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paradise (is close at hand)

Summary:

"We're tourists!"

"...Tourists?"

"Tourists."

Chel rolls with it. It's better than being hauled back as a sacrifice.

The warriors pursuing her also agree with this sentiment. Mostly because they have the strangest sensation anyone who disagrees with these 'tourists' will be turned into pillars of salt.

Or: A Devil escapes Hell. An archangel descends from Heaven to put him back. Their eternal battle hits a snag, but even powerless they are determined to make El Dorado itself their battleground.

Chel is unimpressed, but stuck with these idiots until she comes up with a better escape plan.

The ex-horse god responsible for this mess wishes those same idiots just let him drown.

Shenanigans ensue.

Or: yet another AU of an AU, with even more heresy than usual.

Notes:

Here we go again :D

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

Chapter 1: the wicked (and the unrighteous)

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.

Chapter 2: mr. high and mighty

Summary:

Before he can reach the New World, a very disgruntled horse must first survive old drama.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Celestial fire burns hotter than the sun, hotter than pious ardor. The messenger's very presence burns the dark away. The prisoner in the hold below recoils from such radiance. He blindly retreats to the furthest corner of his cell. Only sheer spite (and the knowledge that has endured far worse agony) makes him wrench open his eyes to behold heavenly grace.

At first the light has no form at all. Then the flames resolve into three pairs of folded wings, each searing white. Finally the topmost wings unfurl. The archangel's chosen face is a beauty human artists try in vain to capture in statues and stained glass; marble-pale, framed in golden curls down to his shoulders, without a single blemish or hair of peach fuzz.

"Satan." The archangel's voice echoes with the might of the Heavenly Host.

Fresh from Hell and his new purpose snug against his chest, the title does little to bother him. He smirks. "Mi-" His tongue still burns on the inflection, be it Latin or Hebrew. So he abandons such a holy name to sneer, "M-My pain in the ass. Heaven too slow for you these days?"

The archangel ignores him. "You shall not slither into another garden, serpent."

A scoff. "Tell that to the West Indies."

The fire flares brighter. He flinches back and braces for the smiting.

A moment ticks by.

And another.

Despite sweating under the archangel's zeal, he cracks open an eye to discover himself un-smote.

"Y-You... You can't send me back, can you?"

The archangel doesn't dignify him with a response.

Slowly the prisoner grins. There are no saints aboard this ship moved by visions. No one is stirred by bad dreams. To their ignorant souls the night is calm and dark, unmoved by the eternal struggle of good and evil.

"Hah! Too much gold and glory for you to squeeze in!"

At last the angel's composure cracks. A green eye twitches. His foe grins wider.

The archangel doesn't retreat back to the heavens. Instead he remains hovering over the ship like a vengeful star. The stowaway's smile strains. Yellow eyes flicker to the radiant wings shielding the angel's body. He inches back into the corner. Behind those feathers is a burning spear itching to shove its way down his throat.

They could stay like that all eternity, unstoppable evil against unrelenting good.

If only one of them didn't have obligations. The archangel's head tilts toward a whining stream of voices only he can hear. None pray to him directly, but he is still the intermediary between countless mortals below and the Lord too omnipresent for their narrow little minds.

"Go on," the stowaway goads. "Your sheep are bleating."

"I shall return, and I shall cast you down."

The archangel departs in a susurrus of wings. Night falls back onto the world, all the darker for his absence.

With a fresh wave of bravado the stowaway rolls his eyes skyward and scoffs, "Pft. All these centuries and you still couldn't even pick up a bit of banter."

No longer sweltering in his rival's presence, he briefly shivers with indescribable cold. He grits his teeth and burrows into his bed of straw. His threadbare clothes reek of fear and blood not his own. Ugh. He wishes he'd had the state of mind to at least steal a better set of clothes. Then again, this crawl up from Hell had been-

He shakes his head. Never mind that now. He's out, untouchable to angels, with centuries of freedom ahead of him. All he needs is a plan to sink his claws into this crew and deny the Heavenly Host any chance to drag him back.

He can do ideas. He's all about ideas!

And all he has all night to come up with a doozy.


Live enough centuries and even the most foul embodiments of evil mankind can fathom become banal.

Not so for the angels.

With the coming of one God, the myriad of pantheons and peoples before His coming had changed forever. The oldest gods of Iberia are remembered only as demons defeated by pious saints, or as tyrannical dragons slain when archangels struck their hearts with burning spears. His idols had been among those smashed. His shrines had been burned and abandoned to the elements.

Having survived cultural shifts before, he had adapted as he always had. His herds endured where all other great beasts of the ancient winters were hunted to extinction. He fell back upon them as he always had in difficult times. Converts to the new faiths had not prized the horse any less than their grandfathers.

And so Altivo had avoided the fates that befell so many other deities. He's made himself almost a servant of the new ways, carrying holy warriors and great leaders in defense of their faith. It merits far more prestige than those few survivors eking out meager livings in folklore and the rustic rituals of isolated villages.

So long as he stays out the crossfire, Altivo can gaze upon heavenly grace and not overly fear for his life. He has not been a threat to the Heavenly Host in over a thousand years. They know him a servant, and he knows his place beneath them.

Having ridden under Michael's sword doesn't lessen his dread of the archangel. Not when Altivo is stuck on a boat in the middle of the ocean.

Then again, this stupid ship is the only reason Michael and his Devil hadn't torn into each other yet. On these vast, apathetic waters Cortes can't really do anything for good or evil.

...Yet.

Until then, Heaven and Hell are at a stalemate.

After several hours of enduring a vengeful archangel hovering above his head, Altivo dozes until dawn. He wakes to discover his breakfast a fraction of its proper size. Gods damn Cortes and his half-rations.

The Devil in the hold accepts his own gruel with noble grace. He introduces himself as a great lord wrongly imprisoned and escaping a tyrannical father.

"...That's rough, buddy - er, my lord."

The liar sniffs as if holding back tears. "Thank you for your sentiment, kind sir, but at least this cell has sunlight."

To the Devil's disgruntlement, a different sailor serves him dinner. After a beat, he drops his courtly accent, and mimics this man's rougher tones. Now he's an honest sailor who was just too deep in his beer last night, and ashamed at his idiocy.

"Sure," drawls the sailor. He spits into the grate. "And you left your wife and seven wee little babes behind too."

"...Six kids, actually."

Oh, good fucking gods.

Michael returns that night. His face is too fair to be convincingly human. It remains unnaturally stoic for all the air around him burns.

"Belial."

A gleeful cackle. "Back so soon, errand boy?"

Altivo groans and buries his head in his straw. No epic battle breaks out that night, possessed sailors or those moved by the Holy Spirit. Cortes is unimaginative man. His crew were chosen in his image.

Already exhausted from last night, he tries his best to sleep with celestial fire burning overhead. He's relieved when Michael finally flies off and takes his brightness with him.

Then the stowaway starts practicing accents out loud.

The next morning brings a third man to serve him his rations, and that afternoon a fourth. The Devil below their feet becomes a prince, a carpenter, a roving gambler. His voice drips sweet as honey. He hangs his loose neckline temptingly off one pale shoulder. His name is Julio, Nicolas, and Lucio. He is the little voice all mortals have, the one that keeps urging them on even if they're ahead.

Every night, his foe returns.

"Abaddon."

"Mr. High and Mighty."

Cortes does not tolerate rebellious thoughts anymore than he does physical stowaways. His crew is kept on constant rotation for treating with their prisoner. Their contact is always brief. They are kept working, swabbing the deck and polishing cannons and cleaning out stalls. By the time their suppers are served, they're too tired to compare the contradictory stories their stowaway has given them, and fall into dreamless sleep without thinking of him.

"Dragon."

"Lapdog."

The Father of Lies muddles in his creations. He spins too many threads without resolution. The sailor that thinks him a lord blinks at his licentious tone, and his prim tones unnerve the one that had been slowly warming up to his cajoling.

His calls to the crew above taper off. He devours his rations no less gluttonously. Rather than dwell in the hold's dark corners, he crawls after the sun in its course, and sleeps in every ounce of its warmth. At night he blinks sluggishly skyward.

Always, the angel returns, unchanging and unrelenting.

"Wicked One."

"Mich-" A stifled scream. Altivo's nostrils flare on the stench of singed flesh. Then the stowaway chokes out, "F...F... Featherbutt."

When Michael returns to heavenly heights, the stowaway's teeth chatter loud enough for Altivo to hear across the deck. No matter how mild the night, he shivers until the sun rises high enough for him to bask in. Despite constant exposure to the elements his skin pales further instead of burning. Dark hollows wear under his eyes. His unruly beard can't disguise a damn thing.

It's a war of attrition; a boundless messenger of the Host against a Devil unable to worm his way into a niche.

In morbid curiosity, Altivo peeks into the grate on the cusp of one misty dawn. The stowaway huddles deep in his straw pile, bundled in every tarp and rough-spun blanket thrown down to him. His eyes move in fitful dreams. He must cling to his map like a lifeline.

His freedom is flimsy as its paper, and fraying every day.

Altivo swallows whatever strange emotion chokes his throat, and turns away.

He has witnessed great gods, good gods, fade away into oblivion. Why should he pity an upstart demon responsible for this pain of his own making?

Besides, it's not like the stowaway is dying.

As far as Cortes is concerned, the Devil has never left Hell at all. It's high time the shred of his consciousness that dragged itself out remember its rightful place, as Altivo has learned his.


Pride was his downfall. Now it (and sheer spite) keep him sitting upright against the wall as the eternal pain in his ass once again makes him swelter under heavenly wrath.

"Devil."

He grits his teeth against yet another tenterhook in his skin, another weight downward, and forces that grimace into a sneer.

"Miguel," he grits over the distant screaming of the damned.

The brightness above dims the slightest fraction. He blinks upward.

The archangel blinks back down in absolute bewilderment.

"M..." His mouth goes dry. He forces it out anyway. "Miguel."

Two syllables that do not burn his tongue. Two syllables that make an archangel pause. Two syllables roughened by the Castilian inflection, yet still intended for one being above all others, and bestowed only upon those named in his honor.

...If Ecclesiastical Latin still hadn't remained the holy language of the Catholic church long after its vulgar cousins had developed into tongues of their own.

"Hah! Looks like those heretics might be onto something, aren't they, Miguel? Might be time to make all those languages allowed in church rites, huh, Miguel?"

He chants it over and over again, a song all its own.

Miguel's brows draw down further. His green eyes burn. The heat around him flares brighter than ever.

"Well, Miguel?" The stowaway mockingly holds out his arms, for all his heart thunders at his expression he hasn't seen since his Fall. "You gonna smite me for that?"

After a moment that lasts eternity, the archangel unfurls his wings, and vanishes in a pillar of fire.

The stowaway collapses back into the straw, giggling hysterically. "Better luck next time, peewee!"

He basks in his victory.

Then he shudders against that persistent, strengthening chill.

Without Miguel's blazing presence, the night is long and dark.

El Dorado, he tells himself, desperately trying to picture it. The city of gold; dust, nuggets, bricks, a temple of gold where you can pluck gold from the very walls. My destiny, my fate.

Something to sin for. Something to live for.

Something for everyone else to die for.

Notes:

Demons are repelled by holy names, if not physically hurt by them being spoken. In 1519, Ecclesiastical Latin remains the official language of the Roman Catholic Church, and most potent to a Devil that manifested on a Castilian ship (and yet also the name he feels most compelled to address his rival by.) Fortunately, the Castilian version of the name is very much NOT holy... mostly because that whole radical idea of 'priests give masses in people's first language' hadn't quite caught on yet :p

Angels of this period where imagined young and beardless, with androgynous beauty and long, curly hair. Especially in the Catholic canons, Michael is a warrior angel, and popular as an intermediary. It's very telling that, within living memory of 1519, the baby prince that could have grown up to be king of a united Iberia was named 'Michael of the Peace.' Conquistadors would definitely keep him close in their minds... if not necessarily in their hearts.

So long as rival gods aren't blatantly worshiped, Catholicism has traditionally been... kinda mellow on the syncretism bit. Old deities survive in folklore as spirits, venerable ancestors, and sometimes even folk saints that can still be prayed too and entreated. An angel wouldn't necessarily embrace one of these as family, but they're tolerable to enough to be ignored, and not outright persecuted. (Unlike other gods Altivo is remembering. Alongside tales of demonization, it is hypothesized that some Cantabrian myths of saints and angels slaying cuelebres are those of more benign gods being remembered and recast as evil dragons.)

Chapter 3: escape plan

Summary:

As above, so below.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He hangs onto this world by his fingertips. At times the musty hold smells of brimstone and the creaking hull sharpens into the keens of the damned. He shivers with a cold that has never known sunlight or the touch of flame.

This world can't shake him that easily. He defiantly gouges lines into the walls for each encounter he survives with the archangel. He savors sour beer and moldy hardtack like fine delicacies. Just because he can, he paces the confines of his cell, and sometimes throws in a jig for good measure. When the skies are clear, he practices every rude gesture he knows for Heaven to see, and invents a few more.

His eternal pain in the ass becomes his only source of entertainment.

"Miguel! Long time, no see! It's been, what, a few hours?"

"Heaven a bit slow these days, Miguel? All the interesting souls are beneath our feet."

"Aren't you bored, Miguel? Like, ever?"

Aside from jeering one of the stowaway's many titles and vow that he shall never poison another paradise, Miguel remains silent. The prisoner tries his damnedest (hah!) to jolt a reaction from him; an eye roll, a murderous glare, a spear to the heart, anything like that one surprise night.

The prisoner might as well make marble laugh. Each night Miguel departs serene as ever. He leaves the stowaway slathered in sweat but still wracked with shivers.

Cuba is still so far away. And El Dorado even further.

Tally marks blur. Day might as well be night. Miguel's radiance never allows the stars to shine.

Not the stowaway sleeps much these days. His reality is... precarious enough.

He bangs an indent into a post. A little pain is good. A little pain is grounding. A little pain helps him think. It reminds him he can think. His imprisonment's taken so much from him, but never that. He's still himself. Really.

Shaking himself from a stupor, he blearily peers up at the dark sky above, and bolts upright. Dawn! H-Hadn't it just been...

Two cold meals, breakfast and dinner, wait in a corner. Ice runs down his spine. A whole day, lost in the labyrinth of delirium.

His stomach is heavy as lead. He forces himself to bite into his moldy hardtack anyway. Mortal sustenance can't support him like sin can, but gluttony still counts. A full belly is a paper thin barrier between him and Hell, but it's still-

(Serrated teeth. The crunch of bone and spurt of blood. Three sinners screaming in agony from inside his-)

He spits out a weevil. And keeps gagging. His stomach heaves. He has nothing left to bring up.

Above him, celestial fire blots out the moonlight, and burns away any shadowy refuge in his cell.

"Sa-"

"Don't call me that!"

He bites down too late. It slips out of him without any venom. That's not a snarl or a sneer or anything else befitting a proud Prince of Hell.

Still on his hands and knees, he raises a sleeve to scrub bile from his lips and ensure his eyes are dry. The black, greasy tangles of his hair provide him a curtain of privacy from the archangel hovering above.

After a ragged inhale, he sighs and dares to look up. Miguel stares unblinkingly down.

"...Mastema."

A hook slightly blunter than the last one, but it sinks into him all the same.

"No," he mutters. Like he actually has a choice in this.

"Sam-"

"NO!"

He skews his eyes shut against another wave of nausea, and clenches his fists hard enough to bleed. He's not His venom, or His blindness, or His left hand. He's not His anything!

Slowly, the archangel tilts his head. "...Lucifer?"

He smiles bitterly up at a power bright enough to drown the moon and stars. Miguel blinks back. His golden brow furrows.

A quizzical silence hangs between them.

"M-Me? Um..." He is Prince of Darkness and ruler of this world. Those are grandiose titles that bog him down like stones. Instead he considers his tattered list of aliases; names stolen from saints and great conquerors or tweaked from his own epithets. They slip through his fingers like sand.

"T-Tulio."

"...Tulio?"

Not an insult, like Adversary or Hostility. Not another hook in his soul. Even when uttered by the Prince of the Seraphim himself, it washes harmlessly over him, and ever so slightly eases the iron vise on his throat.

He grins. "Yeah. Call me Tulio."

He of the people. Heathen in origin, from the glory days of dreaded Rome, one for patricians and plebeians. You can't get more clever than that!

Flopping back onto his straw, he wearily shuts his eyes, and speaks no more that night.

Miguel is no longer dragging him down so impatiently. So what? He's still a Devil without a grip in the hearts of this crew, a sinner without sufficient sin.

And his grip is slipping.


(out)

(Black talons gouge scars in fathomless ice.)

(out)

(Six wings beat in a frantic, futile gale.)

(OUT)

(Tears and bloody pus stream down his faces.)

(He's never getting-)

OUT.

Something small and hard plops onto his stomach. Just as it bounces, he snatches it on instinct. Yellow eyes snap open.

Apples. Ugh. Why is this part of the world so obsessed with apples? That stupid fruit wasn't even an apple! At least it gives his hands something to play with as he muses over how yet another certain win has turned to shit on him.

