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Chapter 42: rightful place

Summary:

Long before Greece or Rome raised their maritime empires, a different people first conquered the seas.

Once upon a time, a ship was blown way off course.

And washed up only mostly dead.

A thousand years later, a whisper of instinct guides two wayward souls to a temple long awaiting their return.

Or: in which Miguel and Tulio used to be Phoenician.

Notes:

A what-if not canon to any of my other works. Because I can take creative liberties even from myself :p

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Today is the day Cortes sets forth to conquer the New World for Spain, for God and glory.

...Not that Tulio is jealous or anything. He gave up on the sea centuries ago. His partner is no different. The object of Cortes' greatest hungers can be found right here.

"Tons of gold for you, hey! Tons of gold for me, hey! Tons of gold for we, hey!"

Once gold drove trading ships to the ends of the earth, to the Tin Isles and eastern Ophir. Now great carracks retrace their ancient routes, push out for new goods and places to profit from. Seville has no shortage of wealth and suckers. All trade in Spanish lands must be approved at a harbor fifty miles up the Guadalqavir. Tulio still favors the city once named in his honor. Miguel revels in a port's hustle and bustle without the siren song of the open sea.

It's a good life. Really. Tulio has Miguel. Together they've breached new horizons and outlasted empires. It's more than the Greek and Romans that arrived after them can claim. What more can he possibly want?

"One more roll!"

Tulio glances at Miguel. His partner happily shrugs.

Tulio, still with lordly appetites, goes for the kill. "Uh, guys, you're broke! You got nothing left to bet with!"

"Oh, yeah?" jeers the sailor. "I got this!"

Tulio's interest withers at yellowed paper. "A map?"

Miguel perks up with an old hunger that will only break his heart. "A map!"

"A map of the wonders of the New World!"

Tulio scoffs. He remembers the misty time when this damn peninsula had been a New World, the peoples and places outside the colony walls utterly unknown. Look how that turned out.

He still can't drag his eyes away.

Miguel seizes the map for a closer look. He hungrily traces the trail marked out. Tulio squints at the shoreline. They both cock their heads at the symbol labeled 'El Dorado.' The feathered snake is one thing, but those two rudimentary dots on its back are... are-

The sailor snatches the map from their hands. It almost feels like he takes a part of Tulio with him. "I said one more roll! My map against your cash."

"All right, peewee!" Tulio snarls. "You're on."

Seville still bears a twisted echo of Tulio's true title. This is a city founded by Miguel himself. What better place to meet their destiny, their fate?

Their competitor insists on using his own pair of dice. Tulio takes them without a second thought. He has been ground underfoot by conquering armies. He has lost his temples, his name, and his people. What's one measly pile of gold on top of all that?

But part of him, of Miguel, will die without that damned map.

Tulio resorts to every last trick in the book, the superstitious rubs and mutterings dating back to the days when sailors still sacrificed in his name. Miguel strums feverishly at his guitar and drops into the frenzied dances of his ancient followers. Neither reaches out to the crowd for assistance. This land has either forgotten them or tried to twist them into demons. Why should they reach out for salvation now?

Tension brews around them like a storm. When he can take it no more, Tulio hurls down their fate as he once had thunderbolts.

"Show me seven!"

One dice diligently turns up three. The other spins on its corner, wavering between four and five. Two con men who were not always con men stare it down.

The dice wobbles, and lands a four.

"Seven!" they crow.

Miguel gleefully skips over to their winnings and scoops up their map. Tulio bends over for the gold. They're still mortal enough to starve, still godly enough to crave wine, women, and song. These days they have to pay for it all themselves.

His loaded dice tumble out of his pocket.

...Well, shit.


"Look on the positive side. At least things can't-"

In a crack of thunder, the skies burst open. Tulio sighs and tilts back his head to relish a godless rain. For centuries Spain believed the heavens to be His domain, and His domain alone. Out here Tulio can almost convince himself this storm is one of his.

Almost.

Altivo snorts in consternation.

Tulio cracks an eye open. "You're welcome for saving your life, horse." After he jumped overboard for an apple. Maybe the horse is going senile in his old age. Tulio doesn't know how old he really is. All he knows is that by the time Phoenician sailors landed in Iberia their horse god had been worshiped since time immemorial.

Miguel rummages through their supplies and pulls out a tarp. He drapes it over their very unhappy passenger. "I promise you're in safe hands, old boy. We'll make landfall in no time!" He grins. "It's not we're trying to row back to Spain or anything."

Tulio squints skyward and tries to remember the position of the stars before the clouds had covered them. "We're way past the Azores by now."

"And way, way past the Canaries," Miguel chirps.

"Then we're close to... I dunno, Hispaniola?" Whatever the most eastern island settled by Spaniards is called.

Miguel shrugs. His partner sighs. Back in the day those infamous pillars inscribed with the warning nothing further beyond had belonged to Melqart, not Hercules. To the most ancient of their mariners, their sun god had sent in those far western waters, and their boats could sail no further.

