strides to the edge of the shattered altar, his burning gaze cools back into deep blue.

"No more sacrifices. Not now, not ever. Now. Get. Out."

Tulio lets him go. Tzekel-Kan falls screaming into Xibalba's ravenous waters.

Tulio's gaze flickers back to his wrists, the golden gauntlets warm with faith. With a deep breath, he wills his shackles back to the forefront. The iron is poorly forged and cuts into his skin. The chains clang with every movement. He's carried them since before his death. Now they shred like tissue when he peels them off. As he hurls them into the whirlpool, that ancient metal rusts away into nothing.

On the horizon, dawn is breaking. This age does not belong to him alone.

Tulio considers heading down to Xibalba himself just to watch his partners finish making a throw rug out of the Jaguar God. His gaze flickers back to Manoa. Across the city, some prayers have fallen silent. The jade colossus no longer thunders through their home. The looming dawn eats away at the night's darkness. Chief Tannabok leads the first tentative souls down the trail of devastation, to find what has become of the battle for his people's future.

Tulio sighs. He stands tall and unbowed so that all their fearful followers may know their faith rewarded, an anchor that remains his partners to not take too long on their victory lap.

When Miguel charges into the grove, Balam Qoxtok at first towers above his head, and Chel thrusts spears up at him like Saint George bearing down upon the dragon. As the distance between them closes, their size difference shrinks. Miguel can rear up on his hooves and strike the Jaguar God square in the chest. Obsidian shatters under his blow. In turn iron claws rake across his hide.

Miguel's wound swiftly heals. The jaguar's obsidian hide drops another shard of glass.

Miguel and Altivo charge in and out of the jaguar god's range. Even if he rarely hits them, he shows them a back broad as the mountainside, and lashes his tail like a whip. Brute force doesn't get them anywhere. Their cult is still newborn on these shores, and Balam Qoxtok glutted on centuries' worth of fear. Only Chel's spears allow her to strike from a distance. Every spear she breaks, another fallen warrior quietly slips out the jungle to offer up their weapon.

Green eyes narrow thoughtfully. In his human life, he'd grown up in an age of transition. His older brothers had prided themselves on their prowess at the chariot. Aedan mac Morcant, smaller and slighter, had been born for horseback. He could ride circles around a slower, more unwieldy chariot team. Older warriors had rolled their eyes at the chief's upstart idiot mocking tactics that had served them for centuries. But his nephews and grand-nephews had continued refining that tradition into something new, and lethally effective against the Roman invaders that had dared their lands.

Miguel's equine face splits into a kelpie smirk. "Do you remember Cantabria, old boy?"

Altivo, a very old boy indeed, snorts vehemently. The stallions change course. Rather than dance in and out of Balam Qoxtok's grip, they circle him like sharks, just out of reach.

Miguel doesn't need to get any closer. He shifts into human form, hurls his javelin, and flows back into a white stallion without ever breaking stride. Chel grins savagely back at him. She throws her spear. Two partners fall into easy rhythm. Their target falls under endless bombardment.

Balam Qoxtok tries to roar. A mouthful of javelins promptly stifles him. More skeletons drag themselves closer to offer up their weapons as tribute. Their faint, hoarse whispers of encouragement strengthen with the spectacle. Some loudly jeer the god responsible for their predicament. Others scream for Chel and Miguel to go for kill. Their circle closes in tighter around their target. Chel hefts the final-

"ENOUGH!"

All of Xibalba quakes with a force old and deep as the darkness itself. Altivo grinds to a halt, rearing wildly. Chel freezes before she can bring down the killing blow. Miguel trips over himself. He lands flat on his ass. And gapes to the endless eyes watching them.

He plasters on his widest, most terrified smile. "Um, hey."

Reclined in a throne of grape vines, the Wine Goddess cheerfully waves down at him. So does the rotted god that cheerfully accepted Cera's offer of incense. Lady Iztaya knocks back another goblet. Rich red alcohol drips down her ivory ribs. Their fellow Lords of Xibalba sit around them... including the Bat God Miguel vehemently trampled. Most droop in their seats with glazed eyes and goofy smiles, too drunk to care about anything else.

They're not alone. There sits the Sun God, mostly dead this time of night, and beside him the Hero God that will lead him out of the underworld upon the dawning. Grandma Turtle looks so very done with all of this. Lord Bibi gives them his widest, shit-eating grin. In him Miguel queasily sees the armadillo that's dogged their footsteps since their landing.