Find El Dorado. Reach El Dorado. Serve El Dorado on a platter to those strong enough to take it - or at least whatever these dumb mortal minds could mistake for a fantastical city of gold. A surprise stopover in Cuba to stir up another rebellion and bloody crackdown. Really, how hard was that to mess up? He squints blearily at the wall of tallies he last count of. Now he's stuck on a boat sapping him of his willpower, and no relief in sight.

Escape plan. He'd... He'd been working on his escape plan, hadn't he? (At least for the teeny part of himself not trapped under fathomless miles of rock and ice.)

In the dead of night hijack one of those longboats and row for the closest landmass like there's no tomorrow!

But how does he reach the deck? Tulio scowls up at the bars. This form is too weak to bend them. It also doesn't have a drop of sorcery. His cell doesn't have any decent lock-picking supplies. All he has is this stupid piece of fruit!

...And a starved ex-god on deck with an apple addiction.

Tulio smirks.

Bracing himself against the corner of the cell, he scooches high enough to the bars to make his bargain.

"Altivo," he calls.

Across the deck, the horse's ears snap up with the power of his name. He snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Oh, Altivo." Tulio offers up red, juicy temptation. The stallion draws in like a moth to the flame. "A horse of your stature deserves a reward once in a while, right? Come and get it." Just as Altivo reaches down, he whips his apple away. "As soon as you live up to your end of the deal."

Altivo's ears fall back. He spares him a withering snort.

"Don't be like that, Altivo. Your kind used to be all about bargains, right? When's the last time anyone's treated with you like an equal?" Tulio enticingly waves the apple under his nose. "This fine piece of tribute in exchange for a pry bar. Easy as that."

Altivo blinks. He glances up at an ocean Tulio cannot see, then back down to the brig. His expression slants into disbelief.

"...What?"

The horse stares long and hard at him. Tulio's neck prickles. Then Altivo's gazes softens in-

"Don't look at me like that!" Tulio snaps. "Whatever's out there is better than here!"

Altivo turns. He wanders off.

Arms burning, Tulio wearily slides back down to the bottom of his newest prison, and buries his head in his hands. He's never getting-

Something above his head jingles, then smacks the floor beside him. He gawks at a set of iron keys.

Oh. Right.

Altivo whinnies smugly down.

"Well," he mutters. "It's not a pry bar."

Notes:

Hardtack is an extremely hard bread favored by earlier sailors. It also tended to be infested with weevils. Sailors in the 1700s would come to dunk their hardtack in coffee - both to soften the bread and let the little bastards float up to the surface for a weevil-free bite.

Tulio's earlier tempted aliases are all grandiose or purposefully blasphemous. He tries to name himself after Julius Caesar (the man Dante believed destined to rule the world before Christ was a thing), Saint Nicholas (patron saint of thieves, but also an alternative nickname of the Devil - Old Nick), and Lucio (close as he can get to 'Lucifer' and with a shared root to boot.) We all knew which one was gonna stick :p

Satan literally means 'adversary' and Mastema 'hostility.' Depending on translation, Samael might mean 'Poison/Venom of the Lord,' 'Blindness of the Lord' or 'Left Hand of the Lord.' Lucifer, 'lightbringer.' Among the Devil's more loftier (and ominous) epithets is 'ruler of this world.'

More modern depictions of the Devil as a clever, silver-tongued liar owe a lot to Faust and Paradise Lost. The medieval Devil featured in mystery plays was a comical and bumbling figure easily fooled and foiled. Dante's depiction is... a lot more terrifying. The three greatest sinners in Dante's mind (the main two conspirators in Caesar's assassination and Judas Iscariot) are placed in the Devil's three mouths and chewed on for all eternity.

As for what else Dante had to say about the Devil? We'll... unpack that later. Because I'm the sort of author that expresses her love for characters by first literally dragging them through Hell :D

For all apples feature in Ancient Greek and Germanic myth, their paucity in Middle Eastern lore make contenders like figs, grapes, pomegranates and even wheat more likely for the 'original' forbidden fruit. Western Europe's apple obsession may owe something to the Bible being translated and distributed in Koine Greek (a lingua franca in trade for the time) and the Golden Apples of the Hesperides.

Chapter 4: return the favor

Summary:

The horse is not the only surprise.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

In a realm where death holds no dominion, the Heavenly Host sings eternal. They exalt in a truth above mortal tongues. Those earthly saints must listen and translate best they can. No wonder the prayers and hymns below form a tapestry just as diverse.

Among the choirs, his voice among the loudest, and magnified by those seraphim beneath him. It sounds of steel and war horns. His every note trumpets Who is like the Lord? and at the same time declares There is none like the Lord! When the Devil's sour notes once more disrupt Heaven's harmony, he is the one sent to smite that dissonance, and restore the world to right.

So long as the Devil remains free of his prison, the warrior angels cannot revere their Creator. Instead their songs sneer worthless and adversary.

He of the people, he murmurs, stirred by a faint memory of that foul voice so small and stripped of venom.

His addition barely ripples among his siblings and is soon lost to the multitude. That chord doesn't echo among them. It's an ephemeral title, no different than the countless other lies he adopted through the centuries, and shall be discarded just as carelessly.

And it shall be ended soon, even if he cannot smite it directly. Starved of evil to prey upon, the Devil's dissonance quiets by the day. It shall not be long before he is silenced once again and cast back down to his prison.

The Heavenly Host cannot agree on how their foe has endured so long. After what was done to him last time, he barely had the strength to gather his scattered impulses into a unified presence. His existence is a meager one; his form is less than mortal, without the sharp mind and serpent's tongue that had made him formidable in a younger age. He holds no power over the human hearts that have made him captive.

Perhaps this is the last time they need to silence him before they suffer his song no long-

Abruptly, the Devil's voice cuts off. The archangel's song wavers in surprise. The Heavenly Host pauses in anticipation, before they rise to rejoice...

...And recoil at a horrible, wailing screech.

FEARRAGEGUILTSTUPIDFUCKINGHOR-

With the Heavenly Host still buzzing in his ears, he descends to the world below with a blazing spear in hand and burning so hotly the stars themselves recoil.

He expects a vicious mutiny or a ship aflame. Instead all cabins are dark and peaceful. Their crews sleep on without thought for Heaven or Hell. To them this night is as any other.

Green eyes turn to the sea. Altivo thrashes desperately to keep afloat, his whinnies choked by the swell. An empty longboat bobs on the waves. Its thief swims in the opposite direction.

"Hold on, you stupid fucking horse! I'm coming!"

Heedless of the heavenly judgement looming above, a haggard prisoner swims to a horse's side. He yanks his bridle to drag him to the surface, then guides him toward the longboat he has no way back on.

"Have you lost your mind? It was just a f-" A wave drags the prisoner under. After a moment that lasts eternity, he claws his way back up, coughing and frantic.

The archangel's spear gutters out. This problem will soon solve itself. The Devil shall sink all the way back to his rightful place.

Gold brows draw down. This stallion has not been an enemy in over one thousand years. He is one soul among countless led astray by an offer too good to be true.

Drowning and desperate, his foe looks nothing like the demon that tried to drag him down to Hell too. Tulio is almost... pitiful, struggling against the inevitable though he knows to his bones no help is coming. He clutches for salvation. His hand slips on the longboat's slick hull.

Instinctively, the archangel reaches back. He dives low enough for his bottom wings to touch the spray.

And discovers too late this hungry, godless sea swallows even celestial fire.


Altivo fights in vain against an apathetic ocean.

The world beneath him lurches.

Then he's flat on his back, hooves splayed in the air like an upturned crab. Before anyone sees he snorts and rolls himself into a more dignified posture. He shakes his mane back just as two other castaways drag themselves on board, soaked and sputtering.

...Wait.

Oh.

Oh, f-

Tulio squeals and scrambles backward, shoving past Altivo to fall against the rudder. Through the wild black tangles in front of his eyes, he stares. Their unexpected passenger stares right back.

"You!" two voices shout at once.

That's definitely Miguel, stripped of his radiance and six magnificent wings. His skin still glows like marble in the dim light. Even with his golden curls and white robes soaking wet, his beauty is not human.

"W-What are you doing here?"

"What are you-" Miguel cuts off, clutching his own throat. His voice sounds so much smaller without the echoing undercurrent of the Heavenly Host.

"D-Did... Did you-"

The angel's bewildered expression hardens into familiar wrath. The air around him sparks. Tulio and Altivo both cower back. They can nearly fear the pressure of wings straining to burst back into existence.

Nope. Not Fallen. Definitely not Fallen. Just... dormant.

"I shall never let you skulk away from judgement," the angel vows. "Not now, and not ever."

Tulio takes a deep breath. "Uh huh," he drawls, finally brushing black hair from his face. "What are you... gonna..."

Miguel's ferocity crumbles. He gapes, before lurching backward to slam against the prow.

"W-What?"

Tulio whirls toward Altivo. The horse's own jaw drops.

"What?"

Tulio frantically searches his head for budding horns and runs his tongue over flat, unremarkable teeth. He obsesses over every last inch of his haggard but human appearance. Altivo, who hasn't had his own voice for centuries, turns expectantly to Miguel. Angels are bluntly honest.

Miguel's shock smooths into unreadable serenity. He casts his gaze over the horizon.

Thunder rumbles. Tulio huddles further behind Altivo. Miguel turns hopefully skyward.

The skies burst open.

Altivo weathers the elements as he always has. Horses are creatures of the open plain. This downpour will wash the salt from his mane and give him drinking water for days to come. He greedily tears into the supplies aboard. It's not like his two unwanted companions have to worry about mortal needs.

Reeling from the loss of his fire and the echoing absence left by the Host, an abandoned angel huddles into himself, and shivers against apathetic rain clouds that have never heeded his Creator.

A demon free of his prison instead sighs and throws out his arms. Deep blue eyes closing, he tilts his head upward, and relishes a godless rain.

Notes:

No matter how powerful or alien from their original characters they may start out in my fics.... good-hearted, impulsive idiots are always gonna be good-hearted, impulsive idiots :D

Chapter 5: out to sea

Summary:

An archangel and the Devil are stranded on a boat.

And poor Altivo is stranded with them.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lulled by gentle waves and the fresh salt wind, his sleep is soundless.

Tulio still cracks his eyes open way too early. His gaze finds the brightest star in the sky, then flicks out east where dawn is just beginning to break. With a bleary grumble he turns over to settle back into sleep-

-And startles at the white shape looming at the edge of his vision. He scrabbles back against the rudder and nearly topples overboard.

A figure in white kneels upon the prow, hands clasped in a symbol of piety captured in countless church windows. He still wears the face any Catholic Castilian would call the pinnacle of chivalry.

"You."

The warrior turns. For a heartbeat the rising sun reveals six blazing wings outstretched behind him. Then the vision flickers, revealing bedraggled curls and salt-stained robes.

"You."

His voice is steady. Miguel's face remains serene as ever, though his eyes are intently fixated on Tulio's.

The Devil's neck prickles. He huffs. "What are you even doing here?"

The angel surveys the endless expanse of ocean. "Your foolishness has once more led you astray."

"Hey, this was my plan! All I wanted was a little peace and quiet before Cuba." He sneers. "No brigs, no self-righteous sailors, no overbearing angels." Their eyes both find the gray bulk still pretending to sleep between them. "And I had just the sucker to set me free."

Altivo stubbornly buries his way deeper into the stack of supplies.

Miguel tilts his head. "And then he had served his purpose."

Tulio pauses.

Old venom effortlessly seeps into his tone. "I've used heathens before. Why not use one again to keep me... occupied?"

Altivo spares him a withering snort.

Miguel rises. From the prow he looms as only an arbitrator of divine judgement can loom. "He is not yours."

Tulio scoffs. "Well he definitely isn't yours." Not like the old deities now masquerading as folk saints and folk heroes. Or that Celtic goddess who got herself canonized.

"Treacherous serpent."

"Mewling little messenger."

"Wicked liar."

"Errand boy."

"Satan!"

He cringes on instinct. After a long moment, Tulio uncoils, and realizes he feels no pain beyond that distant, ever-present chill. His lip quirks up, before a smirk crawls across his face.

"You have no power out here, do you?"

For a second, Miguel's wrath slackens into something else. Then his left eye twitches and those marble features contort into zealous rage. "Neither do you, destroyer."

"All in good time, Miguel," he vows.

The archangel's fists clench. "Not when I stand before you."

"Oh yeah, daddy's boy? What are you gonna do about it?" 

Miguel's shoulders twitch. No fiery wings unfurl. His hands remain empty of burning spears and swords.

Tulio laughs at the best joke in the world. By one faith or another, Iberia has exalted one God for near a millennia. Miguel had lashed out with all the might of Heaven behind him him. Their earlier battlegrounds among the peninsula's people had been so much more interesting. Only among the last pagan holdouts of the Basque had their footing been so... equal.

"Belial," Miguel hisses with all the fire his puny little form can hold.

Tulio sneers. "Servant."

"Evil one!"

"Killjoy."

The sun breaks free of the horizon and continues its ascent. Their latest battle of wills rages on. Tulio's list of insults are bottomless as his pit and Miguel's boundless as the heavens.

Unable to feign sleep any longer, Altivo groans long and hard. His head pops up. He irritably shakes his mane, still half done up in loose braids, and rummages through their supplies for breakfast. Tulio slithers his way in. Opposable thumbs are a natural advantage. Cheese in hand, he returns to the rudder.

Miguel stares in disapproval. "Earthly sustenance has never nourished you."

"Oh, it's a pleasure." One to help him forget the taste of squirming sinners. He bites into the cheese. "When's the time you tried it out, back in Sodom?"

"A blight purged from this world." Miguel's disgust intensifies. "Was claiming the soul of Lot's wife a pleasure too?"

"Hey, I warned them all not to look back." Suddenly unable to stand the taste of salt, Tulio shoves his cheese aside. "Not my fault Edith didn't listen."

"She did just as you wanted."

From a Devil's mouth there is no difference between honesty and falsehood.

Swallowing his bitterness, Tulio instead vehemently rips off his stolen shirt. Maybe later he can scrub the blood stains out. For now he sighs and sprawls out on a bench. It's nearly noon and the sun's rays warm him as little else can. He cackles at the angel's discomfort.

"What's the matter, Miguel? Haven't seen this since much skin since Sodom?"

The archangel steadfastly returns to his prayer. Knelt over the prow, he stands still as a statue.

With Miguel's back turned, Tulio surreptitiously inspects himself again. He hasn't grown hooves or sprouted a tail. His skin remains flawless, free of scales or... scars. Including his back. Especially his back. No reason to have freaked out an angel so badly last night. (Not that Miguel has ever before bat an eyelash at all the ways Tulio's form corrupts itself.)

Tulio finally closes his eyes and lies down to bask.

For a time the cause of this mess does just the same. Then Altivo rouses himself to drink rainwater from a tarp. Snatching the cloth in his teeth he tries to shade himself.

Tulio cracks open an eye to watch him struggle. He gathers the breath for a long-suffering sigh and-

-And freezes when the archangel rises from his repose. Miguel props the tarp over Altivo. The horse nickers in gratitude, then shakes his braids again. Golden brows furrow. After a long pause, Miguel unbinds the last ties, and lets the long mane fall free. His hand lingers in those strands. Horsehair is coarser than it looks.

Tulio sighs. "Seriously, what are you still doing here?" Miguel's hands lurch away from Altivo. "You can't do anything to me. I can't do anything to you. Why not fly away home already?"

Without even facing his way the angel returns to the prow and his silent prayer. Tulio rolls his eyes and sits up to get a proper lunch. As the day draws on he tries to prod Miguel into another volley of insults. Not even his most blasphemous catcalls can shake the dutiful son. At least he still has one other source of entertainment.

"I hope you weren't a water god, horse, or this would be even more awkward for you."

Altivo flicks an ear. He stares at Tulio with ancient eyes. A careless apple toss and a starved, desperate shadow of a deity had never been part of the plan. Tulio had secured his lifeboat. Saving a drowning horse would have provided him no benefit and risk everything he'd gained.

He remembers lowering the boat. He remembers his leap. After that it's a... blur. A drowning, desperate blur. Including how he got the stupid horse into the boat.

Tulio soaks up sunlight while he can. As dusk draws in he savors his supper and bundles himself against the night chill. Lying down, he watches the stars come out. His breath hitches at the endless expanse of constellations, unbroken by buildings and hills. The waves rock him to sleep.

Hours later his eyes snap open to a sound barely audible over the night breeze. Every hair on his body prickles.

Miguel has not moved from the prow. These earthly forms are too low for heavenly hymns. Instead he strains for the next best thing. His prayers escape in a dizzying array of tongues incomprehensible to human ears. His voice is small and threadbare.

Tulio hazily remembers those first bleak nights after the rebellion; the brothers and sisters that choked on pleas to their apathetic Lord, the prayers fledgling demons pretended not to hear.

Miguel can beseech their family without their holiest names burning him.

Just as he did then, Tulio turns away, and lets the prayer die out on its own.

Silent stars twinkle overhead.