And then later generations of their sailors had ventured even further beyond. Their traders haggled in the Tin Isles and for priceless dyes in the Fortunate Isles. But not even their boldest had ever dreamed a whole damn continent existed out there.

Altivo rolls his eyes.

Tulio jerks a thumb toward the trail of shark fins following them. "Hey, you could've been fish food right now."

Miguel grins and pats their sturdy hull. "Look on the bright side, old boy. I invented boats and Tulio tamed the very seas. There's no better people to be stranded with!"

Tulio slew the Sea himself for dominion of the world. With the same discipline he keeps their longboat steady during heaving swells and rations out precious supplies. He and Miguel haul what supplements they can from the sea, fish and sargassum. Miguel guides them true as the north star. Even out here the sun and the constellations are infallible. Too bad they don't have sails. Or any knowledge of these waters.

Tulio's eyes rarely leave the skies. Cloud formations might reveal an island nearby. The reflections on their undersides might show shallow water. Above all he searches for seabirds.

The only seabird they ever see finds them first. It lands upon their boat exhausted, then promptly keels over and dies. No clearer omen than that.

After that their days begin to blur. They drift in endless doldrums. Tulio, who comes alive for storm winds and rain clouds, scowls at sunny skies. As a sun god Miguel briefly thrives before descending into the same downward spiral. Their people had been traders who had set sail with clear destinations in mind and founded settlements on secure coastlines. Their gods had survived the death of Carthage in Iberia by rooting themselves to the land itself. Now they drift detached from both mortal hearts and solid ground.

When the sun blazes at its highest or the night wind saps at their miserable huddle, Tulio deliriously turns inward, and almost finds this course familiar.

"Tulio," Miguel croaks one afternoon. His partner rouses from his stupor. "Tulio, did you ever imagine it would end like this?"

He considers their surroundings. "The horse is a surprise."

Altivo snorts in weary offense.

Miguel weakly squeezes his hand. "Do... Do you think it hurt?"

"For who?"

"F-For..." Miguel clenches tighter. "For them."

In his mind's eye Tulio pictures a once-proud ship drifting in their same helpless doldrums, its mast cracked and its supplies long used up. Most sailors still aboard are festering corpses. Those still alive, be they Phoenician or Carthaginian, must have sprawled out together like he and Miguel do now. Had their lost thoughts been of home or pleas for their gods to deliver them?

"It's... peaceful," he rasps at last. "J-Just like falling asleep."

Maybe they'll awake to the cedar mountains of their birth or the lush gardens of paradise. Maybe only oblivion awaits forgotten gods. Where they go, they go together.

"They came so far," Miguel mumbles. "B-But their greatest adventure was over before it even began. And no one even remembered them."

Rome's many descendants have never quite forgotten their progenitor. They still speak bastardized forms of Latin and look to Italy as their spiritual heart. Catholic artists still paint and sculpt Roman divinities to hearken back to ancient glories. Living mortals might be called pugnacious as Mars or wise as Minerva.

Where Rome's legacy flourishes, their peoples were swallowed by the sands of time long ago. No one in Iberia has spoken their tongue in a thousand years. Their gods are not even dead words in dusty books. No one is said to be clever as Hadad or mighty as Melqart.

Tulio reverently presses a kiss to Miguel's knuckle. "Well, if it's any consolation, you always made my life an adventure. From Tyre and beyond."

"And you always made my life a surprise." His partner manages a shaky laugh. "I... I've always loved falling to sleep beside you."

Too weary for tears, Tulio dips a hand overboard for the ocean's cool succor.

And instead touches warm, dry sand.

"Is... Is it?"

"It is!"

New life flows into their limbs. With whooping laughs they leap up from their wooden coffin to bestow worshipful kisses upon the beach. Altivo's joy falters at the sight of two yellowed skeletons left as warning to trespassers in this land. Even after accidentally smooching a skull Miguel wipes his tongue and curiously turns to inspect their surroundings. The omen doesn't shake Tulio in the slightest. He's exactly where he's... supposed to... be.

Tulio frowns. He critically surveys the beach. Not too far away clear blue water flows from the mouth of a wide river into a sheltered bay. The land is flat enough. Feet away is a lush jungle that provides all the timber a fledgling settlement could need. A perfect site for a colony.

From a Spaniard's perceptive. Or a Roman's. The early Phoenicians had always been more... discerning. Especially colonists living on the edges of their known world. An island off the coast. A peninsula cut off by a rocky barrier. Their people had never been the most populous. Gods knew how far away the closest friendly city state could be or how envious their new neighbors were.

If there was ever an outpost here, it has long since between swallowed by the sand and the forest.

Then why is the pull on his heart so strong?

Miguel stares elsewhere. He pulls the map from his shirt. His hands tremble. "Tulio," he breathes, before his face splits into an incredulous grin. "Tulio! We've done it!"

