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deathly-sick-flowers · 4 years

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Sleeping in Ciudad de Sangre

the sun was setting in a dusty town of yore, birds flew into the violet-orange glow of the twilight sky above the wooden structures. drunks and whores prowled the dirt roads looking for a crutch to keep them going. horses cantered past bodies laying in the street, drunk or dead, no one could tell.

our story begins with a stranger riding into Ciudad de Sangre, a small town of sin and debauchery. a towering spire on the roof of a church stretched its crooked arm towards the sky to be seen for miles on approach to the town. it was here the desert landscape ended at the base of a mountain range, Ciudad de Sangre being the last resupply opportunity before trekking the mountain pass.

nice spot for a drink, our stranger assessed. braving the ferocious teeth of the Loto desert alone, the stranger sat up straight in their saddle upon hearing the illuminating voices of others for the first time in weeks. “Come on, girl” they dug their spurs in their horse and sought off in a nervous trot for a taste of the devil himself. Darkness was creeping in from the east, swallowing the Loto in a slow march behind them. The stranger was in search of some warmth after a lonely ride, and their horse’s shoes caught better grip as the terrain switched from dunes to paved dirt.

“Ciudad de Sangre” the old sign seemed to moan in it’s desperate attempt to cling onto a rusted chain link from a wooden post. It practically dragged in the dirt, broken glass and the smell of piss surrounding it. Despite it’s degraded appearance the town was full of life; music came from all corners and with it, laughing and cursing, singing and dancing.

“Hey man can I bum a smoke? Get a silver?” a man with one arm called out from the deck of an unnamed building. He smiled weakly at the stranger through a gapped smile, mud and blood caked the man’s shirt.

“Fuck off” the stranger spat, and rode past. There were only small individual dwellings that surrounded this side of Ciudad de Sangre, leading into the epicenter where gas lamps lit up the streets in front of shops, vendors, and bars.

As they galloped deeper into the town center our stranger’s thirst grew, craving something bitter that bites back. Whiskey. Not long after roaming through the streets did our stranger come across a small saloon that seemed well enough for someone to collect their thoughts and plot another move. Our stranger pulled their horse up next to a water trough, swung their left leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. solid ground. A sigh of relief as the stranger secured their horse’s reigns to a hitching post, “Alright girl, I won’t be long.” The sounds of men cheering and women laughing came from inside as our stranger ascended to the deck. The floor groaned beneath them as they pushed open the saloon style doors, everyone’s focus noticeably now on the stranger. For what seemed like minutes people reacted to our stranger’s grim appearance. A few girls giggled in the laps of some unfriendly gentlemen, the band lost rhythm to ogle for a moment before resuming. Shit, when was the last time I looked at myself. Our stranger reflected.

After everyone had taken in the god awful sight of this stranger they went right back to ignoring them again. A spot opened up at the bar after a man collapsed from his seat, “Well alright” the stranger sighed. Without moving this poor soul the stranger stepped over him and leaned in to the bar. The bartender approached, a handsomely average-sized man with some ash in his beard, eyes of a jaded fox.

“My friend, you look damn terrible if you don’t mind me saying so. You need a poison?” he bellowed.

Our stranger gave a half chuckle, half sigh, “What you got that stings”

“House whiskey outta do you good, you got silver?” Our stranger nods and slaps two pieces onto the mahogany bar. The bartender makes his way to the sink and begins to clean a glass, the mirrors behind the shelved bottles now gave our stranger a sight for sore eyes.

A sand stripped man with a dusty beard stared back at our stranger from the mirror. He looked at himself in disbelief, red bags under his eyes, his skin weathered from the desert’s harsh winds, and his black hat had turned brown from the glare of the sun. “You are one sorry looking son of a bitch” he muttered to himself. He could hardly see his pupils, almost forgotten what color his own eyes were, if he had ever really known before. By now it was hard to remember.

A glass was set in front of him and brought the stranger back to reality, a POP of the cork and a fine golden-brown river of whiskey flowed from the bottleneck to the glass. It was the most beautiful thing our stranger had seen in weeks, which was practically nothing since the days were filled with sandstorms or illusions as the sun made the dunes dance and roll like waves from the shore. “they call me Danny, friend, let me know if you need another.” Danny scooped up the silver pieces and began tending to the other thirsty patrons.