The brightest one almost mocks him.


His whole being should resonate with the song of the Host, to blaze with celestial glory. Now the depths of his soul ring silent. He aches for love and light he has never been without. His quiet calls into the night go unheeded. The Lord does not yet know to turn this way, to a lonely part of the world overlooked since its creation.

Miguel stands unbowed. He knows his place in the heavenly hierarchies like how the sun must rise each dawn and all the stars give way to its light. This simulacrum of flesh and bone cannot change his true nature. He needs not a crumb of food or drop to drink. He might exalt the glories of God all night. Just out of range of hearing, the prayers of countless faithful beseech him, and the songs of Heaven beckon him home.

Should he leap for that impassable divide, his bound wings shall at last unfurl, and he can go home. His brothers shall embrace him and rejoice his return. He shall reclaim his position at the Lord's right hand as if he had never blundered from His side.

All it will cost is to lose sight of this dark corner of creation and let his foe run rampant for years.

Miguel considers the two souls that keep him tethered to this longboat and his illusion of weakness. Altivo slumbers from genuine need. For Tulio it's another shameless indulgence, a reprieve from the ocean's tedium and a chance to wade through his dreams of grandeur.

Altivo's greed allowed the Devil his freedom. It had nearly been his undoing.

He remains alive to repent and strive to do better. No battle for a mortal soul is truly won until death balances that scale forever. And Altivo is no longer quite immortal.

Miguel's brow furrows at another puzzle. Yes, the Devil is no stranger to swaying pagan gods into his service, but in the past he hadn't used them directly. Instead he had preyed upon the fear and uncertainties of new mortal converts to wreck havoc between them and their old deities. Altivo has no followers left to him. No one aboard Cortes' ships had even stirred at his plaintive cries.

The Devil himself stirs in uneasy dreams. His wild hair is crusted in salt. He has not succeeded in scrubbing the blood stains of murdered men from his clothing. In sleep he is small.

Small as he'd been adrift in a ruthless sea and clawing in vain at a lifeboat's wet sides.

As the horizon lightens with dawn, Tulio stirs.

Miguel has known the Devil's eyes red as blood and yellow as sulfur. Even his most beautiful disguises cannot hide his true nature. (And this face isn't that alluring. Humanity aside, it's buried under an unruly beard and matted mane of hair.)

This morning his eyes open deep blue, the sky on the edge of night or break of dawn. The same blue from yesterday morning. And that first fateful, stormy night.

The eyes of a ghost.

Tulio groans at the sight of him staring, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're still here?"

"I am."

"Why?"

Miguel ponders this. The most graceful response is silence. A demon can demand nothing from him. He can reply his purpose is to counter evil's every move. That applies even if evil incarnate is stranded on a longboat with only a pagan horse for company. How else can Heaven be sure that he stays there?

Instead those blue eyes prompt him to blurt out, "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

"...What?"

Miguel stares tranquilly back.

"What? Seriously, what kind of an answer is that?"

"An honest one." Angels are always so.

"That's too vague to mean anything!"

"It is truth."

Tulio throws up his arms. "See? That's the kind of bullshit answer that gives you... um, who knows how many schisms we're up to now!"

"For which religion?"

"Y-You... mincing, cryptic twit."

Miguel arches an unimpressed brow.

"Lapdog!" Tulio spits.

"Heathen!"

Altivo's head bolts upright. He snorts in grave offense.

"Stay out of this, horse!"

"You were the one to drag him into this!"

"Oh, oh, oh." Tulio wags a fearless finger at him. "The horse and I had a good thing going. But then you had to butt your feathery ass in and be all 'Oh, look at me. Look at me. I'm a good little boy.'"

With Altivo a barrier between them and no mortal hearts to lend them a true battleground, their exchange continues unbroken by demonic treachery or the wrath of the Host.

The day flies by.

...Except for the horse stuck between good and evil, eying the shark-infested waters as a preferable option to either.

Notes:

This fic is a slow burn... and the idiots are already lying to themselves. (Even the one incapable of lying.)

In addition to being leader of the Heavenly Host's armies, Michael became the patron saint of chivalry in the Late Middle Ages. He's also leader of the Seraphim, an order of six-winged angels. A manifestation to Catholic conquistadors who grew up on legends of knights and crusaders would be subconsciously influenced by such iconcography.

A brief history of the Abrahamic faiths in Iberia - Judaism was definitely in Hispania by Roman times, and there's some murky evidence they may have been present in Phoenician trading towns before that. Then comes the gradual conversion to various stripes of Christianity and several centuries of bickering over which is right. (Nicaean vs Arianism, Proto Western Christianity vs Proto Eastern.) And even when Catholicism is solidified, here come the Umayyads and Sunni Islam. And all the centuries of... fun between these three afterward.

The Basque people in northern Spain and Portugal speak a language that predates the freaking Proto-Indo-European expansion. And seemed to have holdouts among their original pagan beliefs until the 600s or a tad later.

It was common practice for deities of old pagan religions to be demonized and reimagined as evil figures. Others came to be reinvented as folk heroes and folk saints (who could have broad followings even if they weren't canon to any official church.) ...And then you have Saint Brigid of Kildare, canonized in three seperate church traditions, and is literally just Christian!CelticGoddess!Brigid.

Chapter 6: you've got your reasons (and i've got mine)

Summary:

A mask cracks.

Can the Father of Lies see the truth in front of him?

Can Altivo get off this gods damned boat already?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

After two peaceful dawns, the third begins with dark clouds blotting the horizon. Altivo's ears fold back against his head. Tulio's heart pounds. He shivers in memory at a storm more ferocious than had ever been before or will ever be again. Six particular spots on his back ache at the drop in air pressure.

Tulio lashes down their supplies. Then he retreats back to the rudder and holds on for dear freedom. If the boat goes down at least he has a piece to break off and cling to.

Miguel does not stir from his prayer. Why would he? All he has to do is sit still and look pious as the storm does his work for him. Perhaps he even prayed for his Lord to stir it up in a corner of the world where He rules all-powerful.

Under their flimsy wooden hull, the gentle sea begins to churn.

He shuts his eyes.

(He's stuck, no matter how hard he flaps.)

"Tulio."

(Tears spill down his face to freeze upon the endless ice below.)

"Tulio."

(He just wants to get o-)

"Tulio."

A finger pokes him on the forehead. His eyes snap open. He gapes up. An archangel blinks down.

"Wh-"

Miguel withdraws his hand. His other offers up a long wooden shaft. "Row."

Tulio bristles. "You can't tell me what to-"

Miguel snatches his hand and shoves the oar into it. "Row."

Altivo shuffles to the center of the boat. There he can best balance his weight. Miguel braces himself on his right side, Tulio to the left. As the waves truly begin to heave, the archangel's brow draws down in familiar determination. He stares down a godless storm as he has a thousand demons. Over the strengthening wind he shouts them commands... in French. In the sanctuary of Mont-Saint-Michel he is patron to mariners.

A venomous voice inside Tulio wants to disobey on basic principle. If he smacks an unaware angel overboard then he can rid himself of a pest and not fear Heaven for weeks, if not years.

The sea is deep and dark. Tulio shivers at its abyssal depths.

Gritting his teeth, he rows.

Walls of water raise them dozens of feet high then smashes them down. At times the boat lurches on air alone. Other times it seems ready to splinter into wood. Together the Devil and the patron of Heavenly Hosts fight to keep an even course. When Miguel's side jolts precariously, Tulio snarls and returns their balance.

"Not today!" he roars. "Not today!"

Miguel tries to sing defiance into the gale. Instead a wave makes him cough and splutter on the first hair-raising notes. Tulio commits it to memory.

After an eternity, the grim clouds overhead lighten. The tumultuous waves peter out.

Tulio's adrenaline high crashes. With a giddy laugh he collapses back into the boat.

His back brushes someone else's. He is not the only one to gasp.

Tulio scrambles over Altivo for the refuge of the rudder. In turn Miguel retreats to the prow.

Tulio tries to wipe hair from his eyes. He grimaces at the sight of his hands, raw and blistered. Then he frowns at the color seeping from his wounds. In most manifestations his blood is black bile or yellow sulfur.

This form bleeds mortal red.

His gaze fixates on his heavenly foe. Miguel's marble face is even paler than usual, his stoic exterior paper thin. He defensively cradles his hands to his chest.

He cannot disguise the red staining his snow-white robe.

Tulio narrows his eyes. Archangels can be injured. He knows this all too well.

But if it bleeds...

After several moments Tulio's blisters recede and his skin weaves itself shut. The blood evaporates like a mirage. Miguel gingerly inspects his own palms, flawless as the rest of him. His robe regains some of its purity. Those salt stains are far more stubborn.

"Why?" Tulio rasps.

Green eyes widen. "I..."

"Why did you help?" His voice is as rough as it was fresh from Hell.

"I-"

"Why are you here?"

"I couldn't just leave you out here!"

Miguel clasps his hands over his mouth in horror. Too late. The ineffable truth is out there.

"...What?"

Green eyes dart away from his own, instead finding Altivo's. "You were drowning. Y-You were... asking for help. No matter what you are I-I couldn't just-"

"The horse?" Tulio blurts out. "You're here for the horse?"

Miguel gapes back. Altivo gives Tulio a deadpan stare.

Tulio bursts out laughing. The Prince of the Seraphim, stubbornly attached to a heathen horse. "Really, Miguel? You're that desperate for souls to save?"

"He isn't yours."

"He isn't yours."

Blond brows draw down. "He isn't yours," he repeats, soft and resolute. "Not this one."

Tulio sneers. "I took what He couldn't keep."

"You twisted their hearts until love itself made them burn."

"We are what He made us."

This a war they've waged a thousand times before. He's hellbent to wage it a thousand times again.

Miguel's face shutters close. Head bowed, he returns to his vigil on the prow, and speaks no more. Altivo snaps to Tulio. Those ancient eyes burn holes to the depths of his soul.

The Devil jeers right back. He miserably bundles himself in a tarp and turns his back to them both. Everything is soaking wet from the storm, Tulio included. At least he knows why Miguel simply didn't let nature return him to his prison. That heathen horse is his shield.

It has never stopped Miguel from simply slitting Tulio's throat in his sleep, and delivering Altivo unto dry land himself.

Shivering at the revelation, Tulio gropes for his knife. The cold steel rests against snugly in his shirt, tucked up against the map to El Dorado. He snagged it from the supplies within his first minutes on the boat.

No. Miguel's too chivalrous for that. He always trumpets his attacks.

...What's stopping Tulio from burying a knife in his back while the archangel is deep in his prayers?

If it bleeds, it can be killed. Or at least sent back to Heaven.

Tulio shakes his head. Not tonight. He's agitated Miguel enough to remind him of the serpent under his feet.

But tomorrow, with another volley of banter or silly argument over the horse to catch Miguel off-guard....

He descends into sleep. He does not dream the future, but a distant past. Once more his silver tongue stirs his brothers and sisters as nothing else can. His cunning sunders Heaven itself. With a rebel army behind him, he rises higher than he ever has before; burning brighter than the morning star, brighter than the dawn. For a glorious moment it seems even his Creator must bow before him.

So too does he remember his wrathful talons sinking into an archangel's wings, an agonized scream that could have sent them both into terminal trajectory.

He remembers a storm more ferocious then had ever been before or had ever been before, a thunderbolt that had searing every last wing from his back. He remembers a Fall, just as he must the archangel had risen on newly healed wings.

Even when he dries, he is never warm.


Altivo is surrounded by idiots.

If only those idiots were also not as pitiful as they were obnoxious.

When the Devil turns his back to the world and an obvious truth, Miguel's pious stance crumbles. His head falls into his hands. He stops trying to hide the ragged edge to his breaths. Among his siblings he must always bask in their love and light, with no room left to dwell in darkness. He has no such reprieve down here.

At least angels have no need for sleep. Altivo does not want to wonder what dreams may lurk in that subconscious.

He nickers in concern.

Miguel's head springs up. After a long moment, he sighs and turns with a feeble facade of serenity intact.

"My apologies," he murmurs. "I was distracted by profane matters." His mouth twists. "As I always am these days."

Miguel grabs a cloth on his side of the boat and thoroughly dries the horse's sodden form. Gentle hands inspect him for cuts and bruises from the tumultuous boat ride. Altivo appreciates the sentiment; his wounds healed hours ago. Then Miguel unties the supplies and brings out the food. Finally!

Altivo tears into his supper. Miguel does not return his prow. Instead he fastidiously combs his storm-tossed mane for knots. Altivo's eyelids flutter in bliss.

Behind them, Tulio's teeth chatter in his sleep.

The night is mild.

"All you took," Miguel whispers. "All you broke. But then I thought you were gone for good and I-I couldn't..." A ragged breath. "The way you looked down here, the way you sounded, it was almost like y-you were still.... and then you just..."

His right hand gropes for a spot in thin air, where a wing should meet his shoulder blades. In this form he can only huddle into himself.

Altivo ponders yet another nervous breakdown from one of these idiots.

And nips an archangel's fingers.

"Ouch!" Miguel clamps down on a yelp. "W-What was that for?"

Altivo scowls.

"Any who do not acknowledge the Lord are heathens, so technically he is the biggest..."

Altivo's deadpan stare never falters.

"You have an, um, compelling argument, noble stallion. That... insult was a bit... uncalled for, considering our current company. I most sincerely..." Miguel sighs, the stilted tone falling from his voice. "I'm sorry, old boy." Green eyes survey their bleak surroundings, a voyage fatal only to one of them. "Sorry for everything."

So is Altivo.

He never even had a chance to eat that damned apple.

Tulio once more stirs just before the dawn. By then Miguel has long returned to his silent prayer.

Rolling his eyes at the angel, Tulio readies enough food for two mouths. "Breakfast is ready, horse. At least one of us has an appreciation for earthly needs."

Miguel says nothing.

Notes:

Legend goes St. Aubert of Avranches received a vision from the Archangel Michael to build a place of worship upon a rocky tidal island at the mount of the Couesnon in France. St. Aubert did not believe this was a real vision and thus paid no attention. Michael appeared to him a second time with the same order. St. Aubert hesitated at the thought this might be a demonic trick. A very exasperated Michael appeared a third time, poked the idiot in the forehead, and told him to build him the freaking church already.

St. Aubert's skull remains a holy relic... with the hole Michael is said to have poked in his forehead. In the sanctuary he founded (creatively named Mont-Saint-Michel) Michael remains a patron saint to mariners.

...He's also a patron saint to the sick and suffering. And... other things.

Chapter 7: the more i hold (the less is real)

Summary:

When all is darkest... blame it on the seagull.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

After the second storm they drift on doldrums. The waves are near still as glass. During the days the sun bakes the boat and at night the endless stars unfold above them.

At first Tulio appreciates time to catch up on his sleep. When basking gets old, he tears apart the ship for entertainment. Of course Cortes doesn't consider mental stimulation necessary to his crew's sanity. All Tulio finds is a Bible. A symbol of faith more solid than an angel's scorn, he yelps when it burns his fingers, but still manages to fling it overboard.

Miguel watches it plop into the water. Tulio braces for the angel to dive after it or at least reprimand over him over profaning a holy book. He smirks.

Altivo and the archangel instead both give him the same deadpan stare.

"It's not like we lost anything of value." He makes eye contact with the stallion. "Well, Altivo? Care to trade your semi-immortal soul for a deck of cards?"

Altivo rolls his eyes.

Fine. His loss.

Tulio dedicates the next few days toward the dark arts of summoning. He needs a foul wind to carry him to a heathen shore, a water demon to haul the boat, his loaded dice, anything. In this sea his most demonic spells are empty as Miguel's unerring stream of prayer.

Not like Tulio can stab Miguel in the back now. Prodding him into another round of banter is his only entertainment these days.

Without rain, fresh water dwindles alongside their food. Tulio cuts his gluttony short. Their have also been shifted up to the prow, between Altivo and the ever-vigilant angel. That doesn't influence Tulio's pragmatic sacrifice at all. The horse that is allegedly his only source of sustenance needs nourishment. Can't go letting him starve to death. It rankles the Devil's pride to be caught in a lie.

Under a blazing sun, Tulio shivers. Nights exposed to the elements are nearly unbearable, without the relative shelter of the brig's walls and a refuge of straw.

A more pathetic demon might attempt to cash in his life debt and huddle against a nice fuzzy stallion for warmth. But the Devil has his pride. Especially when he no longer has any respite from his unwavering foe.

Tulio gives up sleep too. It makes this world feel less... (false) hazy.

The boat falls silent, save for Miguel's prayers in the dead of night and his fretting over Altivo. The angel looks paler, harder to gaze upon, his true nature showing through his mortal guise.

In the endless blur of purgatory, Tulio's eyes crack open at a seagull's call. Altivo pricks his ears. Miguel stirs from his stoic vigil.

Out of the haze flaps an exhausted bird. It's their first gull since the earliest days out of Spain. Miguel mercifully holds out an oar. The gull lands on the edge. Then it coughs and keels over. The angel's tender expression slackens into shock.