"...Yes, we have?"

His partner skips to his side, shoving the map in both their faces. "It's all right here! The whistling rock, the stream! Even those mountains. You said so yourself; it could be possible. And it is! It really is... the map to El Dorado! And it's one of ours."

Tulio's frown deepens. "One of theirs, maybe."

Their city states had flourished across three separate continents, some countless miles apart. Their people had never seen themselves as a single entity, not like the Greeks and Romans had. Even back in their homeland each city could have its own distinct pantheon, a different name or family for god than the neighbor a mile down the coast.

Miguel shrugs and grins a little wider. "Then we get to know ourselves a little better."

When the Visigoths had reigned certain traders had still sailed north from Abyla and cities held by the Vandals. With the Umayyads had come sailors from across the Levant. For centuries they had rubbed shoulders with their Iberian counterparts.

And then, one by one, the Catholic kingdoms had thrown them from their shores. Those survivors had fled to the south and the east, to seek those shores and exotic cities still worth exploring.

Tulio mulls it over. "You really think they built themselves a city of gold?"

"Or have been adopted by one," Miguel reminds him, like how the Greeks had embraced Astarte as Aphrodite. He beams. "Either way, we've always had good taste."

Altivo's ears fold back. He glances up and down the empty beach, then down to their miserable little rowboat.

"What other option do we have?" Tulio gripes. "Rowing back to Spain?"

Altivo snorts and trudges to their side.

Picking up a sword from one of the skeletons, Miguel blazes forward, and slices their way into the jungle beyond. His companions follow.

Barely into their journey, Miguel cuts down a branch with a venomous serpent and charges obliviously past the creature they've saved. Tulio slows down. A strange little armored rat gazes back with intelligent eyes. After an awkward pause, Tulio waves and hurries onward. Just watch that thing be an emissary for the top deity around here.

Their trail winds through eagle-shaped canyons and waterfalls shaped like weeping men. Tulio stirs in fitful dreams. Under the ghosts murmuring Hadad and Iskur beckons another force. He is not alone. Miguel bolts awake beside him, sweaty and breathless. In the darkness they blink back tears, clutch each other's hands, and wait for dawn to light their way forward.

At the end they stand in what appears to be a deserted, misty valley below a roaring waterfall. They know better than that. To them the idol here burns like a beacon. The faith of a thriving civilization keeps it strong.

"Oh," Miguel breathes. "Oh."

Their eyes are not riveted to the coiled serpent or the woman knelt in reverence, but to the figures astride them both.

In his long centuries Tulio has gazed upon the faces of familiar strangers. He has seen pieces of himself reflected back in those called Zeus and Taranis and Jupiter Dolichenus.

But this isn't a fragment. It's not another iteration. This is...

"What. The. F-"

Someone slams into them. Altivo rears up, bugling his indignity.

He quickly falls back onto all fours and gazes down in wonder.

One very stunned woman gazes up in awe and... recognition.

With a giddy laugh, Miguel descends from Altivo to swoop her into a hug. Tulio scoffs in fond exasperation and wipes away his tears.

And that's when the horde of vengeful warriors rounds the corner.

Altivo lashes out again, screaming his rage. Miguel protectively pushes their thief behind him, his eyes flashing like fire. He raises an obsidian blade that suddenly sparks with a harsh, wrathful light. Tulio looms down from his vantage point astride a wrathful wind god. He reaches for something once instinctive.

In the distance, thunder rumbles.

The head warrior, broad and scarred, is the first to drop his spear and bow. His subordinates swiftly follow.

Miguel smiles in satisfaction.

As the warriors lead them onward, the clouds before the sun part, and the idol shines gold.


This morning Chel fled her city with a stolen idol and a desperate hope to make it to a place where she wouldn't be sacrificed. Now she returns on her own free will. She shares a boat with the Dual Gods, their herald, and one unlucky bastard who has to row them upriver. Her stolen idol snugly rests in the lap of a god who readily accepted her tribute. He beams at her.

Chel can't help but stare. The gods gawk back. has eyes of stormy blue and the other's are green as the jungle. They somehow look like she's always dreamed and yet also nothing like their depictions. The herald squeezed awkwardly behind her is no Feathered Serpent. Every time she or them try to turn elsewhere, their gazes always flicker back.

No one dares to speak. Aside from the whispering river and the creaking boat all is silent.

When the city at last comes to view, their jaws drop. The gold-haired one clutches tighter to her tribute.

"El Dorado," the gods breathe as one.

Then they blink and glance back at her. It's been a thousand years since they've seen Lake Parime's sacred shores.

"We call the city Manoa now," she supplies.

"Manoa," the dark god murmurs, like a parent first saying their child's name aloud. "Thank for you telling us, um..."

"Chel, my lord. Call me Chel."

He smiles. "Thank you, Chel."