Lord Xarayes, God of Xibalba, is cold as oblivion. His black eyes are fathomless.

"Thieves," croaks out the Jaguar God around a mouthful of javelins.

Chel waves a hand at Miguel. "I came down here for my partner." Her gaze sweeps out to the skeletal faces beneath the godly thrones, those souls that have long suffered in endless night. "And everyone else that belongs to us."

"They're mine!"

Miguel stalks a little closer, a protective wall between the Jaguar God and all he's jealously hoarded. Balam Qoxtok flinches back. "I don't see anyone here fitting that description."

Lady Iztaya swirls her cup of wine. "The buffoon has a point."

Lord Tlilihui chuckles hoarsely. "He does. We steal from each other all the time down here." He nudges the Skeleton Goddess with a rotted elbow. "Look how many you snag from me!"

"It is not my fault you let them all rot to the point where you no longer want them."

"I'm the Corpse God, Iztaya. It's what I do." He bolts back his wine goblet. "Just like Tzinacon likes to suffocate small children in respiratory diseases and lose them to every other god."

"My face," moans the Bat God. "My beautiful face."

The Snake Goddess hisses. "Asss if even he could make you look even worssse."

"H-Hey," pipes up the Rat God. "That girl could've been mine. If she didn't have a dog.... and stupid horse... and-"

Miguel's eyebrows climb to his forehead. He glances at Chel. She shrugs back. The Lords of Xibalba continue to bicker like winter fae over who caught the latest human victim fair and square. Or like the dead, demoted gods in the Otherworld still picking feuds over who won some contest two thousand years ago. Altivo's eyes glaze over. Apparently no pantheons are immune to petty drama. Even the older gods bask in the Lords of Xibalba bickering.

Except their mother. Lady Eupana raises a weary hand. Every last deity falls quiet. "Enough, children. We've fought enough these last few days."

The Bat God sullenly points a finger at Miguel and an utterly unrepentant Chel. "They started it!"

Chel's grip tightens around her spear. "Maybe if Balam Qoxtok hadn't devoured my family, maybe I never would have found the gods to make an utter ass of him."

"False gods!" snarls the Jaguar God. "False as you are!"

Miguel advances another step forward. The Lord of War shrinks before him. A smug, certain smile tugs his lips upward. "I'm a Lord of the Fifth World, thank you very much. The whole city says so. Most importantly, our partner says so." He squeezes Chel's free hand, and glows all the brighter with her faith. "Miguel and Tulio and Chel, great and powerful gods."

Balam Qoxtok roars.

Lord Bibi cackles gleefully. "Either she's a goddess, Balam, or you got yourself impaled multiple times by a mortal soul. Take your pick."

The Jaguar God blinks. He has lost to great gods before. His pride can just barely tolerate that. With a spiteful snarl, he turns his back on his audience, and limps into the undergrowth. Miguel itches to follow. Instead, under the stony scowl of Lord Xarayes, he lets his prey slip away just this once.

There will always be a next time.

Lord Bibi sighs after him. "Really, Xarayes, it's about time someone taught that boy some manners. He's been downright insufferable since losing out to Kama and Kinich."

"No more sacrifices," dully murmurs the Sun God. "Not now, not ever."

The God of Xibalba ignores them all. His gaze is only for Miguel. Even a kelpie can drown in those depths.

"My domain is older than the First World Eupana raised from my primordial waters," he intones gravely. "In time, so too must your reign come to an end."

"Why, Xarayes, it's only just begun!" A true scowl crosses the god's face. Miguel grins. He's never feared dark waters. He'll never again fear the unknown, not with his partners by his side, and their people to always guide them home.

Miguel guilelessly holds out his arms to let the Lord of the Wide Waters stare into the depths of his soul, and the truths reflected there. "I left behind my pool behind a long time ago. This world and its drowning darkness are all yours."

Lord Xarayes flicks a dismissive hand. "Enter my domain again, and I shall wash all you and all you ever were away."

Chel smiles demurely, with the promise business between the two of them awaits a day all too soon. "You can certainly try."

Hand in hand, they stride out of Xibalba, to the light and life of the world above. Prayers weave a golden road home. Above them all Tulio's presence burns like a beacon fire, and glows brighter still with every step they take toward him.