Tulio licks his lips. Free meat! After all this time starving a stringy seagull will be decadent as venison from-

A shark, massive and dead-eyed, erupts from the deep. The gull and most of the oar vanish in one sharp crack.

"W-What?" Miguel stutters indignantly. "T-That was..."

A hysterical giggle bubbles out of Tulio. "Think that'll be a parable someday?"

The angel gawks at him. Tulio rolls off his bench. He cackles, and louder still when Altivo also stares at him in horrified fascination.

"...Tulio?"

"Congratulations, Miguel. You've won. Again."

"T-"

"Give it a few more days, and you'll be singing praises again like nothing ever happened." He snarls up at cloudy skies. "You're still gonna have to drag me down."

"Sam-"

"Don't call me that!"

That syllable burns more than a thousand sneers of Satan or Belial. He lashes out with a foot. The archangel reaching his shoulder gasps and lurches back against Altivo. The Devil presses against the very edge of the boat, baring his teeth like a trapped rat.

Green eyes stare at him, wide and lost. "It's your name."

He snarls. "I have no name!"

Not in heavenly song or any human tongue. He claims countless curses wrapped up in different titles, scapegoat and useless and adversary. He can never be bound by them. There's always enough wriggle room to slither his way back out, again and again.

"I... I know what you are, and what you are not. Even now, you're-"

"Still capable of abstract thought? Despite all you've done?" 

Each time he crawls out of that pit a little less than the last, sinks a little deeper into the ice. In the beginning he had still been bright as the morning star, revered by humanity as an adversary near potent as his Creator. And the archangel had struck him down, again and again. His form warped. His silver tongue tarnished. No matter how many souls he stole, how many cities he wrecked, it was never enough.

(Never.)

Medieval writers framed him as a laughingstock, a foul creature easily foiled by any halfwit protagonist.

(No wonder he's blundered so badly this time. He couldn't corrupt a crew begging for his encouragement. He couldn't even tough the voyage out. His 'escape plan' was to starve at sea.)

And now they imagine him even less than that, warped by his own sins and worn down by perdition until all that remains of that brilliant rebel angel is a mindless, ravening beast. His noose tightens and-

(Are you sure you've even left at all?)

Miguel's mouth works without sound. At long last, he's terrorized the archangel into silence.

He smirks with flat, human teeth that might as well still be stained with the gore of sinners. "If I ever drag myself out again, Miguel, I will do to this New World as I did to the last a thousandfold."

With a final, delirious laugh he keels over.

(The gales of his futile wings buffet all of Hell. He chews three profane sinners forever trapped in his mouths. Blood and spittle gush from down his beard to join his tears.)

At least that's one thing he can still control in the world above. So long as he remains himself, no angel shall see him weep.

Not now.

Not ever again.


A mild wind stirs the waters and the heavens above. The skies clear to reveal a mild dusk. Ahead shines the evening star.

The Devil does not rouse from his stupor. He huddles in a shivering ball, curled tight around that yellowed map he clings to his chest. His teeth chatter. He burns cold as all others blaze with fever. Those deepest in his Hell are denied even the comfort of the inferno.

Altivo groans. The boat's small size prevents him from standing without tipping it over. Still he shuffles to the rear. His bulk provides shelter from the wind and a source of living warmth. To the miserable figure beside him, he's as useful as a candle in the dead of winter.

Miguel leans over the edge of the prow as if he might finally take flight and abandon them to their fate. He doesn't pray. He doesn't murmur melancholy questions to a foe unable to hear.

Just once, he keens, his mortal throat straining for heavenly song.

Without the deafening drones of the Host, he wails anguish and betrayal and why why w-

His voice breaks off. He buries his head in his knees and makes no more sound save for his quiet, ragged breaths.

Stupid fucking seagull.

Near midnight, the wind shifts.

Altivo raises his head. His nostrils flare.

Under the smell of salt is the faintest, undeniable promise of earth and plant life.

It is still a shore too distant for mortal eyes yet to see. A horse's keen nose is not so easily led astray.

Finally.

The second solid ground is under his hooves, he's galloping off and never looking back.

Notes:

Me, Yesterday Night: Let's write a chapter with some banter and boat shenanigans as a breather before... Oh, wow, that's a lot more angst than I was expecting... Y'know what, we're moving the time table up a bit.

And that's how you got the last full boat chapter.

For all Hell's horrors were gruesomely depicted in Christian medieval art, the Devil is a comic or stupid figure in the myths/mystery plays of the period. And later on Dante's Inferno flat out describes the Devil in Cocytus as once being creation's brightest and most beautiful angel... now warped by sin and eternal damnation until all that remains is a mindless, ravening beast. And given how Reconquista really trumpeted the idea having 'reconquered' all Spanish land from 'demonic forces'... Yeah.

To give you an idea of where the Devil was 800 years prior in the Western European imagination: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Devil_in_Christianity#/media/File:SheepsAndGoats.jpg. ...Yeah. That's probably one of the earliest possible depictions of the Devil on the left of Christ (our right.) in the parable of the Sheep and the Goats. Michael is probably the angel on Christ's right. And the vague plot bunnies I had for the backstory look at that mosaic and go 'yes.'

(And, yes, that is Jesus in the center. Early Christian Romans depicted him as a beardless Roman shepherd that borrowed a lot of Mercury's traits because of syncretism/hiding your faith in plain sight/cultural assumptions of what a shepherd should look like. Fast forward a few hundred years and looks like this Jesus is styled like the Eastern Roman Emperor - beardless and in imperial purple.)

Chapter 8: look out new world (here we come)

Summary:

It's not the end.

It's only just beginning.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

(He's never getting out.)

Tulio wakes to a lightening sky. He blearily finds the morning star above, then wearily turns his head. Altivo lays next to him, fixated on some point in the empty sea. He can't see beyond the horse. Their angelic pest might have finally admitted all is lost for his heathen friend and abandoned them to their fates.

(Deep down he knows this is true.)

"Mi-Miguel," he rasps regardless, voice thick from sleep and his stifled sobs in the pit. "Miguel. Did you ever imagine it would end like this?"

"Oh, Tulio," sighs someone way too close. "It doesn't."

There's still some life in him after all. Tulio bolts upright to discover Miguel mere inches away. He's curled up on the other side of Altivo, fingers burrowed in his mane.

There is no end. Not for any one in the Lord's design, angel or man or demon. Their battle shall wage until Judgement Day. Then the Prince of the Heavenly Hosts shall rejoice on high with all the righteous souls. His adversary will remain imprisoned forever, deprived of even the ephemeral freedom he could trick from mortal sinners.

"Just this once," he hisses, "can you let me pretend?"

"...Why?"

A faint whisper, bereft of grace, and barely audible above the breeze.

Not a demand about why they must lie about something so fleeting. Not another accusation.

Just the soft, desperate question a wounded soul might ask at the end of all things.

Tulio's venom drains from him. He reaches with a trembling, guileless hand.

"I... I never..."

The Devil still has his pride. He clutches at empty air, clenching a weak fist inches from Miguel's golden hair.

"I never... had enough... souls."

Altivo rolls his eyes to high heaven. Then he snorts and lurches from the boat.

"Altivo!"

"You stupid fucking horse! I didn't risk my life... just to..."

Tulio trails off. Miguel's jaw drops.

Altivo prances through shallow water for the soft white beach beyond. The Devil and the archangel blink at each other.

Then they whoop and scramble after him.


The beginning of the road to the sacred city is also the end of the world; where the waters of Lake Parime spill out into the endless sea. If there are lands beyond this shore, then they exist past the sunrise, where even the boldest Kalinago dares not sail.

Still, the boat comes.

He senses their presence even before they make landfall. Twice not the Feathered Serpent has sent prodigious storms from the east. His people know an omen when they see one. Lord Ayau has heralded change. Whether it's for good or ill is up to Bibi himself to decide.

And change comes, unlike any that has come before, or ever will again.

First ashore is a weary old spirit shaped like a fat deer. Despite his age he frolics up and down the beach like a child. Here is the wind made flesh, a mount for greater powers.

Those that stagger out of the surf behind him wear the faces of men. From his vantage point in the jungle, an inconspicuous armadillo bristles. That is no mere demon, no mere messenger. They reek of ozone and brimstone. Their stories echo with the prayers of millions and the wails of countless damned.

Upon reaching dry sand both fall to their knees. One warbles joy beyond human words. The other showers the beach in kisses.

Then they behold the two yellowed skeletons who perished here. Their bodies were left to serve as warning to those outsiders who dare seek Manoa. Instead they declare this land is inhabited with human hearts to war over.

Green eyes blaze. Blue eyes sharpen to sulfurous yellow. Heaven and earth try to tremble with their presence.

"You!"

They wrench swords from the skeletons, rise to their full heights to lock blades... and falter.

One blinks up.

The other blinks down.

"Y-You're... You're short?"

"I... I am not!"

"Hah! You put so much effort into your stupid good looks you forgot the height!"

"W-Why would I need to be tall when-"

"You spend so much time looming above us?"

"I... I'm closer to earth! You're just... arrogantly tall!"

"I'm average. You, however..."

Their harbinger rolls his eyes to high heaven and searches the jungle in vain for an escape route. He's too bulky for the undergrowth. His charges bicker on.

Bibi wrinkles his nose. So much for these two fools simply taking care of each other. They are not errant ideas easily silenced, but more... resilient. Resilient enough that they will find this land, again and again, as long as they think there's a story to be-

"Wait!" The demon holds out a hand. "Wait, wait, wait!"

The messenger slumps in confusion. Yellow eyes scan their surroundings. They fixate on the rock carved into an eagle's head, symbolizing Lord Kinich's annual rebirth every sunrise, before widening in recognition.

Oh.

The demon's free hand rummages in his shirt. He draws out wrinkled paper.

Oh f-

"The map?" His foe tilts his head. "You still have the map?"

"Hah! I've done it!" The demon slaps landmarks that never should have been written down. "The whistling rock! The stream! Even those mountains. It really is the map to..."

"El Dorado?" Now the messenger rolls his eyes. The demon's jaw drops. "Oh, come on, Tulio. Even for you, that's-"

"It's a city of gold, Miguel! You know; dust, nuggets, bricks, a palace of gold where you can pluck gold from the very walls. Conquistadors will be falling into my lap to get it!"

"The same they were for Antillia?" Miguel sniffs. "That was on maps too, Tulio, even though no mortal sailor ever reached it."

Yellow eyes glint. "When has that ever stopped greed?"

Miguel glares, squaring his shoulders. His slender frame belies the force of his presence. "You shall have no dominion here."

The demon sneers. "Oh yeah, daddy's boy? What are you gonna do about it?"

They size each other up. Both wield a sword of stone and wood. Bibi's ears prick up. He has a battle to the death after all.

Instead the fools sprint for their harbinger. He snorts in disgust and dances around their grasping hands.

"Please, Altivo, we need to-"

"You owe me a life debt, you stupid horse!"

"He's not yours!"

"And he isn't yours!"

Altivo considers his options. One side of the beach ends at the wide river mouth. The other leads into jagged rocks. The jungle ahead is thick and dark. His nostrils flare at the scent of strange plants and stranger predators. He is an herbivore built for wide open spaces, tempting prey for any jaguar or crocodile large enough to take him.

Rearing up onto his hind legs, he dwarfs both fools in his shadow. They scramble back from his flailing hooves. Then he slams down into the sand and whinnies his outrage.

"I-I can walk, old boy."

Tulio smirks. "But I've got the longer stride!"

They scramble for the undergrowth. After hacking away vines to reveal stone, they blink and race for another section. Altivo grudgingly follows.

When they trounce into the jungle, a serpent of Iztaya's hisses and slithers away from their graceless steps. Bibi's eyes narrow speculatively. He remains in plain sight. Miguel charges blindly past. Tulio barely spares him an ignorant, withering glance.

Altivo stops.

And stares.

The Trickster God twitches his innocent little armadillo nose and shadows their every move.

They blunder in circles, tripping over roots and bumping each other into trees. Tulio tries to sneak off on his own. Miguel never leaves his side. They bicker over the map and each other's inability to read directions, then how Miguel always thinks so small and how Tulio too highly of himself. Altivo alternates between rolling his eyes and scanning their surroundings for whatever Bibi might have planned.

If only Bibi knew what to plan. He's maneuvered his people through volcanic eruptions, catastrophic floods, and too many cultural upheavals to remember. This problem promises to be more persistent.

Two eternal enemies race without rest. Altivo trudges behind them.

As dusk draws in and the evening star rises overhead, he snorts, and plants his ass firmly on the ground.

Miguel winces. "Sorry, old boy, I forgot..." Even as he steps for the horse's side, he glances back at a demon that shouldn't care for such pettiness. He wavers between tenderness and old ferocity.

Tulio heaves a melodramatic sigh. A lazy smirk crawls across his face. "I always have time for idleness." He falls against a tree, blazing eyes fading into deep blue. "Besides, with a good night's sleep I'll leave you in the dust tomorrow."

"The hand of the diligent will rule," Miguel intones.

"Uh huh." His enemy yawns. "And you didn't stick around this long to let the horse get eaten."

Miguel turns his back to him, kneeling in a position of prayer. He settles into an expression calm and neutral as stone.

Altivo briefly grazes before bedding down. By then Tulio is snoring.

Miguel squints through the thick canopy to the stars above. He has no friends in these skies. His eyes widen in fear, uncertainty... and no small amount of wonder.

Bibi grins.

And begins to plot.

Notes:

And so it begins :D

The Kalinago inhabit the chain of islands known as the Lesser Antilles. The Antilles gained its name from Antillia, a legendary Iberian island where the Christian Visigoths were said to have fled before the Umayyad invasion. Up until the late 1400s, Spanish and Portuguese sailors believed Antillia was a real place, placed it on maps, and in one occasion received royal permission to claim it.

Chapter 9: the trail we blaze

Summary:

Are things finally back to normal for the endless battle between Good and Evil?

...Well, yes and no.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Dawn blazes in the east. Above the morning star still shines bright. The canopy overhead begins to stir with the calls of strange birds and beasts.

Then a loud, obscene groan of satisfaction pierces the morning calm.

"Oh. Oh, yeah." Tulio messily wipes fruit pulp from his beard. "That hits the spot."

Altivo grazes on without even twitching an ear. Miguel aims to keep his face just as serene. If he concentrates on the forest around him and stays quiet long enough, then maybe-

Tulio loudly bites into another fruit, one the conquistadors have not yet given a human name. He surveys their lush, unadulterated surroundings. "Y'know, with a few more nude mortals around, we'd almost be back in Eden." He smirks and holds out his fruit. "Sure you don't want a taste?"

Miguel rolls his eyes.

Tulio's expression brightens into a grin. This morning his eyes are deep, deep blue.

Throat tightening, Miguel bows his head and retreats to a pious stance. Tulio shrugs and returns to his breakfast. This isn't Eden. That isn't his... someone to banter with. The Prince of Lies has simply taken deception to another level. If he still did not scorn his God given name, then perhaps this falsehood might have even tempted an angel to believe him still S-

Miguel's murmured prayers do little to quiet those treacherous little whispers. Instead he shifts focus to their surroundings. Colorful parrots flutter through the treetops. The stares fade before the rising sun. A brown little creature, somewhere between rabbit and tortoise, scurries in the shadow of massive roots. Miguel watches it. It shifts onto its haunches to study him with shrewd dark eyes. He tries and fails to recall a mortal name for such a remarkable species. The conquistadors have not yet stumbled across one.

Tulio's gluttony finally reaches its bottom. He wipes sticky juice from his hands before reaching for his map. He freezes before he can pull it from his shirt. His gaze flickers venomous yellow as he once more sizes up his adversary. He still has his sword from the beach.

Face hardening, Miguel reaches for the blade that has never left his side. El Dorado is perhaps the last of their battlegrounds before Judgment Day, greater than all their struggles in Iberia or the West Indies. This time Miguel shall prevail.

He must.

Then Tulio sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Really, Miguel? Really?"

Miguel says nothing. His hand never leaves his sword.

Despite his best effort, his brow furrows in confusion.

"Isn't this... Isn't this beneath us?" Tulio blurts out. "You don't even have your wings!"

Miguel tilts his head. Like this Tulio stands his best chance in centuries... for a fleeting victory over ignorant pagan hearts. Once Cortes claims this land in the name of the Lord their rightful balance shall reassert itself.

"I am steadfast," Miguel declares instead, "immovable, always abounding in the ways of the L-"

"Yeah, yeah, you're a dutiful son." Tulio indignantly waves at miles of unbroken jungle. "What out here is worth fighting for?" A pause. "Aside from the horse."

Altivo snorts. He doesn't look up from his grazing.

Miguel ponders the Devil's latest gambit. The most dangerous lies are those steeped in truth. "You intend to lower my guard and stab me when my back is turned."

"Hey, I won't try anything if you don't." Tulio wryly offers an open hand. "Shake on it?"

Miguel scowls and rises to his feet. "Shall we be on our way or must you be slothful in this too?"

"Don't know." Tulio yawns and stretches languidly. "Can that stick get any further up your ass?"