"It's nice to finally meet you." The golden god rapidly blinks to clear his misty eyes. "Y-You were... a sight for sore eyes."

She grins ruefully back. "So were you, my lord."

People across the canals gawk. One god is too enthralled by his surroundings to notice an awe bordering on fear. His partner plasters on a nervous, amicable smile. When the boats dock they scramble atop their herald. Those few extra feet above their crowd ease some tension from their shoulders.

In plain view Chel walks on their right side, close enough to touch them. The time for cowering away in the shadows has come to an end. Even when Tzekel-Kan triumphantly steps forward to seize this miracle as his own.

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

The gods puff up. Their herald proudly arches his head.

Tzekel-Kan descends from the temple steps to bow before them. He calls himself as their devoted high priest and speaker. Chel wonders how the Jaguar God feels about that.

Chief Tannabok introduces himself far more humbly and makes no presumptions. "What names may we call you?"

The gods frown at each other. A silent conversation passes between them.

"I am Miguel."

"And I am Tulio."

They descend from their herald. Their shoulders nearly brush her own before she hastily gives them room. Lord Miguel's lips purse in thought. "And they call us King of Earth and Thunderer."

A weighty silence settles over them. Their expectant eyes search the crowd for some spark of recognition. Chel's heart skips. It has been a thousand years since the Dual Gods last showed themselves to the mortal plane. If they had ever revealed names or epithets to Manoa's ancestors, they have been long forgotten.

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

Tzekel-Kan's gaze fixates on her. Before he can start spouting accusations, Chel takes a deep breath and steps forward. "Chief Tannabok, our lords have traveled far to grace us with their presence. Perhaps we should grant them time to settle in first?"

Tzekel-Kan blinks. His gaze flicks from the idol cradled by Miguel to the 'thief' that refuses to tremble at his presence. Chel smiles serenely back.

Their herald snorts.

"Oh." Lord Miguel clears his throat. "And this Altivo, the... um, Horse God."

"Ah," Tannabok sighs. "Pardon my enthusiasm, my lords. Shall we show you to your temple?"

"All right!" Lord Miguel blurts. "Temple."

Tzekel-Kan swallows his snarl. "Allow me, my lords."

He stalks up the temple steps. His chief matches his every step. Chel instead turns her attention to her gods. "Shall I return your tribute to its rightful place?"

"...Yes, please." Lord Miguel passes the idol to her. His hands are warm and calloused. They linger a tad too long before they blink and pull apart. Lord Tulio sighs.

Chel ascends up the main staircase. She is no longer a lowly acolyte that has to skulk up the servants' entrance.

For a long moment the gods linger at the temple base. Lord Altivo snorts and trots past them. Only then do his riders follow. Their brows furrow before their faces even out into thin veneers of calm. Chel tries not to stare. Even as she hurries to catch up to those in front of her, she drifts just within earshot of the gods. Their whispered argument veers in and out of Manoan.

"Nothing about this place should be-"

"But it is. And..."

"Yeah, I know how it feels. So what happened to..."

Tzekel-Kan and Chief Tannabok bow and part the temple curtains before them. Chel hustles through. Lord Tulio slowly steps inside. He rests a hand on an ornate column, breathing deeply. Lord Miguel cranes his head to marvel at every inch of their lodgings. He blinks back tears.

The high priest proposes a reverent ceremony at dawn and the chief a feast for that very night. Lord Miguel opens his mouth, but is beaten out by his partner.

"And do either of those involve sacrifice, pray tell?"

Tannabok's smile freezes. The blood drains from Chel's face.

"Of course, my lord!" Tzekel-Kan enthuses. "Do you wish to have your-"

Lord Tulio's eyes flash. "And would this sacrifice be human?"

"Well..."

Lord Miguel grimaces. "Um, w-we don't actually do that any-"

Tulio groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why don't we spare everyone the headache and just... y'know, stick to animals?"

"Y-You can't go wrong with a good quail, am I right?" Lord Miguel's nervous laugh trails off at their surprise. "Fruits of the harvest are also good!"

"Sure," his partner concedes. "But so are animals, avian or otherwise."

"Then we can...?"

"Of course we can!"

"Both," the gods answer at last. "Both is good."

Chief Tannabok beams and calmly takes his leave. Tzekel-Kan bows deep as he can, vows to not disappoint them, and hurries off to find tribute befitting divinity.

Chel heads over to the idol. The head is easily reunited with its body. She glances back at two gods familiarizing themselves with a home that long awaited them. They gaze long and hard at the golden depiction of themselves astride the Feathered Serpent. Lord Miguel cautiously approaches a throne. His hand brushes over an armrest. He doesn't dare sit down.

Lord Tulio's gaze instead finds her own. "H-Hey, Chel?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Who did you know us as... in... in our last incarnation?"

"We know you as the Dual Gods." She nods to two deities astride a heavenly messenger. "The Lords of the Fifth World."