Altivo gambols ahead of them. His whinnying laughter is lost to the morning breeze.

He aches to the core of his being, past his iron claws and obsidian pelt. His molten heart feels like it's cooling into dead, lifeless stone. He snarls again, shedding spear shafts and arrows with every step. He stalks back into the primordial darkness that birthed him, away from laughter and mockery. He drinks his true element in, and breathes it deep. Away from their fires and the jeering of their comrades, man is always quick to lose its courage.

The Crocodile God denied him his first world, and the Moon and Sun his second. He shall not his world, his world, to... fools. Not now, not ever.

No matter what.

But all is not yet lost to him. His pathetic priest falls screaming into his jungle. Balam Qoxtok snarls and swats him back like the little gnat he is. Tzekel-Kan is hurled through the abyssal waters too swiftly to be swallowed.

He's spit up on the other side. Tzekel-Kan flounders to shore, gasping for breath. It takes the fool a long moment to realize he is still alive. He's of no use to his god otherwise.

As his vision clears, Tzekel-Kan beholds the reason he was spared.

He has glimpsed Balam Qoxtok in his cryptic form as Lord of Darkness, the primordial predator that rules supreme in the dark and untamed jungles.

Now he gazes upon a face that can make even a jaguar quake, a brutal man armed and armored in steel. A demon army hungry for pillage stands at his back. Here is the destruction of the old world and maker of the new.

Tzekel-Kan falls forward into full supplication.

Balam Qoxtok smirks.

His new vessel, one worthy of him, nudges one of Tzekel-Kan's earrings in clear command. Gold; the gift of the Dual Gods, the symbol of their age and their avarice. Their cheap substitution of human blood and human life. Now their greatest blessing will prove their greatest downfall. This army thirsts for it like Balam Qoxtok does the souls of his city.

Gods do not die easily. Balam Qoxtok, who has swallowed dozens of them in earlier ages of glory, knows this all too well.

The same cannot be said of their priests.

The Age of the Jaguar shall be written in blood, that of Paquini's drunken acolytes and Bibi's senile fools, those devoted to his brothers and sisters... his mother's and his father's.

He shall take the priests of the Sun and Moon, Paquini's drunken acolytes and Bibi's senile fools. He shall take those of his brothers and sisters, his mother, his father.

Tzekel-Kan leads Manoa's doom onward. His god stalks right behind them.

Chapter Text

Somewhere between death and dream, Miguel breaks out into a run. Chel matches him stride for stride. Together they leap into the newborn morning and Tulio's arms. He bowls over with their weight, laughing between his sobs. They murmur each other's names and lavish kisses.

Before their exaltation can deepen any further, Miguel glances upward. Most of the city awkwardly averts their eyes. He and his partners lay by the ruined altar over Xibalba, surrounded by their people. Tulio squeaks and fumbles at the unraveling knot of his hip wrap. Chel calmly brushes her hair back. Hair mussed and clothes disheveled, Miguel clambers to his feet.

"Chief Tanni!" he calls. "Chief Tanni! I've decided to stay." Miguel glances bashfully back to his partners. "Um-"

"We," Tulio corrects. "We've decided to stay." He looks to Chel. "For at least a little bit?"

She taps her in chin mock thought. "Ask me again in a thousand years or so." She grins. "As of right now, this is home. Our home."

Miguel chokes on his joy, at the rightness singing through his homes. Home. He's home.

Chief Tanni laughs uproariously, sweeping Miguel into a hug that could crush a mortal. "Oh, this is wonderful news. The gods have chosen to live among us!"

His exuberance spreads through their people. Joyous hands bear Miguel and his partners up into a reverent tide. Their hands reach for each other. Only then do they lean back, eyes half-closing in contentment. They drift in bliss and adoration.

At the threshold of their temple, something cold as steel rips through his being. His eyes wrench open. Altivo whinnies in alarm. Miguel's breath hitches. His gaze finds those dark smoke trails burning on the horizon. Chel's nails sink into his arm.

"W-What's..."

"No," he murmurs, soft and weak as a child.

"Cortes," Tulio growls.

Chief Tanni, heedless of the true danger at his gates, frowns up at them. "My lords, what is it?"

His gods gape in wordless horror. Chel is paralyzed by the force of fear crackling across their link, the horrors of gold and God and glory that have trodden down divinities far stronger than they shall ever be.