In a minor miracle, the Devil takes out the map, and does not see an archangel stutter with indignity unbecoming of his station. Miguel swiftly composes himself and moves to check the trail himself. Tulio skitters back when he gets too close. He still knows their next marker to resemble a raptor in full flight, just as the last had been carved like an eagle head.

Tulio leads the way. Miguel shadows his every step. The Devil might try to slip away at any time. Altivo grudgingly plods behind them.

Miguel never dwells in one place long. Alongside his hymns in the Heavenly Host he must keep his warriors prepared for the final battle and stop the Devil at every turn. So too must be attend to mortal prayer. He might fly fast as human thought across kingdoms to serve as an intermediary or escort the souls of the righteous to paradise everlasting. Those days stranded in the longboat had lasted eternity.

Now, despite trudging on foot, hours flow by like seconds. Miguel was not here when the Lord shaped this particular corner of the world. Every flower seems uniquely vibrant, each spider brand new. He cannot remember the names the Creator bestowed upon these wonders, nor have the conquistadors supplied their own yet. Miguel drinks it all in. It is no substitute for basking in the love of his siblings.

As the sun soars higher, the humid air absorbs the heat. Even now Miguel retains his grace. No lowly insects dare bite an angel's bare feet. His robes never catch on rocks. He strolls onward comfortably as he did through the Garden of Eden.

This land has no love for demons. Tulio trips over roots and stubs his toes. His greasy hair becomes matted to his back. He curses every last creation that gets in his way.

Altivo is no less miserable. Sweat plasters his mane to his neck. His tail snarls in vines.

Miguel winces and hurries to his side. With Altivo's permission, he braids up his mane and tail to guard against such things. The horse nickers gratefully.

Tulio tries to stomp ahead. He only wonders in a circle back to them.

Around sunset they enter a narrow mountain pass. By the time the stars come out, their path opens into a canyon.

Miguel and Tulio both look up. Their jaws drop.

The eagle head on the beach was carved by human ingenuity. No mortal hands shaped tons of rock into a bird in flight, one with unfurled tail feathers and a curved, predatory beak.

"Huh," Tulio mumbles. "Don't remember Him making this one."

Miguel's breath hitches. Before he can decide on a response scathing enough his rival has already shrugged and wandered off to find dinner.

Wrenching his gaze from the wondrous sight above, Miguel turns to Altivo. He carefully unravels the stallion's braids. His fingers linger in that long, thick hair. He preens the horse as best he can. His own wings are still out of reach, and his fellow archangels even further. They are the only brothers Miguel lets preen his feathers, in their own private corner of paradise. It is a rare moment of closeness not intended for other angels.

Not ever again.

Eventually Tulio stops stuffing himself and sprawls out under the stars. Altivo falls asleep on his hooves.

Miguel, eternal and untiring, kneels uncertainly. He feels very, very small beneath these stars. The depths of his being that should reverberate with the songs of the Host remain silent. Rather than try to fill that void with endless recitation, he tries to recall the exact moment his Creator called this canyon into existence.

...And finds he can not.

He had to have been there! Surely he and his partner, the most radiant of all angels, had been at their Lord's side for such a miracle. They had been His right hand, and His left.

Overhead the sky begins to lighten. The morning star shines brighter than all its brethren when Tulio groans awake. By the time they're ready to set out, the sun has fully broken free of the horizon. It briefly sails overhead to grant the eagle a golden, blazing eye.

At the edge of the canyon, Miguel pauses with the whisper of some ancient instinct. Then he shakes his head and continues after the Devil out to claim the entire New World as his domain.


Their path leads to a wide river then winds beside it. Boa constrictors slither into the water at their approach. Crocodiles pretend to be harmless logs. Curious river dolphins rise up from the depths and disappear just as quickly. Tulio's eye twitches.

The trail narrows to the point where he and Miguel must stand shoulder to shoulder, then one behind the other. Miguel lets himself drift behind. Tulio gets the hard work of shoving and squirming his way through vines.

Miguel unsheathes his sword to hack a path wide enough for Altivo.

Tulio leaves him to it. He leaps into the water to wade ahead and finally get a head start.

Of course the river is teeming with leeches. Despite their numbing bites, he still grits his teeth as little fangs latch onto six hypersensitive spots on his back. The remnants of old muscles (or the roots of his new ones) ache.

One by one, those parasites shrivel up and drop from his skin. Even now his red, near-mortal blood is too poisonous from them.

At the next crossing they stumble across the a trail marker. Unlike the grandiose eagle head or natural majesty of the canyon, this one is a simple fish carved into the cliff face. Tulio takes one look at those teeth and knows better than to dare the water again.

Despite choosing the bridge a few tenacious bastards leap after him. One even manages to sink its fangs into his ass. He grants it the honor of becoming his dinner.

Wrapping his meal in leaves to smoke it, Tulio finally takes the effort to make a fire. His mouth waters at the thought of a cooked meal. He hasn't food this rich since the last time he crawled out of Hell. And that Genoan responsible for his last escape has been burning down there too for over a decade now.

Once he kindles a flame, Tulio sighs and warms his hands. The heat never quite penetrates the ice at the center of his being, no matter the tropical temperature, but it helps. He holds his palms close as he dares. In this form even earthly fire can still burn him.

He puts the fish onto the coals. Tulio appreciatively inhales the smoke, the... the smell of cooking flesh. His mouth goes dry. His back begins to ache and (and he doesn't have scars, he doesn't, he wrenched them open until his new wings grew and-)

Tulio jolts. He wrenches the fish off the fire just as it truly starts to burn.

Tulio unwraps his dinner. Those deep green scales are now dry and charred. Its eyes stare blindly up at him.

His stomach squirms. (So do the sinners in his mouths.)

Tiny paws snatch the fish. Tulio blinks. He watches his dinner scuttle away.

Across the clearing, the strange armored rat blinks back, and then digs into its stolen meal.

Miguel hums. "Well, at least your gluttony actually helped someone tonight."

"Thieving little bastard," Tulio drawls on instinct. "My kind of creature."

He pretends to storm off in a huff. Only behind the cover of the trees does he wrench off his bloodied, stolen shirt. His reality is always blurry when he's torn between sinning up here and his prison below. Is this memory of old agony or a new nightmare in his present?

Tulio prods every inch on his back. No scars. No burn marks. No bone spurs promising to sprout into bat wings. He finds only skin. Smooth, unblemished skin. And the lines of his vertebrae. He's really overdue for a proper display of gluttony. Prison rations and wild fruit can only take him so far.

Pulling his shirt back on, Tulio summons up the proper disdain, and swaggers back to camp like nothing is amiss.

Altivo stares right through him. Munching his stolen meal, the armored rat watches with shrewd dark eyes. Neither can talk. Miguel's gaze lingers on him. It's not like he knows the questions to ask.

Even if Miguel knew, Tulio would never tell him a damn thing. The Lord saved him in the same blow that struck the Devil down. Whatever damage dealt to Miguel in the Fall was swiftly healed by his loving, omnipotent Creator like nothing had ever happened.

(And he's never getting out. Not now, not ever. He's grown these twisted wings in vain.)

Stubbornly silent, Tulio sprawls out by the fire and closes his eyes.

He either dreams of his own agonized screams, or those of his partner's.


Being stranded as a horse for all eternity has its perks. Sure, he's got no opposable thumbs, but he can still run like the wind. He's traded a voice of his own for senses that outshine human's dull perception of the world. His keen ears hear predators stalking in the undergrowth while his idiots blunder forward. His nostrils flare all the telltale scent of mineral water.

Altivo perks up. He sniffs the air, then sniffs again.

Miguel and Tulio are bickering over directions again. Neither notices when the soul both claim as their own sneaks off.

Altivo nickers at the sight of a hot spring, clear and steaming. He eases himself in with a thankful sigh. Sitting back, he closes his eyes, and relishes the silence.

A silence promptly shattered by loud, gleeful whoops.

He cracks his eyes open just in time to see the Devil himself charging his way, pants off and his shirt right behind. Tulio leaps into the pool like a cannonball. Altivo's luxurious mane is soaking wet. Tulio grins back, unruly beard and hair just as drenched. About time the bastard washed himself.

"W-What are you doing?"

Both of them turn to very scandalized archangel.

Tulio brushes dripping hair from his eyes. "Um, washing the damned jungle off?"

Miguel's expression wavers. His golden curls hang as limpid strands. Salt and dirt stain his radiant robes. He bites his lip.

Tulio languidly sprawls out his arms. "Are you gonna do the same, Mr. Clean and Pure, or do you prefer to spontaneously combust?"

Miguel looks ready to do the latter. "Y-You c-can't-"

"I can, and I did." Tulio situates himself on a higher ledge, revealing the lean torso once hidden beneath his rags and wild facial hair. He smirks at the archangel's horrified expression. "Oh, please. It's nothing you haven't seen before."

Miguel stammers incoherently. His inhuman countenance, white and flawless as marble, begins to-

Chattering in the trees makes them all look up. A curious troop of monkeys blinks down. Miguel stands still as a statue. They uneasily skitter by him to gawk at his companions in the hot spring, just as strange but nowhere near as unsettling. One swings down right next to Tulio. He smiles at it.

The monkeys start sniffing at his clothes. One stuffs his pants over its head. At Tulio's warning shout, the furry little thieves run off with his rags. The demon yelps and gives chase. Altivo whinnies mockingly after him.

Then he blinks at the figure gingerly easing himself to the far edge of the pool. Altivo cocks his head.

"W-What, old boy?" Cheeks blushing red, Miguel ducks deep as he can into the spring. The cloudiness of the mineral water obscures the figure the billowing robe usually hides. "This... This isn't just some indulgence. I-I'm allowed to purify myself, you know. Clean heart, clean spirit."

Altivo says nothing. He politely turns his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses an archangel vehemently scrub his hair, then finally sigh and lean back. A tension Altivo has never seen him without drains from his shoulders. Miguel smiles up at the sun shining through the canopy. For a time the two of them simply savor the stillness. Green eyes start to flutter close.

Altivo's ear twitches. Tulio stomps through the undergrowth, swearing up a storm.

Miguel snaps upright with a gasp. He flies from the hot spring as if he still had his wings. Altivo stares in morbid curiosity.

The Devil crashes into view, scratching irritably at his rags. "Awful little primates. If I catch them I swear... I'm gonna..." He blinks at a bemused horse in a hot spring, then at the archangel that just manages to stuff his arms through the sleeves of his sodden robes. "...What happened to you?"

Miguel shakes wet hair off his face. "What happened to you?"

"Uh..."

Flushing in fury, a dripping archangel storms past them both, and snatches the map from Tulio's hands. "Oh, come on!"

Tulio gawks after him. That wet robe clings to slim shoulders and an athletic torso. In broad daylight the wet fabric is sheer as linen. Then it's the Devil's turn to blush. "I-I'm not coming on. Y-You're..."

The form Altivo glimpsed might inspire the religious to exalt the sublime or the artistic to craft masterpieces of the human form. It's a beauty mortal hands try and fail to capture in marble statures or stained glass. A beauty that inspires and not... incites.

In all their miserable days at sea, Miguel did not sleep once, or eat and drink. Tulio's grown scruffier and more haggard. Miguel's beardless face remains not quite human on some deep, innate level. Were he not bound to a form of flesh, his true face would burn mortal eyeballs from their sockets.

Altivo rises from the hot spring and shakes himself in relief, scattering water droplets in his wake. Trotting after his fools, he does his best to ignore the strange little messenger that's been following them since the beach, and whatever plot is brewing in those mischievous eyes. 

Thank God these two idiots are incompatible in a way followers of the older pantheons only rarely imagined their gods could be. Whatever history these two have, it's not that kind of history.

There's only so much he can take before wandering out into the jungle to let one of those big spotted cats eat him.

Notes:

Two repressed, touch-starved, highly volatile divinities incapable of asking each other basic questions. And some low grade Eldritch Horror, because Tulio's used to all sorts of... wonderful mutations if he's topside too long, and Miguel remains too stubbornly deep in the Uncanny Valley zone for people yet to realize 'oh no, he's hot.' Fun times ahead for everyone :D

...Yes. That Genoan is THAT Genoan. From Genoa. In Italy. A man so cruel that even SPANISH CONQUISTADORS looked at how he treated people and went 'damn, dude, that's way too far.'

Chapter 10: ask no questions (take no side)

Summary:

A storm, physical and metaphorical.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lightning arcs across the sky. Thunder booms. A spellbound angel stands in the roaring downpour.

Miguel no longer expects to find his Lord in these storms; not until the conquistadors come, and the battle for this land's immortal soul can begin in earnest. This force has no higher power behind it. Unlike those out on the open sea, it poses no danger. He can admire its full majesty down here. Up behind the clouds he cannot feel the rain on his face or how the thunder rattles his bones.

His companions are not as wondrous of nature's power. Altivo cowers under a massive palm frond. Tulio huddles miserably beside him.

Miguel extends his arms. He tilts his head skyward.

The wind picks up, buffeting trees tall and vast as cedars. Ancient wood groans under the strain. The storm snarls back.

Miguel's smile falters. Instinctively he creeps for shelter. Altivo is normally a safe barrier, but tonight the palm frond is too narrow. If the stallion shifts then he pushes both Tulio and the fearless little creature taking refuge with them out into the storm. He searches the jungle for alternatives, a dip in the roots or rocky outcropping.

BOOM.

Miguel slams into Altivo's side. The horse snorts in consternation. The little armored one hops aside to give him room.

Part of Miguel feels compelled to apologize, to wring the water from his sodden robes and do his best to dry them off. Instead his thin, fragile little voice murmurs Merciful One and Maker of Peace and Healer of...

Miguel trails sheepishly off. Right. Mundane storm.

He expects Tulio to groan and roll his eyes, maybe even to melodramatically stomp off into the downpour.

But the Devil doesn't even realize his nemesis is mere inches away. He's curled tightly into himself and shudders with every lightning flash. The little armored one sniffs at him. Then shrewd dark eyes turn up to Miguel.

Miguel turns away. His hands clench into his robe. His s-.... well, there's nowhere to grip anyway, just empty air where his primary set of wings should be.

After a long while, a song tumbles out of him. It's no heavenly hymn, just some little tune thought up by a pilgrim to Santiago that fell out of living memory centuries ago. He's always liked it. So he murmurs a second one, and another after that.

As the third song winds down, Tulio's head tilts his way. Blue eyes blink at him. Miguel stares serenely back. He starts another ditty.

It's a different battle of wills, a soul who endures the deepest pit of hell against a voice that can exalt for all eternity. In the end Tulio does indeed groan and roll his eyes.

"Miguel. Miguel. What are you doing?"

"Oh, please." Miguel wrings some of the water from his sopping hair. "It's nothing you haven't heard before."

Tulio gawks. He sputters. Miguel holds back a smile.

"Y-You..."

"You used to hear me all the time. We'd sing together." A beat. "W-With our brothers."

At times their chorus had reverberated with the booming notes of the Lord is the strong man and the Lord is light and the Lord heals. In others theirs had been a duet; light and shadow, dawn and dusk, the Lord's right hand and His left.

Tulio's embarrassment slides from his face. He snarls into the night. "Yeah, I used to."

Then their voice had splintered into two; one increasingly quieter and more delayed, the other that had risen louder to compensate and reached back in vain. The brightest member of the Heavenly Host going dim, some siblings in their choir growing slow and sullen in their chorus.

When his partner had gone silent, Miguel's murmurs of confusion and concern  had deepened into terror and where are you?

So eager to embrace him again, he had opened himself wide to his partner's return... and nearly been sundered by LOATHINGRAGEDESTRUCTION.

Miguel glances behind him. Altivo is stares in morbid fascination. The little armored one's ears are pricked all the way up.

Despite it all, he still opens his mouth to again ask why.

BOOM.

CRA-ACK.

Whiteness consumes the world. Miguel skews his eyes shut, and remembers why not.

Once more, he is blessed enough to open his eyes again, and gaze upon creation. Everything is... fine. A mundane thunderbolt struck the top of a tree. The smell of bitter smoke is quickly drenched by the rain.

Tulio coils back into himself. He shivers from inescapable cold. And nothing more.

A horse and a strange little beast glance at each other. Nothing... deeper passes between them. One of them is a mere animal, incapable of higher thinking. Or blasphemous speculation. The other knows better than to dare try.

Miguel returns to his gentle, placating hymns. On some other plane of existence, his wings fold tighter together, and stop straining so hard to manifest. In their absence he wants to grip his shoulder blades. Instead he hides his hands in the folds of his sleeves to hide their tremor.

He remains the right hand of the Lord. There is a reason why he alone was chosen where all those other, final deviant whispers were silenced forever.

It is not a messenger's place to question.

Not now. Not ever again.

The storm rages on.

Notes:

This was gonna be a segment to a longer chapter, but dammit it's a heavier scene than I first intended and I'm running out of time tonight, so to more shenanigans and tension next time.

While there are multiple groupings of the archangels, the pairing of Michael-Gabriel-Uriel-Raphael is one of the most popular among the Abrahamic faiths.

...From His earliest beginnings, the Lord evolved from a lord of the skies... and a lord of storms.