"...Yes." Lord Tulio draws himself up with every last inch of his average height. "Quite right."

Lord Miguel self-consciously uncomfortably at his shirt collar. His eyes never leave the stele. "Seems like we're out of fashion."

"I can help you get out of those clothes." The gods gape at her. "Uh, and into garments better suiting your stature. If you want."

Some of the redness fades from Lord Tulio's cheeks. "That's certainly acceptable."

His partner clears his throat. "Yes, please."

Lord Altivo snorts and prances off. Lord Tulio shakes a fist after him. "That's right, horse. Go and get your own temple."

Chel dashes off. The Great Temple was built and furnished in the expectation the Dual Gods would one day dwell here in the flesh. There is no shortage of sumptuous clothing awaiting their physical forms. Traditionally they're depicted in tunics. After a beat she grabs two hip wraps instead. Covering up those physiques would be blasphemy.

Hearing her gods whispering to each other, she slows down.

"They had to had to have... have been us at one point, right? Your last altar was the one at the end of the world!"

A mournful sigh. "Does it really matter anymore, Tulio? They're gone. All they left behind was... well..."

Chel charges into view and flings the cloth at their heads. "Better put these on. Your public's waiting."

One god starts stripping off his vest. The other marvels at the cloth in his hands, dyed a deep purple. Green eyes water.

"Tyrian purple," Lord Miguel breathes. "You remembered."

She smiles softly back. "We call it noble purple now."

Only nobles and powerful priests can afford that miraculous dye that never fades, but rather improves with age. The pigment must be carefully harvested from certain species of snail found only by the sea. Dyers who know the secret, painstaking process are wealthy in their own right. If they can tolerate the gods awful stench. And have the patience for processing thousands of shells for minuscule amounts of dye.

All this time, it had been a secret passed down to them by Lord Miguel, an art just as intricate as Lady Paquini's distillation of wine.

Not that even the dyers know this blessing was granted by Lord Miguel.

Lord Tulio anxiously wrings his own bolt of blue cloth. "D-Do you remember anything else we gave you?"

Chel grins and presents him a set of golden earrings. "Well, this one outshines them all."

"Gold." The god laughs and leans over to ruffle his partner's golden hair. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

Lord Miguel yelps and twists away. "Excuse you! You had a whole palace of gold and silver!"

"And you pouted unless every new city built you a temple."

"Who always insisted on being called 'Lord?'"

"I..." Lord Tulio blinks at the plain green stone in her ears. Chel flushes. "Why don't you-"

"I'm not the only one who has to get ready for their public tonight," she chides. Chel fled from Manoa as a lowly acolyte escaping sacrifice. She's been defended by gods and faced down the high priest himself. Whatever nebulous new status she gained, she's flaunting it. And snatching a pair of gold earrings from the hoards of tribute.

Even if it unfortunately means she can't enjoy the show by 'helping' her gods further. Her eyes would probably burn out of their sockets anyway.

"Then you better look the part." Lord Miguel grins and unfurls a gown from thin air.

Chel gawks.

"I had to return the favor after... after all that you gave us." The god's eyes flicker to the idol between their thrones, once more made whole. His smile wavers. "If-If you want it, that is. I-"

She cuts him off with a hug. "It's perfect."

Miguel beams when she accepts his tribute. The gown is a sumptuous red-violet, too intense to belong in a sunset. The fabric flows through her fingers like water.

"Silk?" Tulio grouses in fond exasperation. "Really?"

"Fit for a g-" Miguel flushes. "Um, fit for her."

Tulio reels around them both. In a final flourish he plucks two pieces of gold from oblivion. "These. These are the ones."

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

Chel hugs him too, pulling away a tad later than proper. She stares. The gods stare back. With a sultry purr Miguel starts removing his shirt.

"Miguel," Tulio squeaks. "Public's waiting."

"Right." Chel reluctantly peels her gaze away from that lean, athletic torso. "Uh, excuse me."

She bustles to another area of the temple, but lingers for one last look.

Oh, yeah. Hip wraps were the right call.


Chel slips out of the temple just in time for her boys to make their grand entrance. Miguel cuts a striking figure in noble purple, both the richer shade and the one that borders on wine-red. In turn Tulio is suited by sky blues and verdant greens. For a long moment they stand like statues. She wonders who's more afraid, them or the crowd trying their damnedest to smile like they mean it.

At last they finally leap into the fray. Tulio spares Chief Tannabok's wife a dashing smile and tries to tickle the chin of her surly toddler. He winces a smile when the kid instead bites down on him. Miguel coos over all three children and drags his partner onward. The chief himself offers up unadulterated wine, for only gods and the greatest of human sacrifices may drink the pure vintage.

When Tulio sips his libation the air around him crackles like the air before a storm. Then Miguel snatches the bowl. After a large mouthful, he spits it into a brazier. The flames momentarily flare bright as the daylight.