Chief Tanni's concern soon shifts to the terrified messenger that shoves through the crowd to fall into his arms. "Chief Tanni! Chief Tanni! Approaching the city... is an army of strangers!"

"We are safe here," his chief soothes, as if calming one of his own sons. "They'll never find the gate to the city."

"B-But sire, they are being by Tzekel-Kan!"

"He survived!" Chief Tanni exclaims in outraged disbelief.

"I... I threw him into Xibalba. Unless..." Tulio snarls. He flows out of the arms of the crowd, pacing circles around them as the black dog. "That... That fucking cat creep."

Miguel and Chel exchange a look of horrified realization. Balam Qoxtok is Lord of War and Conquest. In Cortes he has found a horror not even Tzekel-Kan can truly contemplate.

"Warriors, prepare yourselves for battle!"

Miguel cuts their battle cries short by clutching desperately at their chief. "Chief, you cannot fight them!"

Chief Tanni falters at the terror in his gaze. For once he is the one to gaze helplessly up at the newborn god he had once comforted. "Then how can we stop them?"

Miguel instinctively turns to his partners. Chel peers darkly into the tunnel that divides the valley from the outer world. "Do you feel up to drowning an army?"

The Kelpie God bares jagged fangs into that subterranean darkness. "Oh, do I." Green eyes flicker to a fellow equine. "Feel up to joining me, old boy?"

Altivo stamps a zealous hoof.

Tulio flows back into a man, scratching at his chin and raking hands through his hair. "Wait," he murmurs. "Wait, wait, wait. What if... we did something worse?"

Miguel's snarl stretches into a feral smirk. "Go on."

"What if we let them live?"

"What?"

"Say we collapse the tunnel and kill the whole damn expedition. What about the next one, or the ten after that?" Tulio waves his hands. "I don't think Lord Xarayes has another dozen secret passageways to collapse, do you? Eventually, someone's gonna try to climb. A-And... it's El Dorado, Miguel. Spain is never gonna stop looking. Not now, not ever. But... But what if Cortes can never find this place, not even with a guide to show him the way?"

"The golden city built by the gods," Chel murmurs. "The city none can ever find."

"Not alive," Miguel mutters. Like the Land of Youth, or the Isle of Apples, blessed lands just across the sea... and yet unreachable except to those who already know the way.

Their partner bites his lip. "W-Well?"

Chel and Miguel look at each other.

And grin wickedly back.

On the calm surface of Lake Parime, two horses lightly step over the waters with scarcely a ripple. Altivo's rider winds her fingers into his mane. She and the other stallion exchange share a fervent nod. At the opposite end of the lake their partner hops from one shore to the other, ensuring the broad-shouldered men at the columns are all in position. Not even gods can work this sort of miracle alone.

"Hold the line steady!" Chief Tannabok calls. "They're almost in place."

Tulio's eyes never leave his partners. "On my signal, chief."

Chel spurs Altivo on. Miguel surges into a gallop. As one they stride down the lake. The kelpie slips under the surface, cresting along as a wave. Altivo leaps for the sky, his form dissolving into screaming wind that froths that rogue wave higher.

"Now!"

At Tulio's roar, the men release their holds. Their columns crumble. The wave surges into a wall of ruthless water.

A black dog, gaunt and terrible, surges after them into the dark. He brims with the fears of their people, fears of discovery and massacre and that this plan might fail. He snaps fiercely at the back of the waves, frothing their force ever higher, and refusing to ever let it lose momentum. Wind and water scream down into Lord Xarayes' darkness. Chel is the steady hand of faith that guides them true as an arrow.

Rather than break chaotically astride every wall, the wave smashes against two pillars at their most vulnerable points, and brings countless tons of rock tumbling down upon them.

The way is shut.

Four waterlogged beings wash up under the roaring waterfall beyond. A stallion clambers onto all four hooves, drenched mane sticking to his neck. A kelpie flails in water far too shallow. A black dog shakes out his soaking fur. A woman wipes back hair from her hairs, then freezes.

"It worked," the dog mumbles in amazement. "It worked."

The kelpie smiles fondly. "Of course it did. We always had faith."

"Wait," their partner orders. "Get down."

All so newborn and unsure of their divinity, they scramble for the rocks. Amateurs. Altivo rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and simply shifts onto a slightly different plane of existence.