The stranger to this town lifted the glass to his mustache and took a deep whiff from his nostrils. The whiskey smelt of aged oak barrels as well as memories of stronger times with closer acquaintances. He swirled it around for a moment before bringing it to his lips, taking a swig too eagerly and coughing out some of the dust from his beard. The gentleman to his right scowled at him and covered his drink, “my apologies friend,” our stranger cleared his throat, “It’s been a long road.”

“No offense mister, but you look like you just came out of a grave deep in the Loto.”

“I’d be lying if I said that weren’t true” our stranger bantered. The gentleman scoffed and turned his shoulder to him, not wanting to engage with our stranger any further. The stranger exhaled and brought the glass to his lips once more, this time slowly tilting his head back and letting the whiskey linger a moment before burning his parched throat. “ahhh, that’s better.” the stranger felt warmer and more confident with each sip, finally relaxing after a grueling desert storm.

It was a small bar with a banda on the opposite wall, tables between them. A plain oak staircase with a recently sanded railing shined under the gas lamps on the ceiling, patrons leaned over the rail from the second floor chatting and listening to the banda light up the whole room.

“That’s a fine horse you rode in on, saw it’s coat shine from the window there.” Danny returned, “Another round?”

“keep em coming, Danny, and thank you. Not often you see a coat like that, especially in the Loto. After a terrible mishap, seems like she came to help me out there.” As he spoke, Danny filled his glass with some more hooch, offering the stranger a lemon slice, which he refused.

“You don’t mean to tell me you just found that horse out there? er, it found YOU?”

“I reckon so, I’d be dead if it weren’t for Pumpkin.”

a confused smile spread on Danny’s face. “bit of a queer name for a horse out here, harvest season isn’t for another several moon cycles. Not that we can grow fuck all in this desert. Might I ask why?”

“Maybe the sun had gotten to my brain, erm, I can’t really say. Had a nice ring to it, she seems to respond to it, and it stuck.” a touchy subject for the stranger, the name was more than just a crop, but the name of a showgirl he used to be sweet on. He bodied the rest of his drink, “listen friend, you must see a lot that goes on around these parts. You see, I’m looking for someone, got a gift for em.” The stranger reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a photograph. A man with blonde hair, a thin mustache, and a black ornate bolo tie. He had a strong unibrow, and a fine mexican woman under his arm, cigar in his other hand. He slid the picture over to Danny, who inspected it closely.

“hmmm. I do not recognize this woman, though I will say she is very easy on the eyes. But the man I do know. A bit of a reputation he has in this town. Surely you do not mean to engage with him?” the bartender seemed a bit concerned. The stranger stared his glass down, his voice grew deep.

“That woman was my wife, recently passed. That man is her brother. Blames me for her death. Left me to die in the desert. I intend to thank him.”

(Part 1 of 3)

#Ciudad de Sangre

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notapaladin · 3 years

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harmonic orchestra, the gen edition (pt 1)

yeah you know the drill by now, here’s the gen fills

AO3

1 (acatl – autistic)

His tutors all said the same things about him—what a smart boy, what a studious boy, he'll go far in the priesthood. Acatl supposed they were probably correct about that; he was smart, he was studious, and he threw himself into the rituals with a fervor that annoyed the nobles' sons who were only there for power. They didn't understand how he could ponder the codices for hours, how he could sit silent as the statue of Lord Death and watch the funeral pyres burn.

He didn't understand it himself, really; all he knew, in those moments when he contemplated the inside of his own mind, was that having it consumed by devotion to the gods felt right.

2 (teomitl & chalchiuhnenetl – a deal with the devil)

"I can give you the crown you deserve," his elder sister says.

Teomitl thinks of their brother on the throne, twisted and craven; he is no fit warrior, no fit Emperor, no fit conduit of Huitzilopochtli's power in the Fifth World, but to slay him and take the crown by force of arms would be treason, would no doubt sever the ties between Teomitl and the people who, somehow, love him.

But if he doesn't, Tizoc will twist and twist until he tears the Empire apart, and Teomitl's loved ones will not be alive to hate him...so he meets his sister's eyes, and nods his assent.