"Wow." Miguel blinks and grins. "That's got quite the kick!"

Those closest brace himself for his second taste. And sigh in relief when he keeps his libation down this time.

Tulio confiscates the bowl from him. He sips for himself, then tips it up for his partner to imbibe.

Their eyes find Chel's. They wave her over and offer her a taste. It would be rude to refuse divinity. Her mouth puckers at its sour taste. After a beat the crowd shrugs and carries on. With the gods drinking it's time for all the city to celebrate too. Pulque, maize beer, and lesser servings of wine are released.

Without solid food in their stomachs the buzz of the wine soon floats over the crowd. When not devouring golden apples, Altivo humors his audience. He prances over hot coals and leaps over the heads of incredulous mortals. He gallops down streets with a speed even the Feathered Serpent might envy.

Miguel poses before a fire. His muscular shadow is far more imposing than his slender, chosen form. He effortlessly scoops Chel onto his shoulder. Many more incredulous women scramble to join her. Then, one by one, he replaces them with the biggest, brawniest warriors. The god struts around with many of his adoring audience atop him.

Tulio mulls it over. "I'm... er, not so good at the small stuff." He blinks ruefully up at the starry skies. "I definitely don't want to rain on anyone's fun tonight."

Miguel pouts. His effect is amplified by the dozen disappointed small children around them.

Tulio crumbles.

Mind fuzzy from the wine, Chel passes over a cigar, and trusts the god to work his wonders.

Tulio takes a thoughtful puff. His eyes light up. He leans over and wafts more smoke into the air. The clouds condense and churn together. Children scramble to give it room. The acrid smell of tobacco dissipates in a sweet gust of wind. With a soft rumble, the little storm begins to rain at the eye level of incredulous children.

A boy reaches up to poke it. A spark of lightning makes his hair stand on end. Every other kid scrambles to prod at one of nature's most formidable forces made miniature.

Miguel coos, then makes them toast to such an accomplishment. Chel slams her cup to his and Tulio's.

By the time is served neither god can quite hold themselves together. Tulio takes a bite of watermelon and spits out seeds already germinating into sprouts. Miguel tips over a bowl of apples and spawns a small orchard.

"Miguel!" Tulio waves his wine cup in reprimand. "Shtop that!"

"Nuh uh! You shtop that!"

"Whosh the earth king?"

"And who watersh all my plantsh?"

They bicker until the whole plaza is overwhelmed by a garden. People drunker than them dance their away over roots and through groves. Others shrug and eat their dinner straight off the vine. Chel decides she's still too sober for this insanity and borrows Miguel's cup. Funny how this sour little grape now tastes sweet as song, sweet as the first moment she gazed up into the eyes of these two and knew everything would finally be okay.

The night explodes into a spectrum of color. In the darkness demons dance. At the edge of the crowd the Volcano Goddess drags the Rain God toward their own secret corner. The Moon Goddess stares longingly down from her lofty perch. Lady Paquini herself catches her eye, wine-red eyes glinting, and toasts her with a vindicated smile.

She falls into violet darkness.

Her last sight is the stars overhead.

These are not the stars she's always known. Even those in the same positions are shaped into new constellations, echo with the stories of strangers. They become the skeletons to characters and fantastic beasts forever recorded overhead. Those souls that born and die beneath them are no less strange.

In a faraway land, a transient people plants roots, and puts their faith in a renewable harvest over what they can glean from nature. Their thoughts and fears drift with them. A bad year might now starve their entire families. With so much wilderness now tilled for fields and the wild beasts exterminated from the area, there is no other source of salvation.

These people are never alone. One god bestows upon them life-giving rain. Another walks among their fields, growing their crops high and renewing the land's fertility after every harvest. Under their care the people grow and prosper. She envisions a thriving vineyard, the roots so closely entwined it is impossible to distinguish one plant from the other.

When future generations reach the shore, their eyes turn wistfully west, where the sun sinks into the sea.

Their gods oblige. One slays the Sea himself to bring the waters into submission. The other shares the secrets of how to make the first boat. Ships depart. With them intrepid adventurers carry vine cuttings, those they prized most.

No ship sails alone. One god is thanked every time he allows them to survive his storms at sea. The other smiles down upon them with clear, sunny skies to guide their way.

New settlements are founded. The cuttings are planted and take root. Shaped by new soil and new caretakers, no vine is identical to its parents. Grapes subtly change colors. Old wine is called by new names. Its vintages acquire different notes of flavor. Some are watered with animal blood and others from human sacrifice.

Further west the ships sail, and further still. At the edge of their world they erect opulent temples to their gods. Great cities are named in their honor.

That single, fateful ship that sets sail one day never intends to plant roots. It's a trading vessel out to return with priceless dyes from half-mythical isles. The figure carved into its prow looks something like a serpent, and also something like a horse.

But the sea is fickle. The storm that falls upon them should have swallowed their ship. Instead it only chews up their mast and hurls them far off-course.