Tzekel-Kan swaggers out of the mist with an army at his back. With a mocking smirk for the stele of the Dual Gods, he steps into the waters that leads him home...

And finds only tons of resolute stone waiting for him.

"N-No," he stammers. "This-This isn't-"

"You lying heathen," Cortes snarls in Castilian. "There's nothing here at all."

"W-Wait," Tzekel-Kan pleads. "Wait. My lord, there are other-"

"Men, seize him!"

The high priest's protests fall on deaf ears. These Spaniards don't speak a word of Manoan. Iron hands drag him back.

"There's no El Dorado here," Cortes rules, his words implying that such a city must certainly exist elsewhere. He swings out his word. "Onward, men!"

Struggling in their hold, Tzekel-Kan is the only one to look back, and glimpse the gods just under their noses. Chel waves cheerfully back. Tulio's tongue lolls out. Altivo flicks a dismissive ear. The high priest blubbers at the kelpie looming behind them all. He bares his fangs in a smirk and watches the tyrant get dragged off to a fate far, far worse than drowning. He'll spread their legend far and wide, and so secure their people's eternal safety.

In the mist behind them, a shadowy jaguar snarls at the gods that have so rudely cast him out, and prowls after his priest. He'll slink his way back eventually. Manoa now has all the more reason to fear the dark jungle beyond their borders.

But they will never fear that evil stalking his way inside their hearts again. Not with their golden gods to kill him, again and again.

"Yes!" Tulio whoops.

Miguel beams. "Now that was an adventure!"

"Yes," he sighs. "Yes, it was."

Chel kisses the black dog between his two pointed ears, then the kelpie on his fetlock. "Good. Now let's go home."

She stands and stretches languidly. Miguel follows, rising as a man. He offers Tulio a helping hand. His partner grins and takes it, flowing from the black dog into the human face their people know best.

"So," he drawls. "Divinity."

Miguel beams. "Divinity."

Tulio blinks down at himself. "I... I have questions. So many questions."

Chel laughs. "It's not like godhood comes with maps."

"You're right," Miguel purrs in agreement. "We'll just have to... blaze our on trail."

Today their trail leads back to a sumptuous bed in a golden city, their city. No matter how far they might roam in the years to come, perhaps all the way out to Otherworlds and awkward family visits, their hearts shall always guide them back home. In Manoa's hearts they shall live forever. But those are adventures for some other time, some other place.

Miguel, who never was one for long-term planning, right now cares only for all the wondrous new ways he can worship the bodies of his partners.

Chapter Text

Warm afternoon light slants inside to the temple's innermost sanctums. Tulio cracks an eye open. He's sandwiched firmly between his partners, with Miguel snoring into his ear and Chel's drool pooling on his chest. He can bask in their arms all eternity.

And yet...

His eyes open a little wider. Miguel snorts awake. Chel mumbles a curse into the pillow.

He senses something, same as he once stirred when travelers trod too close to his grave. He isn't alone. They all sit up and puzzle a new instinct.

"A-Are people celebrating us?"

Miguel puffs up with tentative bravado. "Of course they are. Why shouldn't they?"

Chel grins. "We did throw down the Jaguar God, banish Tzekel-Kan, and hold back a whole army."

Tulio glows at the reminder. He flops back down into bed to properly soak up the feeling. Instead he groans in dismay when his partners roll away from him. "Why?"

"They're celebrating in our honor, Tulio," Miguel chirps. "It would be rude not to put in an appearance."

"Besides, we can't spend forever in bed." Chel winks. "Only most of it."

With a theatrical sigh, Tulio smiles and stands. He can't certainly turn down a party where he's a guest of honor. Manoa hails him as a god. He lives for their faith, their reverence as he once craved human fear alone. They deserve to see their devotion is never taken for granted.

He searches the floor for his hip wrap. It dutifully manifests in his left hand. Huh. Neat. He summons his earrings and arm bands the same way. Upon tying his hair back, he glances at the golden stele of the Dual Gods...

And leaps back with a startled yelp, bristling like he's cat-shaped. His partners whirl around.

"R-Real," he blurts out. "They're actually real!"

There's a Dual God, an actual Lord of the Fifth World, staring out from that golden sheen. He looks terrified as Tulio himself, wondering why some black dog is in his temple like...

Chel strolls over to fling an arm over his shoulder. Tulio feels it, even though it's the Dual God in the gold flinching at her touch. "No Dual God here but you," she answers.