3 (acatl – awkward formal dinners)

There are many reasons for Acatl, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, to hate formal banquets—the heavy formal regalia, the noblemen not-so-subtly sneering at the jumped-up peasant in their midst, the certain knowledge that there is political scheming going on somewhere and it's sure to bite him in the ass just when he least expects it—but top of the list has to be the seating arrangements, because he is sharing a mat with the high priests of Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc and he hates both of them to a depth unplumbed by any line.

When Quenami smiles his oily smile and asks how he's been lately, as though Acatl's forgiven him for the time he almost had him executed for treason, Acatl has to resist the urge to drown him in his own soup bowl. No matter how satisfying it would be, it won't help for long.

Acamapichtli sighs heavily as he meets his eye—Quenami is still talking, Southern Hummingbird blind him—and for a split second there is understanding between them. Though I loathe you and everything you stand for, that look says, I’ll at least credit you with not being Quenami.

4 (teomitl & acatl – well seasoned)

It's simple food—tamales stuffed with duck and chilies—but Acatl made it, so when he offers some to Teomitl...well, of course he'll eat it and be happy even if it turns out to be terrible, because he knows for a fact that it's been made with love instead of poison which therefore puts it miles ahead of anything the palace kitchen gives him.

"This is delici—"

And that's how he finds out that Acatl, unlike everyone else in Tenochtitlan and probably the world, has absolutely no upper limit on how hot he likes his chili peppers.

5 (acatl – relaxing)

His nieces and nephews are splashing in the pool, water spraying the air, as Teomitl and Mihmatini chase after them; Acatl doesn't worry, because he knows they'll be safe with those two looking after them. He knows the world will be safe, too; for the moment, he has nothing to do but relax and occasionally nibble a piece of fruit from the tray by his knee. It’s almost a foreign sensation, but not an unwelcome one.

Feeling warm in every limb—feeling, for once, content—Acatl closes his eyes and tilts his face to the sun.

6 (teomitl & acatl – if I didn’t have you)

Sometimes, Teomitl thinks about the man he might have become if he'd never met Acatl—proud to the point of arrogance, bravery turned to recklessness, no fit inheritor to even be considered for the throne—and he has to shudder in horror. One look at Tizoc (at his brother, gods, the thought sickens him now that they came from the same parents), at his excesses and paranoia, reminds him how close he could have come to falling. (It would have been easy. It terrifies him to think how easy it would have been.)

"You were the greatest teacher I could have ever had," he tells Acatl, and means it with all his heart.

7 (mihmatini & acatl – saying I love you without words)

"I ate," her older brother tells her, and Mihmatini sighs and rolls her eyes. She knows Acatl too well by now not to also know that his last meal was probably a full day ago, half stale, and not nearly filling enough for a man whose day job involves running across half of Tenochtitlan slaying monsters and dealing with the magical strain of keeping the world in one piece.

She sets a hand on his shoulder, keeping him firmly in place, and fills his bowl with a serving of the spicy grilled newts she knows he likes. "Eat something anyway."

8 (quenami – is that the hill you’re going to die on?)

The really funny thing, Quenami reflects idly, isn't that Acatl is still protesting his innocence—he's always been stubborn to a fault, and far too principled for his own good.

No, the funny thing is that Acatl, for some reason (probably because he, as a principled man, thinks others can be swayed by things like reason and logic) thinks they actually care, as though the results of the upcoming trial will be anything other than a foregone conclusion. Of course he'll die claiming his unwavering loyalty to the Empire, but it doesn't matter—he'll be dead anyway, and Quenami will never have to deal with him again.

The trial is in the morning. He can barely wait.

9 (teomitl – shadow of the crown)

He turns the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown over and over in his hands, tracing the intricate mosaic of blue stones with remarkably steady fingers. He thinks, distantly, that there should be blood on it—that his brother's passing should have stained it irreparably, even though Teomitl had, in the end, nothing at all to do with his demise. (He’s not sure who did. It might have been the She-Snake. It might have been any one of Tizoc’s enemies. It might even be Acatl, for all he knows—not that he’d mind if it was.)

The sun gleams on the metal, but when he finally sets it on his head he still feels cold.

10 (acatl – too tired to sleep)

He was tired down to his bones—no, past his bones, tired all the way down to every part of his soul—but sleep stubbornly refused to come. No matter how much he tossed and turned on his mat, no matter how much he desperately wished for unconsciousness, the room was too warm or his neck hurt or, for all he knew, the stars weren't in position for him to succumb.