Chapter 11: through terra incognita

Summary:

Hell is other people.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

After a morning struggling up a massive mountain and stubbing his toe on every damned rock in the jungle, a gasping Tulio finally gazes upon the downward slope.

And that slope is sheer, slippery stone. Down to a gaping canyon.

Tulio looks to his left, then his right. The gaping chasm yawns far as the eye can see. He squints downward. No bridges. Only a few columns of stone and a deep, dark bottom. It may as well lead down to his prison.

He doesn't doubt an omnipotent, omniscient Lord made this specific canyon just for this very special occasion.

Tulio turns to Miguel. Instead of falling his knees to give thanks for such an obstacle, the angel's face skews up in thought.

"What?" the Devil drawls. "Should we fly across?"

Miguel blinks up at Altivo. The stallion's ears fold back.

"You could make those jumps, old boy." A sarcastic snort. Miguel smiles, soft and sincere. "I have faith in you."

Altivo slumps. Then he squints down at the path in earnest consideration.

Cold sweat beads on Tulio's neck. Faith. It drives the old gods as nothing else can. Once upon a time, the Devil himself had preyed upon such weakness in the heathen deities. Those with wavering cults had been desperate to hold on to this world. With sympathy and gentle words, he had worn down their pride and their scorn. He had offered them places in his courts and made willing demons of them. As demons they had lived on for centuries more. Better to be feared than forgotten.

Why had he never tempted Altivo with such a bargain? Surely a stallion this proud would have eagerly turned against an archangel to terrorize souls and to never endure a conquistador on his back again.

(Because he had been clever then, and far more whole. Now he can barely keep himself together, let alone sway others with him.)

Altivo had barely accepted an apple after weeks starved on half-rations, all in return for the simple exchange of dropping down a set of keys and ridding himself of a pest. But for genuine faith? A horse mortal enough to die will leap canyons and willingly carry an archangel upon his back. Just as he will gladly consent to that archangel striking down a demon from upon his back or galloping away to leave him in the dust. Maybe he's fickle enough to trample a Devil under his own hooves.

Slowly, Tulio reaches for his sword. From this angle he can cut even the greatest of Heaven's warriors down. Hell, all he needs is one good swing at Altivo, and he can spite them a-

"Get on."

"...What?"

"Get on." Miguel pats Altivo's shoulder. "As close to his neck as you can."

"What?"

"Get. On. The horse."

Tulio awkwardly clambers on. Once Miguel is even further beneath him, he smirks and sits up straight. For a moment he imagines spurring the horse on and leaving one stupid, trusting angel on the wrong side of the canyon.

Then Altivo turns to stare at him. And Tulio remembers why he's never lasted even thirty seconds on horseback. He has a... knack for animals. Even old nags buck him off. Just as bulls charge him. And dogs like to bite into his pants and never let go. This particular animal is just intelligent enough to tolerate him. He gulps and winds his hands in Altivo's thick mane.

He clenches even tighter when someone swings up behind him.

"Miguel." His voice squeaks up an octave, so he scowls and drops it low as it can go. "W-What are you doing?"

"Well, it's not like you know how to ride."

Tulio does not. Of course the warrior angel revered by military orders of knights does. Miguel sits tall and assured behind him. He can steer a horse without a bridle or stirrups.

But...

(Sandaled feet have pressed him down into the dust. Burning spears have been impaled into his back.)

"But-But shouldn't I be the one be-"

Miguel stiffens hard as marble. His bodily warmth flashes fever-hot. Tulio's own skin flushes from it.

"No."

Tulio almost points out Miguel has nothing to fear this time. His wings are all safely tucked away in a place no demon can ever reach.

Just as he opens his mouth to somehow dig himself even deeper than the bottom of Hell, Miguel shifts position and grits out, "Grip with your legs."

Tulio obeys. He clings for dear freedom.

Altivo charges.

Altivo leaps.

From stone to stone, he flies. Tulio squeezes his eyes shut and squeezes to him tighter. His stomach lurches. Behind him, Miguel whoops.

When the stallion touches down a final time, Tulio springs from his back, and gladly falls to the comfort of solid ground.

Still grinning, Miguel dismounts. "Thanks for that, old boy. That was..." Green eyes flick down to Tulio, still sprawled out on the stone. That guileless smile vanishes under unflappable grace. The archangel squares his shoulders and looms despite his height. "You served me well today."

Unfurling the map, Miguel strides forth into the jungle like the Heavenly Host marches with him. Tulio blinks after him. Then he scoffs and rolls his eyes at Altivo.

"Angels," he mutters. "They're all wound so tight these days. Back in my day, we..." Altivo leans in, hungry for gossip for all he pretends to be above it all. "Mind your own business, horse."

Altivo snorts and haughtily prances onward.

Tulio frowns after Miguel, nearly approachable one second and then utterly alien the next. In Eden they had been drawn to the other when still blissfully ignorant of their Lord's roles for them. He remembers a gentle healer, someone quick to smile and even quicker to tease him back.

Yeesh. What happened to you?

Tulio grimaces down at his own hands.

Oh.

Right.

The ice within surges back up, drowning out the last of Miguel's lingering heat. A shiver wracks through him.

(He gives as good as he got.)

After a long moment, Tulio drags a hand down his face and trudges after them. He has nowhere else to go.

(Because he never really left.)


"Are... Are you lost?"

"Rejoice in hope," Miguel chides without missing a beat, "be patient in tribulation, be constant in-"

"Uh huh," Tulio deadpans. "Have you seen the stupid head or not?"

"The Lord is good to those who-"

"Wow."

Miguel's fingers clench around the map. Before he can rattle off another axiom, he takes a deep breath, and reaches for patience that used to come so easily. Things that had seemed so simple among the Host are nearly impossible trapped in this mortal skin and the Devil whining in his ear.

Beside a small waterfall, the river cuts in front of him again, yawning wide. Miguel frowns down at the map. Days of trudging through jungle since the last marker and that weeping head is nowhere in sight! They should have seen it by now.

...If it existed for mortal eyes to one day find.

In sudden clarity, Miguel falls to his knees to pray.

And has the map snatched from his grip.

"Hah!" 

Miguel's hand snaps to the hilt of his sword. Tulio strides away from him without even flinching. Blue eyes focus elsewhere. He grins.

"Of all people, I can't believe you never thought to look up."

Miguel follows his gaze. From perfect eye holes, water tumbles down a stone nose and lips to the mundane stones below.

Tulio smugly smacks the identical marker on the map. "Guess you think little when you're short."

He struts on. Altivo rolls his eyes at him. In another life, Miguel would do the same in fond exasperation.

Those days are long dead. They did not end with a forbidden fruit or in a wretched mortal city.

Miguel stares after Tulio, suspicion and wistfulness warring against his neutral grace. At some times Tulio teases him as if all their bitter strife from the Fall had never happened and in others is still ready to lash out like a wrathful serpent. He indulges in sleep and mortal vice without ever once straying from their destined path. For all his eyes still flicker blue, he denies the one name that might even deceive an archangel into thinking him penitent at last.

Something large and warm nudges his shoulder. Miguel nearly flies into the air without wings. Altivo nickers.

With a smile Miguel tries to assure him everything is fine.

His tongue refuses to speak falsehood.

"Thank you for worrying, old boy," he murmurs instead. "Everything... will be as it should be."

God wills it.


Their trail is a rugged one; not gentle hills, but blazed down rocky slopes and up treacherous mountainsides. Cliffs and chasms yawn from ancient, brittle stone. Altivo endures the journey best he can. He's not some scruffy little mountain pony, for gods' sake; his current incarnation is a magnificent Andalusian, a form for speed and strength over open battlefields.

But one cave jolts even the idiots from their bickering. It juts from the cliff face like a monster trying to wrench itself free, stalagmites and curtains of moss shaping fangs in its maw. The beast's gaping mouth exhales a swarm of bats. In the late evening light their wings flicker gold and purple. Altivo wonders how vivid they are during the day.

Altivo and Tulio glance to Miguel. Disappointment hangs over his normal awe for such wonders of nature.

Tulio snickers. "You weren't expecting an actual dragon, were you?"

Miguel's hand flies off his sword. His lips purse.

"Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour," he supplies after an agonized silence. Which isn't an answer at all.

Altivo groans. Centuries ago the Devil's meddling in Cantabria had warped more than one god into a cuelebre for saints and archangels to slay. And Miguel is still addicted to dragon-slaying. Of course he is.

Tulio cackles. "Don't worry, Miguel. You still have the greatest dragon of them all."

In the growing darkness, the Devil casts a massive shadow; with ten horns and seven heads. Altivo's nostrils flare at the phantom smell of smoke and charred flesh.

Miguel shifts his stance, transforming from harmless traveler into undefeated warrior. For a fleeting second, the setting sun catches his back, and grants the illusion of wings. "I seized you, and bound you for a thousand years, and threw you into the pit so that you might not deceive the nations any longer."

His rival blinks, the narrows sulfur yellow eyes. He smirks with too-sharp teeth. "You missed a spot."

Snorting ominously, Altivo thunders between them, and reminds these fools he is still capable of trampling them both into the dust.

The spell breaks. Tulio yelps and leaps out of his way. Miguel profusely apologizes... and glares daggers at the one he believes solely responsible. Of course he does.

They bed down for the night. Miguel does not pray. Tonight his vigil is directed on Tulio alone, his sword half-drawn. After a brief spasm, his face settles into grim finality. The Devil tosses and turns in his sleep. His teeth chatter and gnash on invisible victims. The map is tucked possessively close.

Tulio rises with the morning star and charges into the jungle without breakfast. Miguel pounds after him.

Altivo supervises. He grazes on the run, never letting these idiots out of his sight.

With the last marker behind them, ancient foes finally strain against their constraints. Their banter falls silent. They race ahead of the other, bumping and shoving and dragging their foe behind. Tulio's given up on sleep and endless nightmares. His eyes never again dim back to blue. Miguel stops basking in the journey's wonder. He watches Tulio's every move.

The closer El Dorado becomes, the further Altivo has to push his own dregs of immortality. He forages on the run. He steals a nap whenever he can. Miguel doesn't clear paths for him anymore. Tulio doesn't purposefully slow down their pace. In their own conflict they've nearly forgotten the powerless pagan horse that's not even a pawn in their grand struggle.

Altivo sticks with these idiots only because of the predators he still scents on the wind. It's not like he's invested in them now or anything.

...Well, only for the visceral satisfaction when these children realize finding El Dorado won't restore their true strength. The people in that city (if there even is a city) do not yet know to make room for Heaven and Hell in their hearts. Cortes hasn't even stepped foot upon this shore yet.

Impending clash between Good and Evil aside, Altivo really worries about where their little stalker vanished off to. That armored rat is the servant of a higher power at best. And Altivo hasn't glimpsed him in days.

Maybe they've been tricked off the trail, doomed to wander the jungle in vain until these idiots are finally dragged off this plane and returned to their proper roles.

Or maybe they're getting close. When the wind shifts at dusk some nights, Altivo swears he smells a tinge of smoke from human hearts.

Given the trickster spirit that shadowed them, Altivo only hopes for the option with the quicker death.

Notes:

And apparently it takes twelve chapters of a slow-burn to introduce the '3' to an OT3 ; )

Reviewing screencaps of the movie, Miguel is very comfortable around horses and Tulio is... not. He doesn't take control of Altivo on his own until the very end of their journey. This reinforces my headcanon that actual canon!Miguel was born and raised in a wealthy household, which fits his, um... rather oblivious and privileged outlook on life at times. Tulio's more cautious, self-preserving nature and initial cluelessness around horses (more of a status symbol in the 1500s) lends credence to a less wealthy upbringing.

Of course, as patron saint of knighthood and mounted equestrian orders, archangel!Miguel has damn good reason to know his horsemanship too :p

Among the Devil's epithets are 'old serpent' and 'Great Dragon' - such as the beast with seven heads and ten horns foretold of in the Book of Revelation. Which is why Michael the archangel is interchangeably depicted treading down upon either a devil or a dragon-like monster.

Astute readers may realize Miguel's default response to stress or circumventing his honest emotions is just spouting or slightly rephrasing random Bible quotes. Because good gods is this poor dumpster fire trying this hard to be... a different, more pious (and acceptable to the super Catholic conquistadors that subconsciously manifested him) kind of dumpster fire. I am not a biblical expert and just pluck relevant quotes from internet databases that fit Miguel's particular bullshit answer of the day.

Chapter 12: our destiny (our fate)

Summary:

The thief is a surprise.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Mist hangs heavy over the world. Beyond the roaring waterfall, the usual cacophony of the jungle has fallen silent.

Two bewildered idiots blink down in disbelief at a map that has never steered them wrong. Then they gawk at where it has ultimately led them. A massive stone slab towers above their heads. Upon it two serene men ride astride a snarling serpent. Below a woman kneels and offers up tribute.

The stele stands alone in desolate jungle.

"This.... This is it?"

"It's a rock."

"It's El Dorado." Miguel's genuine disappointment vanishes into sorrowful acceptance. "Real as Antillia was."

"A. Great. Big. Rock." A mad cackle tumbles out of Tulio. "What is Cortes gonna do? Take all the really big rocks?"

Altivo sweeps their surroundings. The massive waterfall tumbles down from rocky heights too steep to climb, pooling into lake that feeds the river they've followed their whole journey. There is no other sign of human presence. He suspiciously sniffs the air. The smell of water and mildew suppresses all others.

He squints at the stele again. It took cooperation and ingenuity to lift a stone that large. Every line carved into its surface is neat and purposeful. The symbols etched beneath those figures are at least pictographs, maybe even signs from a fully-fledged writing system. Despite the damp conditions, the carvings are pristine.

Tulio's yellow eyes dart over every corner of the valley. A tremor wracks his frame. For a heartbeat, his face slips into utter despair. He sees no more plans, no more angles, nothing for Cortes and his conquistadors to conquer.

Then his eyes narrow. "You."

Miguel blinks. "Me?"

The Devil's face contorts into a rictus of hate. Miguel takes an instinctive step back. His foe stalks forward.

"You knew," the Adversary hisses. "This entire time." He croaks a laugh, harsh and self-loathing. "Of course you did. You probably helped Him create every step of this hell."

The messenger of an omniscient God gapes, his eyes and lost. "I... I didn't-" At the Devil's disbelieving sneer, he draws himself to his full height. "Why... Why do I even try? You never listen."

The demon snarls. "Exactly."

The archangel's solemn mask slams down like a suit of armor. "Everything is as the Lord wills it."

A small, forsaken sound escapes his Adversary. "Of course it is. It always is. Every commandment. Every punishment. Trying to fool me that this could ever wind up different. Trying to get me to ho-" He cuts himself off with a growl. "You won't. Not then. Not now. Not ever."

Their swords meet in a shower of sparks. Splinters and stone fragments fly.

Altivo shies out of the way. He's still mortal enough to die from a blade alone, let alone the otherworldly power straining to force its way into a world that should not yet know it. Self-preservation urges him to bolt for it. Some sense of obligation, stupid as it is stubborn, keeps him rooted here.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh. Maybe he can wait for them to tire themselves out and...

Altivo sniffs the air.

He sniffs again.

His nostrils flare on the scent of human sweat and desperation, closer by the second.

Oh.

His head swivels to the stele. Their armored shadow peeks out from behind it.

And grins.

Oh f-

Altivo whinnies a warning. His idiots don't hear him. They've smashed their swords to pieces. Throwing their hilts aside, they tackle each other, blindly grappling toward the stone slab.

Altivo rolls his eyes and follows.


Chel runs for her life.

Chel runs in vain.

Not so very long ago, her big brother fled down this very same path. He made it out of the city. He even made it through the caverns that protect their valley from the outside world, the same primordial darkness Lord Xarayes uses to trap mortal souls underground forever. Xaya had breathed free air on the other side.

Then Tzekel-Kan's warriors had caught up.

Now many of those same men pound after her in hot pursuit. Chel's made it through the caverns by blind luck and half-remembered directions from an old holy text. Her hunters have memorized these paths.

Stumbling into the valley beyond, Chel slips on slick stone, and loses even more of her dwindling lead.

She won't be a sacrifice anymore. She's come all this way to be dragged back to the traitor's death, slow and painful.

Her gaze fixates on the idol of the Dual Gods, visible through the mist. Chel scrambles to the feet. She runs on.

Never mind the warriors. Never mind the jaguar-filled jungle. If she can just make it to that idol, somehow, some way, everything will be all r-

Rounding the idol, Chel glances over her shoulder, and trips on the obstacle in front of her.

Something under her yelps.

They thrash in a tangle of limbs. Reflexively she uses her stolen tribute as a bludgeon. Another something yelps. Then she and two... strangers leap to their feet and away from each other.

Chel stares. Eyes of blue and green stare right back.

"What. The. F-"

She bumps into something broad and warm. Chel barely has time to blink up at the... fat deer thing behind her before her pursuers catch up. Chima and Tzekel-Kan's most hardened warriors gawk. The beast rears up twice their feet, bugling a warning. His flailing hooves keeps their spears at bay. She happily cowers behind him. So does the dark thing she tripped over, pressing flat against the idol. The one swathed in white makes no attempt to defend himself. He fearlessly stares the warriors down.