This face is a glamor that can fool even his own senses. It never changes his true reflection, only prevents most mortal eyes from noticing the black dog in the mirror. He shifts just to prove her wrong.

The Dual God at her side vanishes in flickering blue flames, solidifying as a black dog the size of a bear. There is Tulio's face, long snout, pointed ears, and all. Admittedly he can't see his rib cage any more and his eyes are still stubbornly blue, but that's him. He cocks his head. Instinctively he dwindles down into a true dog. A scruffy black terrier blinks back at him. He shifts again, and the terrier becomes a fluffy rabbit, then a ghost white cat when he does.

Tulio flows back into human shape. A long, stubbly face gawks back at him. What. The. F-

Miguel leans his head against his other shoulder. "What did I tell you, Tulio? You have a lovely face. It's handsome, roguish, and too damn handsome for its own good." He grins and waggles his brows at his own human reflection. "Of course, I'm not half bad myself."

Tulio tries and fails at a smile. "Looking divine as ever, Miguel."

Miguel squeezes his hand. "It's your face, Tulio, just not your fae one. Or your cat one, or your rabbit, or..." He trails off, then sucks in a nervous breath. "This just happens to be the face of the man I love... not the fae, or the rabbit, or... well..."

"W-W-What?"

"I... I love you." Miguel braces for disappointment, but doesn't yet pull away. "L-Like in 'I want us to be happy and healthy' sort of way and, um, not the 'drown you so I can display your body' or 'abduct you from your family' love."

...Oh.

Oh.

He gapes like Miguel slapped him with a fish. Then, before his brain quite catches up with his body, Tulio surges forward to shower this beautiful idiot with all he feels. Between laughing sobs and worshipful kisses, he stammers out 'I love you.' They tackle each other and accidentally take Chel down with them. Together they collapse in an awkward heap.

Chel smiles and tries to wriggle herself free. "I'll just let you two g-"

Someone thinks to mash her lips against hers. Chel kisses right back, and they all fall into bliss.

They do indeed make it to their own party, fashionably late and disheveled and beaming like idiots. No one is surprised.

...Except Tulio, who spews wine all over himself and his partners when Miguel innocently comments about how his mother is a lovely woman and they really should get back to the Land of Youth soon for a proper family reunion.

With Balam Qoxtok so thoroughly humiliated, even the nastiest Lords of Xibalba smile nervously when the Golden Gods 'drop by' down in Xibalba to eat and make small talk. The gods gleefully leave with every last soul, those that have burned in Lady Iztaya's fires or choked in Lord Tzinacon's smothering winds, eager for a well-deserved rest in Grandmother Turtle's verdant paradise.

The Lords of Xibalba don't often take 'guests' into their Houses anymore, not when Miguel carries every new soul directly to Lady Eupana. A few do insist on dropping by Lord Tlilihui and Lady Iztaya first, who are generous hosts beneath their scary exteriors. On those journeys Miguel gets to stuff himself at three separate feasts. He never sees Balam Qoxtok. The Jaguar God's jungle is empty and forlorn of its bones. The god himself is heard only as a distant snarl of frustration. It will not take much longer for Cortes to match out of Balam Qoxtok's realm of influence, past any peoples that believe war and conquest come as an Obsidian Jaguar.

One night, after escorting a great-grandfather into paradise, Miguel finds of the God of Xibalba awaiting him. Lord Xarayes stands on the shore where Balam Qoxtok's jungle meets his fathomless sea. His stoic face is pinched. Someone else might mistake it for annoyance. Miguel immediately knows that expression is grief. Together they watch Lady Eupana's paradise, astride the shell of a massive turtle, swim off with one new soul for the dinner table.

"Hello, Lord Xarayes," Miguel greets easily. "Lovely night we're having."

The God of Xibalba spares him no pleasantries. His fathomless eyes stare out into the domain of the Jaguar God, shoulders bowed. "My son was not always so..."

Miguel considers the lovely sorts of euphemisms used in the courts of the darkest, most arbitrary fae.

"Spoiled?" he suggests delicately.

Lord Xarayes inhales. "Eupana and I raised Balam Qoxtok as a protector, a provider. He guided our hunters and kept them safe beyond my waters. His beasts and his wars kept outsiders from ever finding his mother's city." When he exhales, the whole sea quivers. "And then our people grew strong enough to forge offensive wars, and forge themselves an empire."