Weeks later, when that broken boat is washed ashore, a few of the bodies aboard are slightly less dead than the others.

To one world they're long dead. To another they're but a drop in an endless ocean. Time and the tide are quick to engulf all traces of their presence.

But not that stubborn little seed those survivors carried after letting go of all others; those two gods that give life and good fortune. And again a grapevine grows.

For a time. Even the latest people to have nurtured them again change and grow beyond recognition. Some of their plantings grow with them. Others are quietly left to wither, for this new generation are better serviced by newer cultivars. The grapevine returns to the same soil it sprang from.

The space it leaves behind is not so easily replaced.


Chel bolts awake sometime before dawn, chest heaving. Two souls snuggled beside her groan in protest. The throbbing headache is quick to drain from her head. She needs her mind clear.

"Y-You're..."

Miguel winces. "Well, yes and no."

Tulio brushes back hair from his face and wearily surveys their lavish surroundings. "Quite a space they left." He frowns. "We left?"

His partner moans and buries his head into a pillow. "Please, Tulio, you said it yourself; spare us all the headache."

"You two are walking, talking headaches," Chel points out.

"We should say the time about you." Despite the sarcastic bite to his tone, Tulio's eyes are wide and vulnerable. "Why were you people so excited to have th... us back when you don't remember what you wanted from us?"

The Great Temple was constructed above all others. Its grand chambers might have either housed sacrifices before their fateful hour or the physical forms of the gods themselves. As the Dual Gods had departed the Fifth World without clear preferences for their worship, no mere mortals have died sacrifice or establish a priesthood in their name.

Tzekel-Kan has equivocated the return of the Dual Gods to the dawning of a new age. He believes the Age of the Jaguar will be written in blood. Never mind it's the Dual Gods that created the Fifth World and began the Age of the Serpent with it.

And the gods returned the very day Chel stumbled her way across their easternmost altar, and prayed for a life free of Tzekel-Kan's tyranny.

"We expect you to stay with us for the next thousand years," she states definitively. "To make up for the last thousand years without your direct presence."

Tulio squints speculatively. "Go on."

Miguel nods along.

The truths Chel speaks are those never put to word before; the caste system marked by earrings, the lowly acolytes always at the whim of the high priests, a speaker of the Jaguar God that believes he can demand all others who serve other deities. Her boys listen attentively.

Tzekel-Kan's servants arrive to fetch two slumbering gods. They instead discover their lords awake and alert, Chel nestled between them. Their hair is mussed and clothes unkempt from being all tossed into the same bed after a wild night. None dare speak a word about it. Instead all three are bundled into the same litter and carried off in the midst of a passionate discussion.

What beast Tzekel-Kan upon their altar is immaterial. It is the burgeoning faith of the crowd that turns that blood heady as wine.

On his first drink, Tulio reclaims the seas.

Within sight of a placid shore, three certain galleons are caught up in a rogue storm. Those with the ruthless sea battering their hulls apart would know why he was called Thunderer.

Miguel takes the second drink just as the day dawns bloody red.

Those unlucky souls that stumble ashore find no refuge on earth. The King of Earth has never loved Rome or its bastard descendants. Vines strangle their throats and ancient trees topple to fell whole lines of men. He and the Jaguar God find common cause after all. The men merely slowed down by the jungle make tempting prey for its predators.

When Tzekel-Kan hands them the third bowl, Miguel and Tulio take it as one... and tip it up to Chel's lips. Rightness sings through every fiber of her being.

A few haggard survivors limp back to their people after all. So do tales of El Dorado, that tantalizing city of gold no expedition can ever quite reach.


Sometime after that, a triad grows to each other, and falls into new familiarity. So too does their city become reacquainted with itself. A dozen new tongues flow through its streets. No matter where they came from, every last citizen is permitted to wear gold in their ears, and know themselves home. And safe and sound. Those alien ships that stray too close to their shores discover the power of the King of the Skies.

With them come spirits and small gods also starting anew. The Jaguar God that might have once swatted them down in jealousy now struts the borders as their vigilant defender. He and the King of Earth have more of a zealous rivalry these days than outright enmity.

There is also a Queen still trying to discover what precisely she's queen of. Aside from the strange new nebulous place Manoa has taken as of late. Any map that might still be out there no longer leads anywhere real. The people who find this place do so on faith alone, and by the grace of the gods.

And, for all the purpose her life has gained since that fateful afternoon, Chel still has... other dreams. Dreams where she gazes out over Lake Parime, down the dark tunnel to the outside world, and just... keeps going.

She's not alone. Miguel takes up woodcarving as a hobby. Every surface in their temple not covered in gold gets a miniature ship placed atop it. Tulio rides atop the clouds to race Altivo and the Feathered Serpent. He always drives the wind gods eastward, to the soft white beach at the end of their world.