After a moment that lasts eternity, the beast falls back down onto all fours, still snorting indignantly.

Chel discreetly weighs her stolen tribute. Would hurling it at someone else offset some of the blame?

Then the stranger cowering beside her nervously clears his throat. "Uh, hello. Is-Is this your rock?" Every last soul, including his two companions, blink at him. A frantic smile pulls at his unruly beard. "Sorry. We were just looking. We're, uh, tourists!"

...Tourists?

"...Tourists?" Chima echoes blankly.

The one robed in white boggles at his partner. "Tourists?"

The fat deer groans and rolls his eyes.

"Tourists," the dark one repeats. His smile widens. "We-We lost our group. May we go now?"

Chel stares. She doesn't know what they are, but she knows what they are not. And they are not men.

The dark one has a greasy mane of black hair and a beard thicker than any man she's seen. Bloodstains that clearly aren't his own stain his ragged clothing. Yellow flickers in the depths of his midnight blue eyes. His disguise is still more convincing than his partner's. At least his hairy face still looks plausibly mortal.

The one robed in white has a face that's... not quite right. Chel can't look him too long before she her eyes are compelled elsewhere. A cold sweat breaks out on her neck.

Chima turns to his warriors. A few questioningly raise their spears. Others clutch their weapons, eyes bulging in fearful disbelief. An argument unfolds in raised eyebrows, shrugs, and head shakes.

Chima raises an arm. His warriors all snap back to him. Chel's grip tightens around her stolen tribute.

"You... came to see the city?"

"Of course we came to see the city." The dark one grins vindictively. His partner bristles. "It's our destiny, our fate."

A warrior gulps. Chel's eyes narrow.

"What of your group?" Chima rumbles.

The dark one falters. The light one glances skyward. Chima follows his gaze, clears his throat, and asks them to follow.

The dark one swaggers after him. His companion shadows his every move. The beast trails behind them in resignation. Their escort remains a respectful, if not fearful, distance away. None dare to look them in the eye, much less swing another spear in their direction. Who dares to offend divinity or the sort of great demon only a high priest can hope to banish?

Chel's given no such choice. Two warriors seize her by the arms and drag her after them.

Crossing under the waterfall, Chel and her captors wade ankle deep. They all try not to stare at the light one. He skims sedately over the surface, barely wetting the hem of his robes. His companions trudge down with the mortals.

Chima and most of his warriors crowd toward the second boat. Only one is given the honor of ferrying their 'tourists.' Chel almost lets herself get dragged to the safety of the majority. Then, in the same burst of inspiration that told her to just take a head and run for it, she slips free of her captors to bolt for the other boat. No one stops her.

The beast awkwardly positions his bulk in the back of the boat. The golden one kneels beside him, one hand winding into his mane. The dark one shamelessly sprawls out in the prow. Chel settles into the middle bench. She has it all to herself.

The being in the prow stares into the depths of her soul like a snake sizing up a mouse. Chel glares. He clears his throat and turns away, yellow gaze fading into bashful blue.

She purposefully turns around. The 'deer' blinks curiously down at her. The golden one at his side gawks in blatant fascination. Chel's scowl softens into a scolding stare. He opens his mouth and... pauses. Gold brows furrow. His silence drags on. With a sigh, he turns his attention to the beast at his side, fussing over the tangles in his mane. She leaves him to it.

When they get back to Manoa, Tzekel-Kan is definitely killing somebody. Maybe he needs to smite three monsters. Maybe he's about to get the kind of physical gods he's always wanted. Either way, someone's ending up on the altar.

But it's not gonna be her. Not now, and not ever.

And destiny just handed her the distraction to end all others.

Notes:

And NOW we're a slow burn OT3 :D

Chapter 13: big smile (like you mean it)

Summary:

The Devil made a bluff... and got the ball rolling.

If only they were all on the same page.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Descending into the caverns, the boats leave daylight behind. Darkness shrouds their surroundings. Aside from the murmuring waters and the creak of the hulls, all is silent. Chel can almost feel the weight of Lord Xarayes' presence. Somewhere out there the God of Xibalba weighs his options. Does Chima's offer of guest right extend to such strangers, or should he drown them all before they reach Lake Parime?

In torchlight the strangers' disguises look even flimsier than before. The dark one has eyes that flash yellow in the flickering light. His silhouette can't settle on a shape; serpentine one second and horned the next, three heads then seven. The light one, limestone pale, glows all his own. His shadow reveals strange dark limbs huddled on his back.

Neither speaks. One fusses over the fat deer's mane or else watches stone carvings float by with wide eyes. The longer they drift in darkness, the tenser the other one becomes. He eagerly leans over the prow when the first glimmer of daylight peeks through the other side.

So Lord Xarayes hasn't decided to put them out of their misery after all. How generous of him.

A glint catches Chel's eye. She gasps and bundles her stolen gold up tighter. The fat deer snorts suspiciously. His companions are too enraptured by the vine curtain to notice.

Sailing past the greenery, their jaws both drop.

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

In the late afternoon light Manoa gleams with all the radiance of dawn. Even Lake Parime's clear blue waters seems to have turned to gold. The Great Temple shines like a beacon.

A swarm of vibrant butterflies flutters past. Chel follows their path... and notices dark smoke wafting from Lady Raima's peak. Chel's grip around her gold squeezes even tighter. The fat deer snorts again. Then his gaze flickers down to the kingfish, larger then their boat. He whips his tail out of the water.

A crowd quickly gathers. They gape. Women drop their pots. Children cling to their mothers' skirts. Behind the backs of the 'tourists,' Chima's warriors shake their heads and wildly motion for the city to go on with business as usual. Not many listen.

The 'tourists' aren't quite oblivious to the attention. The light one settles into guarded wariness. His bright eyes never leave the city's wonders. The dark one instead watches their audience. He scans his surroundings for escape roots.

Upon docking Chima immediately stalks for the Jaguar God's temple. A royal messenger in turn sprints for the palace. Chel's heart pounds faster.

The fat deer leaps off the boat. His companions scramble after him. When both seem ready to mount him, they glare at each over his back, and instead walk at his sides. The right one marches with a warrior's discipline. After a beat, the one on his left tilts up his chin, and swaggers proudly onward. The crowd hems them in from all sides. There's no escaping. Not for them. And definitely not for her.

Chel follows in their wake. She stays behind their range of vision and too close for any warriors to dare risk grabbing her. She hides her bundle behind her back best she can.

"Look at this place," mutters the dark one. "We've found my sort of people."

"Not yours," murmurs the light one. "Not now. Not ever."

"Y-You f-"

Tzekel-Kan steps forth from the crowd, a wall of warriors at his back. His eyes narrow at the 'tourists' beneath him, two strangers that look nothing like any god or monster yet known to their people. The strangers stare back, one solemn and the other with predatory intent. Tzekel-Kan tilts his head. Manoa holds its breath.

Chief Tannabok strides to Tzekel-Kan's side, grim-faced and regal. He glances at his very confused high priest. Then his face breaks into a smile. He descends down the steps with wide open arms. "Welcome, honored guests."

The dark one jerks up a hand. "H-Hey."

Tzekel-Kan glares daggers at the man who dared take such 'travelers' under his protection first. Their chief doesn't bat an eyelash. "I am Tannabok, chief of this fair city. What names may we call you?"

The light one opens his mouth, then closes it. His expression tightens further.

The dark one tilts up his chin. "Call me... Tulio." He smirks at his companion. "And he's-"

"Miguel," blurts out the light one. "I'm Miguel." The fat deer nickers expectantly. "Oh, and this is Altivo! He's, um... a horse."

Tzekel-Kan swallows his spite. He clasps his hands and leans forward, toeing the line between reverence and warm reception. "I am Tzekel-Kan, devoted high priest and speaker for the gods."

Tulio's grin falters. Miguel sneers. The temperature around him flares. Tzekel-Kan flinches. Tulio inches further away from his companions. Chel quietly recedes back toward the crowd.

Chief Tannabok's smile widens. His eyes tense. "Your arrival is a most... welcome surprise." He takes a placating step forward, a shield between his people and the strange unknown before them. "As my honored guests, it would be my privilege to offer you luxurious accommodation in my palace."

Miguel blinks. Tulio's lip quirks upward.

Tzekel-Kan uneasily looks away from them. He fixates on her instead.

With a deep breath, she marches forward, and plasters on her brightest smile. She looks Miguel and Tulio both right in the eyes. "And I'm Chel, your tour guide."

"Your... tour guide?" Tzekel-Kan echoes.

Miguel is just as lost. "Tour guide?"

"Of course!" Chel unwraps and holds up her tribute, clearly from the Great Temple. She bulges her eyes out at the two most powerful men in her city in hopes they take a hint. Whatever hint they want from her. "I came with a welcoming gift."

Tulio eagerly snatches the idol from her. "And what a gift it is!" He smirks at her, eyes gleaming brighter than his stolen gold. "Really, Chel, without you we could have been looking for this place forever."

"Whatever has come to be has already been named," Miguel intones ominously. Okay then.

"...Ah." Tzekel-Kan ponders all this. Understanding dawns in his eyes. He bows his head. "Then I shall leave you to your... visit."

"Splendid!" Chief Tannabok folds his hands and presses forward. "Perhaps I could prepare a glorious feast for you tonight?"

"All right!" Tulio chirps. "Feast!"

Miguel's brow furrows. "I... I don't eat."

"Much!" Tulio butts in. "You don't eat much. In moderation, with lots of fasting like the diligent soul you are. But you still eat! Everybody does, right?" He forces a laugh. "Besides, you wouldn't want to be inhospitable, would you?"

Miguel puffs up in affront. "Of course not!"

Chel sighs in relief. At least they recognize some concept of good guest behavior.

Chief Tannabok eagerly ushers them all toward the relative refuge of his palace and away from the gawking, vulnerable crowds. His halls are large as the interiors of the great temples, and seem larger still from the suspicious lack of staff. The few servants they meet all keep a safe, respectful distance. They smile wide at their guests, just like they mean it, and never dare look them in the eyes.

"It will take time to prepare a feast lavish enough for such esteemed company," Chief Tannabok says diplomatically. "In the meantime I can have you escorted to my finest chambers so that you might and... refresh yourselves from such a long and harrowing journey."

Miguel frowns down at his robe. His impossible beauty is marred by travel stains. And the limpid gold curls that refuse to either hang straight or bounce up in a texture like his partner's. Tulio picks at his bloodstained rags. A blush creeps over his unruly beard.

"Both," he mumbles. "Both is good."

As guests of honor a jittery servant leads them to palatial chambers on the far side of the palace, those intended to house an adult royal heir and their family if their elderly parent still rules as chief or chieftess. Miguel and Tulio are offered rooms of vast but identical size. Altivo snorts in grave offense at being in any proximity to them. He trots off for a different wing.

Chel gets no such reprieve. As the 'guide' she gets stuck with the more terrifying two guests. Before retreating to her own room she peeks in on her charges. Just to make sure they haven't vanished in to thin air or transformed into man-eating monsters or something.

She catches Tulio peeling off his pants. When he catches her at the curtain, he slows down. Chel takes just a second to ogle the lean body concealed by those rags. Then she rolls her eyes and moves on. He's too dirty for even the dirty kind of fantasies.

At last checking in on Miguel should set her head on straight. He's just... not right in a way that sets her hair on edge. Chel morbidly wonders if he even has a body under those billowing robes. If his face alone isn't convincingly human then did even bother with a-

Oh.

Chel stares.

Oh.

Her eyes water.

Miguel yelps. His hands freeze just when his robe might slip past his waistline. "D-Do you mind?"

"No," she breathes, unable to wrench her eyes away.

Green eyes widen. Red floods into flawless cheeks.

"Oh! Oh!" Chel jolts back to herself. "Right. Uh, excuse me."

Just when Miguel starts spluttering, she snaps the curtain closed, and tries to steady her breathing. Chel barely stops herself from peeking again. A glimpse more of that and she might spontaneously combust.

There's beauty and then there's beauty; a spectacular sunrise, the constellations in the wide vault of the sky, the city from the Great Temple when the light strikes it just right. Outside her loftiest imaginations of the gods, Chel had never imagined such grace embodied.

But it's the memory of Miguel's blush that makes her smile. Under that stony exterior he does have something else after all, a side more palatable to her puny mortal brain.

Chel retreats to her room. Her smile falls as she glances outside the window.

In the growing gloom, Lady Raima's volcano is still smoking.

She should slip away in the dead of night, before Chief Tannabok realizes she has no control over this situation. Before Tzekel-Kan realizes she had just held up a stolen idol and let his own assumptions fill in a plausible story. Now she knows the route through the caverns by heart. By the time anyone realizes she's missing she could be in a village miles away.

Assuming anyone that survives an eruption would care to look for her. Or whatever the chief's 'guests' might do when they finally wear out their welcome.

After a long moment, Chel sighs and drags a hand down her face. Might as well see where this goes. It's not like she could make it through the jungle on her own anyway. If his high priest couldn't have her blood, then Balam Qoxtok would send his jaguars to devour her instead.

Chel vehemently rips off her clothes. Tonight she's a tour guide, not an acolyte. She chooses a deep pink dress without a trace of holy white because she likes the color and just because she can.

If only she could change earrings so easily. Without a formal change of status she's stuck with plain green stone.

When she's finally ready to face her guests (and her chief), Chel hesitates on the threshold of her room.

Gods damn her curiosity.

She charges forth to meet her destiny.

Notes:

Pay no attention to the tourists that are obviously just tourists. Nothing to see here :) Don't try to tell them what they are and what they are not :) You don't want to insult go- guests, do you? :)

Hospitality was a BIG thing historically, especially in ages when sheltering and treating a guest right could literally be the difference between life or death. The punishment against Sodom and Gomorrah is widely interpreted as punishment for their numerous perversions of the laws of Hebrew hospitality. It should be noted in the angels in disguise posed as guests, and Lot and his family were saved by being incredible hosts to them... even when the whole damn city was demanding for them to give up their 'guests.' And that's why you entertain angels unawares. Unless you like being smote and/or turned into a pillar of salt.

Chapter 14: a glorious feast

Summary:

In vinum veritas.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Surrounded by steam, Tulio moans and sinks himself deeper into bliss.

Warm.

Warm enough to ease aches from the journey he never knew he had. Warm enough to nearly banish the chill from his bones.

The hammams of Andalusia are heated by furnaces that burn beneath the floors. This water has the same mineral tang from the hot spring, warmed by the earth itself. It pours down from a spout in the wall, continuously overflows the stone tub, and runs out of the room in smaller channels. His eyelids flutter at the murmuring fountains. He'd forgotten how tired he is. Miguel had-

Tulio bolts upright. Ugh. Miguel. God knows how that honest angel is somehow finding a way to ruin his fun before Cortes even gets here.

Instead of soap bars, he finds a strange plant beside his bath. But it smells sort of like soap, and lathers up at his touch. He scrubs himself. Then he attacks his greasy hair. His fingers snarl in knots. With minimal tugging the strands fall free and loose. It cascades past his shoulders. Even soaking wet the ends try to curl.

Tulio picks up an obsidian knife. Fashion in Spain these days demands it cropped far shorter. After a long moment, he sighs and starts hacking away at his beard instead. He should have it a lot closer to his jawline.

Now it's time for finesse. He picks up a mirror of polished obsidian and properly inspects himself for the first time.

Tulio grins.

"Oh, yeah. I can work with this." Especially since his only frantic, half-formed thought this time around had been getting out.

Long face, pointed chin, a roguish glint to his smile. He's charming enough that a mortal can overlook the yellow eyes.

If only he didn't have a shoddy beard to mess it all up.

Tulio trades the knife for a razor. He trims close to Cortes' style and grimaces at the attempt. Why not just go clean-shaven? The most powerful men in this city don't sport any facial hair. He shears away his mustache and around the corners of his mouth. At his chin, he hesitates, and shaves far more conservatively.

Eventually he's left with only sideburns and a sliver of beard on his chin. He's out of style for both Spain and this city. If there's even an actual name for this style.

Despite this, his lip quirks up. He puts the razor down.

By now his hair is starting to dry. Again he hesitates on the knife. Instead he reaches for a comb and oils. Tulio grooms until his hair is sleek and shiny as Chel's, curls aside. Vanity makes him reach for a cord to tie it back. Like hell is he cutting it now.

Reluctantly leaving the bath behind he douses himself in perfume to further shroud the stink of sulfur. Only then can he turn his attention to the sumptuous display of garments laid out for him. He immediately seizes a rich red cloth to wrap around his hips. Almost every man in this city walks around bare-chested. Of course he's gonna show off this pale, lean torso. Especially after triple-checking that it's free of any... unsavory scars or growths.

Turning to the jewelry, Tulio frowns. He planned a red and yellow color scheme. Too bad his choices don't contain a single nugget of gold. Instead he clips in earrings of red jasper. To compensate he further adorns himself in multiple bracelets and necklaces.