"...Ah."

Does Miguel know that story. It's repeated itself again and again in Iberia alone; the Romans, the Visigoths, the Eastern Romans, the Moors, the local petty kingdoms that have united into a power yearning to envelop all the New World.

"Our power waned, as all tides must, and we tried to settle back into balance. Eupana and I believed our son... past his phase. And then came that damned Crocodile God." The sea shakes, black waves churning. "After that, Manoa chose new gods to place above him, and we thought him finally humbled."

Miguel swallows thickly. "It's... It's hard to recover from appetites like that."

As a kelpie, he had merely had the appetites and fickle whims of the river itself. The knowledgeable could always prevent his eye from turning upon them, or not pass into his hunting grounds to begin with. Even the marine water horses, far deadlier than their freshwater cousins, had simply embodied a more formidable force of nature. Their kind had been amoral, wanting only food in their bellies and the brief pleasure of watching a mortal drown.

And then there were the great fae once hailed as gods, who had festivals in their honor, and blood spilled upon their altars. Their appetites had been insatiable, and their entertainments... utterly alien toward a simple kelpie that had not yet remembered how deep human hatred can run. Mortals had not only dreaded them as mere elemental forces, but slayed them as demons. The Wild Hunt, never satisfied, roams the wild lands every winter night and collects more souls for their restless host.

In the distance, the Jaguar God yowls. His father sighs.

"The people have feared him, and revered him. They fear him still, even if they believe you and your... partners shall always keep him at bay."

Miguel bites back a grimace. Not even Chel can keep Balam Qoxtok down forever. The world outside their mountain walls is more dangerous by the day.

"Look on the positive side," he tries. "Your son can mellow out. Eventually." Miguel beams. "It only took me eighteen hundred years!"

Lord Xarayes scowls at him. Miguel laughs, slaps his back, and charges into his waters in kelpie shape.

"Come on, old boy! If we hurry we can still make family dinner!"

In Lady Eupana's vibrant hall, Miguel happily tucks in beside Chel's family. Her parents embrace him like a son. Her grandparents heap food into his plate and reminds him he and his partners need to eat more to keep their divine bellies full. Chel's big brother smirks, then slumps when his grandma reminds him being dead is no excuse to skimp on his vegetables.

At the opposite end of the table, Lord Xarayes presses a kiss to his wife's cheek, and avoids all eye contact with them.

"Your hair," a little sister gasps. "Oh, your beautiful hair."

"How we supposed to brush it now?" demands another.

"Forget about his hair!" a brother butts in. "What happened to your beard?"

"Yeah," another brother agrees. "You were so damn proud for peach fuzz, and then you barely had time to enjoy a real beard before, you know..."

"Oisin!" his siblings hiss scandalously.

Miguel splutters for a very different reason. "I still have a beard, thank you very much!"

"Yeah, on just your chin. Is that a kelpie thing?"

"It's stylish!" Many siblings, old and young, eye him dubiously. "Tell them, Tulio!"

Their partner winces. "Well..."

"Tulio!"

"Ahead of its time, definitely." A beat. "Um, so ahead of its time I don't think we've actually reached it yet."

Chel's partners descend into bickering. Miguel's hoard of siblings break out into their own arguments. Some defend him as a visionary. Others challenge the goatee is valid all on its own, fashion forward or not. Most of his siblings share his golden hair and green eyes. Even though they've just introduced themselves so her, she can't recall which is which. She is very, very glad her parents stopped at just her and Xaya. Sorcha tries her damnedest to hide her relief at only having one kid.

"No wonder Tulio insisted on meeting with me first," she mutters. "I've seen faerie courts more organized than this."

Chel grins at the adoring tide, who took one look at their unabashedly Manoan deity of a son and immediately embraced him. "They have what matters."

Despite herself, Sorcha smiles wistfully. "They do."

At which precise moment, Miguel's family recalls the visitors he's proudly brought home. Tulio is the first sucked into the tide of hugs and pleasantries. It claims Chel soon after.

Sorcha, promptly smothered by Miguel's two moms, suddenly pales with the realization she is tied to this chaos for all eternity, and hasn't even met Chel's side of the family yet. After a long moment, she slumps in happy surrender to her fate.

And then the tide of near two hundred nieces and nephews floods in.