Fighting the urge to beat his head against the ground—it wouldn't help, and would just make him sore in addition to his rising ill-temper—he rolled over again and buried his head in the crook of his arm until sunrise.

11 (teomitl & mihmatini – almost beyond repair)

He's standing in front of his wife, sword in the dirt between them, and he knows this can't ever be fixed—that he was too greedy, reached too far, foolishly thought it would all come together when the people he loved knew, knew, that it was falling apart.

Mihmatini meets his eyes, her own gaze absolutely furious, and asks, "Why? Why did—what in the gods' names possessed you to think this was all a good idea? Tizoc-tzin is unfit to be Emperor, that's true, we all know it—but for you to think to kill him—"

"He was going to kill Acatl." It comes out in a rush, without any prior planning or thought on his part, but it's the truth. Tizoc might be his Emperor, his brother, but he tried to execute Acatl for treason and that's not something Teomitl will ever forgive.

And Mihmatini, who loves her older brother as much as Teomitl does, stares at him for a long, long moment...and then she nods. "Understandable."

Maybe, Teomitl thinks, this can be salvaged after all.

12 (acatl – a moment’s peace)

The funeral was officially over, but the pyre still burned hot; it would keep burning until Coyolli of the Atempan calpulli was reduced to ashes, and then he and his fellow priests would see her remains interred. Acatl sat by the pyre, upwind from the smoke, and finally took a long, deep breath.

His work was not done, but the drums had stopped and the wailing of the dead woman's relatives no longer rang in his ears, and so—for the moment—he could rest.

“Acatl-tzin?”

Ah. One of his priests with a question. He closed his eyes, permitted himself a small sigh, and got to his feet again.

13 (teomitl & acatl – doing math in your head)

"Hmmm...let me see...our suspect was born on the third day of Izcalli in the year Five Rabbit, which makes him an…"

"Eight Monkey."

Teomitl lifted his head from the sheet of bark paper on which he was carefully and laboriously calculating the interactions between the civil and liturgical calendars, staring incredulously at his teacher—his teacher who, quite plainly, had just done some very complicated math in his head. "Acatl-tzin. How in the fuck."

"Language," he said, but he was smiling. "And practice. I can teach you that as well, if you'd like."

"Most people can't do math in their heads!"

14 (teomitl – unexpected forgiveness)

The cup of chocolate is bitter and spicy in his hands, and Teomitl doesn't drink. He can't—they're not safe, not really, not with Tizoc undying on his throne and him awaiting his chance to topple him. Even if it risks breaking their Empire, it will save them in the long run, he knows this...but he promised Acatl, he promised to give Tizoc time for his reign to stabilize, and he won't go back on his word. (He won't disappoint him, not again; he never, ever wants to see that look of heartbroken fury in Acatl's eyes.)

But when he smiles at Acatl...oh, Acatl smiles back, even now, even after he's fucked up so comprehensively that he's amazed the man has forgiven him, and suddenly the world seems just that little bit brighter.

15 (tizoc – from the pov of the villain)

He is the Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan, like his brother and grandfather were before him—cities as far away as the Maya lands pay him tribute, and at his command armies rise and kingdoms fall. All should fall before him, for is he not Tizoc-tzin? Is he not the man who channels Huitzilopochtli's power in the Fifth World? The sun rises at the edge of his blade!

But he lifts the sacrificial knife and there is barely even a glimmer, while his brother—reckless, foolhardy Teomitl, who's too soft, who's gone and married that peasant's daughter and raised her brother above his rightful place as the lowest of the three High Priests—shines like Tonatiuh Himself by his side.

16 (acatl – good night, midnight)

The conch shells blare once at the turn of the night, the hour that separates one day from the next, and Acatl rises from his mat alone and in silence.

Alone and in silence he eats a meal of thin flatbread and (cold) roasted peppers, savoring the bite and the burn of them as they fill his belly. Alone and in silence, he bathes himself in cold water (cold as the peppers had been) and forces a comb through the tangles in his long, wet hair.

He doesn't let himself remember hot meals with his family, doesn't let himself imagine gentle hands rubbing his shoulders or tilting his head back to comb his hair for him. He is High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, and here under the shroud of midnight that is all he'll ever be.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #mihmatini #tizoc #quenami #chalchiuhnenetl #paladin writes stuff

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