Her boys promise they're not restless. It's just an old instinct they can never quite repress. They haven't been rooted to an inland people since their earliest days. For centuries they had been bound to maritime trading empires, and then reduced to the aimless lives of vagabonds.

Theirs is not the only story she learns. So many people have settled down in Iberia. So many more have passed through its ports.

Not all the destinations they dream of are in worlds they can reach.

After one particular passionate night on the beach, Chel wakes to Miguel staring into the sunrise. The water sparkles gold.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

He smiles wistfully. "Yeah."

"You know, we really shouldn't miss it."

"I know," he blurts out, before realizing what they've said. "B-But-"

Her fingers tick off destinations real as El Dorado. "Oygia. The Summerlands. Avalon." She grins. "Why not Antillia too?"

"We-We can't." Miguel turns to their partner. "Can we do that?"

Tulio, most cautious of them all, tilts his head in consideration. "Why would we want to do that?"

"Manoa's isolated itself from the outside world since before even my grandparents were born," Chel answers. "Isn't it time to broaden our horizons a little?" She gestures to their gifts to her, gold jewelry and sumptuous cloth of noble purple. "It's not like we don't have things to trade with."

Blue eyes gleam. "What would we need to trade for?"

Her gaze turns upriver, to a people just cozy enough with their new home to wonder at what else might lie beyond their borders that isn't conquest and desolation. "Whatever they want."

Miguel and Tulio grin.

Under Miguel's tutelage, a new type of ship is constructed in Manoa's harbors, one just narrow enough to endure the cavern's twisting turns but strong enough to endure the rigors of the open ocean. He and Tulio share new secrets, omens of seabirds and currents and cloud patterns. Chel stares out to sea and charts courses to shores she has not yet seen herself. Her sailors toss and turn in fitful dreams. They are the ones who want adventure so bad they can taste it.

That first ship sets sail with a mixed crew; some are used to navigating the river and Lake Parime's waters, others eager for experience. When they leave their river behind, they encounter clear skies, calm waters, and a generous wind. Lord Altivo is as eager to set out as they are.

They do not sail alone. Always, their Triad is with them; their King of the Earth, their King of the Skies, and their Queen of the Seas.

At long last, Manoa ventures forth into legend...

And finds its rightful place.

Notes:

Phoenician traders ventured as far east as 'Ophir' (possibly India or Sri Lanka), north to the Tin Isles (Great Britain), and as far west to the freaking Canary Islands (the Hesperides) for dyes such as orchil and dragon's blood. There is no solid evidence for any 'pre-Columbian discovery' of Central America... but the theories about Phoenician contact are WAY more interesting than the Greek or Roman ones :p

The Phoenician homeland was in the Levant and its maritime colonies grew to spread across three continents, including into Spain. Seville's legendary founder is said to have been 'Hercules' (or, rather, the Phoenician god Melqart that got syncretized to Hermes.) It's earliest recorded name, 'Hisbaal,' instead pertains to the god formally called Ba'al (the Lord)... and also as Hadad. Phoenicia tended to favor coastal, rocky outcroppings to secure the foundations of its colonies. Rather than operating as a 'cohesive' empire (like Rome or how the Greek city states like to think of themselves as united against outside forces), the Phoenician city states operated independently of each other. Each city state could have its own unique names and family relationships for its pantheon - just like the various pantheons across their home states in the Levant. Most of these gods ultimately stem from Ancient Sumerian gods (same as most Indo-European gods evolved from Proto-Indo-European ones.)

There's semantics on how the Phoenician civilization differs from Punic/Carthagian/'Western Phoenician,' but that's semantic drivel to me :p Especially since scholars still quibble if there was even a 'Phoenician' civilization if their city states had some cultural continuity but were still technically independent of each other.

Which is why I'm vague about Hadad and Melqart, by the way. There's very little in English sources for Phoenician gods in general. And most of it is through Greek/Roman sources that swirled them into Zeus/Chronos (in Hadad's case) or Hercules (in Melqart's.)

Melqart is kinda a solar god, a sky god, and a god of vegetation. He was highly venerated in Tyre and had temples constructed throughout Phoenician cities (including upon the 'Pillars of Hercules' that more belonged to Melqart in that age.) Sailors allegedly danced in his honor and his altar being near the end of the known world, alongside his myth of inventing the first boat, convey significance to his role in a maritime empire. He is also credited with discovering the famed Tyrian purple dye that was hideously complicated to produce and thus even more hideously expensive. The Aztec in Mexico also found a way of making purple dye from a related snail species, but since Manoa is its own thing and Miguel gets purple and red-purple garb in his god guise... Yeah, their city had its own source for discovering that one ; )

In contrast, Hadad is a more straightforward sky god; rain to germinate crops, storms when he's angry, calm weather when he's generous, ect. He also killed the primordial serpent of the ocean (Yam) to claim control of creation, so... Yeah. Definitely important to sailors too.