Chapter Text
Seville is the beating heart of a burgeoning empire. All goods from the New World must first enter its port before allowed to be traded elsewhere. Spain boasts it as the safest city in the world; fifty miles upriver from the sea and fortified from pirates. A dozen tongues and pidgins float through its streets. Sugar and molasses from distant colonial plantations are traded alongside goods of India and the eastern Mediterranean.
Uncaring of the bustling crowds and business deals, a madman dances.
"Tons of fun for me, hey! Tons of fun for you, hey! Tons of fun for we, hey!"
It's hard to avoid someone whirling wildly through crowded streets. He reels by most people, occasionally whooping for joy right into someone's face. The unluckiest people, those who can't dodge him in time, are seized by the hands and spun him. Those left in his wake crinkle their noses at his odor and wipe the grime from their palms.
"Damn drunks," they grumble, before promptly trying their best to forget their nuisance even exists.
What else would their madman be? His hair is a matted mane, his beard bushy and unkempt. Even his oversized clothes are covered in wine stains.
In broad daylight their minds see no further than the simplest explanation. Seville is a safe city, a righteous city. Reconquista purged heathens and heretics from their streets. Now only trusted Catholics are allowed to sail from their port to convert and colonize the New World.
The drunkard's red stains do not come from wine. The sulfurous stink to his sweat cannot be blamed on rotten eggs. His eyes are blazing yellow. Not even his most human face can disguise the truth of his soul.
If only someone would bother to look him in the eye.
It's an entire city full of suckers. And sinners. There are illicit gamblers gawking at him from shady alleyways and brothel workers rolling their eyes in disdain. He especially admires the pickpockets who use the distraction of his presence to rob everyone else blind. His fingers itch with possibilities.
Too bad he has a boat to catch.
Today a crew sails to conquer the New World; for Spain, for gold and glory. Their members have been chosen as carefully as the disciples of Christ.
As one Judas Iscariot would attest, they have been chosen nowhere near carefully enough.
His giddiness falters when the galleon's great mast comes into sight. Caution squirms in his gut, a stubborn little voice beneath his elation over escaping hell and the siren song to sin.
He can never worry too much. With all he stands to lose (again), he worries exactly the right amount.
He frowns down at himself. He's gotten incredibly lucky this time around; a deceptively human form with no horns, no extra heads, not even a cloven hoof. His scrawny ass still doesn't belong those bulky, grizzled adventurers. Even if he had time to clean himself up he'd never-
Time! What time? Those galleons are nearly loaded up. His heart pounds. If they set sail without him, his sole reason for escape is useless.
Think! Think, think t-
Open barrels! Unattended barrels!
He dashes across the dock. The sailors are too distracted to notice. Just as he slams the cover down, the platform beneath him sways. These idiots bring him right onboard.
Snug in a pickle barrel, he gluttonously helps himself to the cargo. Salty cucumbers are miles above what he usually tastes.
Hours drag by. When Spain is far behind them and he's too bored to sit still any longer, he grins and springs out of hiding. "Who ordered the pickles?"
Sailors promptly clasp him in irons and drag him to their leader. As their infamous leader comes into view, his feigned fear becomes even more convincing. Cortes is a broad man, a pious man, iron in his heart and iron in his faith. He is not one for lies. He may not be one fooled by appearances.
Forced to the knees, he meekly avoids the conquistador's gaze. Cortes stares long and hard at him.
In the dark of the hold his eyes burn telltale yellow.
Then Cortes' face twists into a familiar, dismissive sneer. "My crew was as carefully chosen as the disciples of Christ. And I will not tolerate stowaways. You will be flogged. And when we put into Cuba to resupply, God willing, you..." The stowaway bites back a pained grimace. For a moment the screams of the damned throb in his ears, before Cortes snaps back into focus. "To the brig."
Hauled away, a hysterical grin splits his face.
All right! Cuba!
There's still things to be done in Cuba. He can enjoy a chance to regain his strength for the real work ahead. Cortes might be the one to get that ball going, but there will be countless conquistadors swarming after him.
Until then he has spacious accommodations all to himself. The brig is open to the sky. His 'captors' will probably provide two square meals a day. He laughs and falls back onto a soft bed of straw. Scowling up at the stars, he pulls out his stolen prize. Under the bloodstains these heathen images are clear.
Here is something worth dying for, worth killing for. Here is the dream that will keep him free for years. Whether or not this crappy map actual leads anywhere is immaterial.
It's his destiny, his fate.
As the night winds on, sailors stop scouring the hold for further stowaways, and retire to their hammocks. Eventually only one soul is left above deck.
The stallion currently called Altivo has served kings and caliphs. Once he carried gods and was hailed as a deity himself. In his mistiest memories, he can just recall the days before his kind were domesticated, and primordial hunters stalked him as prey. Serving as a beast of burden has allowed him to endure where all other gods of these lands have faded away. Fate willing, he will bring Cortes into glory, and serve far more tolerable masters when Cortes himself has passed into dust.
Such plans for long-term survival did not account for the overwhelming stench of brimstone.
Ugh. Demons.
Altivo might still be immune to the ravages of time, but he has not been truly immortal in over a thousand years. He can still be killed. Those damn demons never stay down for long. Even slain or exorcised, most drag themselves back out of hell sooner or later.
He hopes it's just a minor pest, a name unheard of outside the most obscure grimoires. Those have every reason to ensure they make it to their destination in one piece but are small enough to escape the wrath of... more heavenly beings.
Altivo peeks into the grate.
For a moment the shadows of the hold reflect towering darkness, three heads and six leathery wings. A wind colder than winter whips his mane. Then he blinks, and it's just a human figure sprawled out on the straw.
Altivo stares. Yellow eyes stare back.
Gore-stained teeth spread into a smirk. Altivo blinks again, and those teeth are pearly white. "Hello again, horse."
Altivo groans and retreats to the opposite edge of the galleon.
Not a pest. Not a Prince of Hell.
Just the Prince of Darkness himself.
Altivo braces himself against a wall. His nose starts to itch with the scent of ozone.
Their prisoner cackles. "What's wrong? Are you too good for me, you washed-up old nag?"
Five, four, t-
The night shines bright as daylight. Down descends a figure too bright too look upon directly. One must always tear down the other.
"You!"
"You!"
Altivo rolls his eyes skyward.
God take him now.