After a final glance at the mirror he struts out of his room.

And immediately has someone smack into his naked chest.

"Chel," he squeaks.

"T-Tulio?"

He awkwardly steps back. "Um, hey."

"Y-You..."  Chel gawks up at his face. Tulio braces for the worst. Her gaze flickers down at his half-clothed form, then back to his eyes. She smiles, and a knot in his stomach unwinds. "You clean up nicely."

He puffs out his chest. "So do you." Wait. "N-Not that you weren't nice before or anything! Y-You just look..." Less like a desperate thief trying to talk her way out of an execution. "Uh, you look more at ease."

She blinks, then sighs. A tension drains from her shoulders. "I am more at ease. Serving as your tour guide is a lot more... interesting than my usual job."

"Glad I could be of service." Tulio blinks down the long hallway. "Uh, can you please start with guiding me to dinner?"

Chel taps her chin in mock thought. "I can do that."

Flashing a smile he now knows damn well to be charming, Tulio offers an arm. "Shall we?"

His suave expression widens into an idiot grin when she accepts. Arm in arm, they stride down the hallway's expanse.

They're not alone. A familiar figure paces at the end of the wing. At the sight of them he snaps to attention.

Tulio stares.

Miguel stares right back.

Tulio snickers.

Even fastidiously cleaned, the archangel's hair refuses to cooperate. His perfect curls hang limply down to his shoulders. A stubborn wisp dangles in front of his forehead. He's found the most conservative garment in this city, a robe that goes down to his ankles. He still self-consciously tugs at its short sleeves.

"You look... comfortable."

"And you look vain as ever."

Tulio preens. "If you got it, flaunt it."

"Y-You-" Green eyes darting to Chel, Miguel clams up. Their undignified bickering from the jungle has regained a mortal audience. Miguel tries to hide his mortification behind his angelic mask only for a second. Mystique already ruined, he whirls back to Tulio. "What are you even doing?"

"What are you doing?"

"I-I..." Miguel swallows his instinctive honesty to instead blurt, "I asked you first."

Tulio waves a smug hand toward a very bemused Chel. "Our lovely tour guide is escorting me to dinner."

Miguel's facade flickers, just for a second. Tulio falters at the archangel's fear. Then those green eyes cut through the depths of his soul. That stares always burns harshest when Miguel has someone to protect.

Tulio slackens his hold on Chel's elbow. He nearly lets her go.

Instead he bares his teeth in a vicious smirk and draws himself to his full height. Tulio saw her first. In fact, he calls dibs on the whole damned city. His lies can ensnare them all while Miguel is still choking on a truth that refuses to come. Without the Host behind him he's less than a whisper.

Miguel smiles back, so fierce and bright Tulio is left dazed. He steps to Chel's right and offers a gallant elbow. "In that case, would you mind if I joined you? We can't have anyone getting lost tonight."

"Sure," Chel squeaks. She clears her throat. "Um, no one should be lost tonight. My only wish is to be the best tour guide I can be."

Sandwiched between an archangel and the Devil herself, Chel walks half a step faster than them both. Over her head her 'guests' stare each other down. Turns out Miguel isn't that short after all.


Chel has been caught between a rock and a hard place the majority of her life. Tonight those obstacles happen to be embodied by two strangers, one inhumanly beautiful and the other all too humanly attractive under all that filth. She sweats from their warmth. She's close enough to smell them. Beneath all his perfumes Tulio stinks of sulfur. Miguel only smells like the air before a storm.

Chief Tannabok awaits them in a cavernous dining hall. The table is heaping with platters.

He dines alone. There is no sign of his wife, Miya, or their six little sons. Chel's mouth goes dry.

Chief Tannabok's smile freezes. Miguel uncomfortably pulls at the neck of a long white cotton robe normally favored by wrinkly old priests. Tulio is draped in a tacky amount of red jasper. Like Chel, the chief's gaze lingers longest elsewhere; that long face, prominent chin, the long black hair pulled back just so.

Then Chief Tannabok stands. He smiles even wider and presents his feast with outstretched arms. "Welcome, honored guests." Chel slips her way free of her charges. Her chief's expression gentles for her, ever so slightly. "And of course to Chel, their diligent guide. Please help yourselves."

Tulio grins and plops right down. "Don't mind if I do, chief."

Miguel's scandalized gasp goes ignored by him. So does his reproachful scowl. "Thank you for your hospitality, Chief Tannabok." Miguel's expression gentles. "Such generosity is... not often seen these days."

The chief takes his seat. "All the more reason to be generous."

Tulio drools over the platters. Miguel sits down directly across from him. They warily eye each other. When they glance to Chel, she smiles pointedly back, and claims a cushion far closer to the chief. Tulio shrugs and turns back to the food. He grabs a squash casserole, one intended to serve the whole table, and digs in.

Miguel reels from his gluttony. His brows furrow at the platters closest to him. He ponders them like a priest does the mysteries of divinity.

Chief Tannabok opens his mouth, then closes it. He balks at a question that might very well be an insult.

They can always move some platters for Miguel to 'dine in private.' Certainly no servants would dare whisper about why all those dishes might later return to them untouched. 

Chel is about to delicately suggest it when Miguel finally makes a move. He picks up a single tortilla, pale and bland. An eternity drags by before he nibbles the edge. He chews. And chews. Chel holds her breath. She waits for him to spit it out. His vague disgust mellows. Gold brows furrow even deeper.

Miguel swallows.

After a long pause, he wolfs down the rest of the tortilla. Chel sighs.

Miguel reaches for a second. Tulio blinks at him. He swallows his mouthful of casserole and smirks. "It's good, isn't it?"

His hand flinches back. Miguel draws himself up. "Certainly a... It's, um..." His aloofness cracks. He strains for an answer his tongue refuses to speak. "Yes. It's good. Delicious. Best I've had since Sodom! The only..." Scowling, he snatches the tortilla.

For a moment Tulio basks in their awkward silence. "Definitely quieter than Sodom. No one trying to break down the doors."

Miguel viciously shreds his tortilla. "And whose fault was that?"

"Well, if you really want to go there-"

"Oh, you went there!"

Chel morbidly eyes the pitchers of pulque and maize beer. Drinking herself to death tonight is always an option. She sighs and dips her tortilla into a chili sauce instead. She loudly shoves it down the table. "Anyone want dipping sauce?"

Two bitter rivals stare at her.

"Um... Yes, please." Miguel sheepishly accepts the bowl from her. He dips a shred of his tortilla. His eyebrows fly to his hairline. He clamps down on a grin and shovels the rest of the tortilla in.

"Oh." Tulio blinks down at the remnants of a casserole already vanished down his gullet. "I, uh, probably shouldn't share this one."

They tear into the feast. Chief Tannabok beams. His eyes lose some of their tightness. Chel revels the chance to eat in silence. Her 'guests' are too busy shoveling down food to do anything else. She only downs one cup of pulque. She needs a clear head to wrangle these idiots later. And gods forbid if she has to face them with a hangover tomorrow morning.

If there even is a tomorrow. Lady Raima has been simmering for hours. She can damn well decide to blow her top during the night.

Her hand twitches for a second cup.

With her charges preoccupied, Chel takes another good look. There are dark hollows under Tulio's eyes. The bones of his rib cage peek through. Miguel hesitates every time before he tries a new plate. He bites down smiles.

As the first course winds down, the guests show no signs of slowing down. Chief Tannabok beckons in a new round of plates. The center piece is a whole roast peccary. Her mouth waters.

Tulio's hands fly to his mouth. His chest heaves. Miguel stares into the peccary's black eyes. His pale complexion turns sickly.

Chel suddenly remembers a little girl from so very long ago who couldn't stand cooked meat. Every meal with it had smelled like her grandpa's cauterized flesh.

Staring a horrified servant in the eyes, Chel shoots him a sympathetic look and quickly waves him on. He whisks the peccary away.

"I'm so sorry," she blurts out. "So, so sorry. You never told me you two were vegetarian."

Tulio takes a deep breath and pretends to shrug it off. "It-It's no problem. It, uh, never occurred to me before."

Miguel's serenity is barely more convincing. "Um, please don't worry about it." He clasps his hands together. "To err is human, to forgive-"

Tulio scoffs and reaches for the pulque pitcher. "Oh, please. That's not even one of your axioms."

Miguel snatches the pulque first. "And whose fault is that?"

"Not my fault you jump after that stupid horse." Tulio and Miguel both perk up, searching the hall for their missing companion. "Um, speaking of which, where is the horse?"

"Altivo chose to dine... elsewhere tonight," Chief Tannabok answers diplomatically.

Tulio rolls his eyes and gropes for a pitcher of maize beer. "Of course he did."

Miguel pours a cup of pulque. His brow furrows at its viscous texture and further still at its sour smell. He sips it, then downs the cup.

Servers shuffle in meatless platters; vegetable tamales, roasted squash, fresh fruits, chilies mixed with hearty tomato. Every tribute vanishes down the bottomless stomachs of their grateful guests. So does the wine the chief orders in.

Chel tries not to gawk. Wine is a holy drink, the blood of Lady Paquini. Even the chief himself tastes it in a watered down form. Only gods and human sacrifices have the honor of it drinking it undiluted. Such a sacred libation is beneath Chel's status as an acolyte. As a 'tour guide' she definitely helps herself. She savors that cup like liquid gold.

Her tourists have no such reservations. Tulio drinks it like water. Miguel tries for moderation. Red still flushes into his cheeks.

With his guests placid, Chief Tannabok presses his luck. "My honored guests, how long will you be staying in Manoa?"

Tulio and Miguel startle from their feasting to blink at each other. Miguel's grip tightens on his cup. "Um..."

His rival smirks. "Oh, we're just settling in, chief." He leans forward, yellow eyes glinting. "How can we leave such beauty behind? We even haven't seen the best your city has to-"

Miguel rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on!"

"I-I'm not coming on. I-"

"Just trying to slither your way into disaster? Again." Miguel scoffs and downs his wine. "We've only been here a few hours! Can I have a day when I don't have to clean up your messes?"

"Excuse me?" Tulio hisses. "Can I have one day without you breathing down my neck?"

"And whose fault is that?"

"Uh, yours?"

Chief Tannabok takes a deep breath. Wisdom keeps him rooted to his seat. He can no more intervene in this argument than he could in the clashes between the Jaguar God and the Crocodile God. Chel notes every potential exit.

Between insults the idiots bolt back alcohol. They lean across the table to leer in each other's faces. Their faces flush, their tongues slur. At times Chel doesn't even think they're speaking Manoan. She and her chief listen in utter bewilderment; snippets about forbidden fruit, daddy's boys, and pillars of salt.

"'Lyin' low?'" Miguel furiously waves his cup at Tulio, splattering red all over the table. "Y' call that 'lyin' low?'"

"When'n Rome!"

"Thish ishn't Rome!"

"Eshactly!"

Miguel jabs a finger. "Then whosh' the... the beard for? 'Cause that ishn't a real beard."

Tulio gropes defensively at the one little patch of beard left on his chin. "It's shtylish! Um, so shtylish it's ahead of style. At least I changed my look!"

"You tried to change my name! Of all the thingsh to lie about!"

"I wash just gonna have some fun, Mic-Mik-Miguel. It would've been shumthing funny." Tulio cackles. "Like Mishter High and Mighty. Or Morningshtar."

"Y-You f-" Miguel huffs. "And to think I liked your shtupid beard."

Blue eyes widen. "You... like my beard?"

Miguel squints at Tulio's stubble like an artist surveying a masterpiece. "Eh. I like it better than that bush before. And you washed that greashy hair."

He cackles. "I can toasht to that!"

They slam their cups together, splattering wine over each other, and down what's left. Then they fumble more. Their tongues once more slur out of Manoan. Between their bickering they grin and wave their cups Chel's way. She smiles and pretends to take a sip of her empty cup. So does Chief Tannabok when they babble to him next. She wonders what their toasts were even about.

Miguel stumbles further. Pouting, he instead tries to sing. Chel's hair stands on end at his few slurred, wavering notes.

He slumps down on the table. Tulio laughs, then promptly keels over beside him.

Chel drags a hand down her face. She stands up and heads down the table to shake Miguel's shoulder. "Come on. We're long past your bedtime."

Green eyes crack open. He mumbles in protest.

She manages a weary smile for their host. "Our apologies, Chief Tannabok. Your glorious feast was... overwhelmingly appreciated."

Her chief smiles back, his gaze deep and thoughtful. "I've only done my duty as a... dutiful host. I'm glad my offerings made our guests feel at home. I hope you feel just as comfortable here."

"Of course." Better than her austere, claustrophobic quarters as an acolyte. Better than Tzekel-Kan's altar or being torn apart by a jaguar in a treacherous jungle.

A few servants inch in to help. Chel hauls Miguel out of his seat and into their arms. Their fear quickly slumps into bemusement. The cold, stoic figure from hours earlier can't keep himself upright. He's flushed red as a tomato, head lolling, and infinitely less... unsettling. He's approachable enough for servants to shuffle him off to bed. They nod along to whatever nonsense he mumbles to them. Because apparently the idiot asleep on his feet still insists he has no need for rest.

Chel turns to Tulio. She remembers how self-conscious she was when he stumbled into her, how widely he beamed when she accepted his invitation.

So too does she remember Miguel's fear. How tightly Tulio's arm coiled around her own.

Waving the servants off, she ventures forward alone, and shakes his shoulder. And sighs when his eyes when his eyes open deep, placid blue.

"Sh-Sh-Chel?"

"Uh huh," she drawls. "Time for bed."

Tulio perks up. He stumbles to his feet. She slings his arm over her shoulder. They totter down the hall. He's not the first drunken idiot she's dragged back to bed. At least this one's hands never wander. He apologizes every time he trips over her feet or slumps against a wall.

Upon making it back to his room Tulio falls face-first into bed. He burrows deeper into the downy mattress with a long, loud groan of contentment.

Her lip quirks up. "Good night, Tulio."

As she turns to leave, his head tilts up. "Shel?"

"Yes?"

"I... I'm shorry." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "So, so sorry."

Her nails sink into her palms. "F-For what?"

His face crumbles. "...Better you than me."

In the deep darkness his shadow flickers; a monstrous serpent, ragged bat wings, a three-headed beast with screaming men between its teeth.

She blinks, and he's a man again, deceptively small. Despite the warmth of the palace he shivers and huddles into himself.

Chel flees back to her room. There's nowhere left to run. Not now.

She prays not to sleep tonight.

After the day she's had, it finds her anyway.


Nightmares are nothing new. As a child she dreamed her best friend's bones calling up to her from Lord Cassipa's cenote, alongside all the other countless little girls down there. Then came the Bat God sucking the breath from her grandma's lungs, her grandpa screaming as the Snake Goddess' venom burned him from the inside out. Her mother has vanished into Xibalba's maw a thousand times.

Most prolific of all is the Balam Qoxtok, whose domain lies between death and dreaming. He suffocates her father in his fangs and tears apart her brother like an ocelot would a mouse. She's his favorite toy. He runs her down as a jaguar black as obsidian. In the shape of a man he instead wields a sacrificial knife. He purrs like Tzekel-Kan, rumbles like an earthquake, and shrieks sharp as broken glass.

Tonight she dreams of a serpent in an impossible garden. His scales glitter midnight blue. He coils above a woman with a child's guileless eyes. So too does she dream of fire lashing her back, a light now too harsh to bear, the mournful wails of those driven from the only home they've ever known into a cold, cruel world.

A single pillar of salt stands at the edge of a burning, sulfurous plain. All life inside is ash.

In a dark room reeking of alcohol, strange men turn sour as their wine. The larger that pile of illicit winnings grows, the louder that treacherous little hiss in their minds becomes. Atop that pile is flung a piece of paper, old and yellowed. Eyes narrow. Jokes fall silent. Hands creep toward hidden weapons. The night erupts in blood.

For a heartbeat, she nearly turns her gaze skyward, before thinking better of it. Those songs at the edge of her hearing are not meant for human ears. Their true faces would burn the eyes from their sockets. Instead she desperately glances down.

Beneath her is a demon too vast for her mind to comprehend. The Jaguar God himself could be swallowed by one of those gnashing, bloody maws. Its claws rake against the ice, and the endless souls entombed within. Its buffeting wings chill her to the bone.

Far too late, she realizes she isn't the only one who wanted in to get out.

Notes:

...And this night is not yet over ; )

Concept art for the movie shows Chel lounged by a large stone bath supplied with running water. Given the presence of hot springs and thermal activity right in the city itself, that water is most definitely hot - which differs from Roman traditions in Iberia that carried over into Muslim Andalusia, as their bathhouses used standing water heated by furnaces under the floor. Old World soap was boiled down from animal fat. Aztecs and other indigenous groups in the Americas used roots that created a natural soapy substance.

Chapter 15: in the dead of night

Summary:

After a very stressful day, a city tries to wind down.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

At an ungodly hour, Tannabok stamps out the last of his cigar and finally crawls into bed. Miya pretends to wake up. They both know sleep is impossible.

"Tanni," his wife mumbles. "How'd it go?"

Tannabok considers their gluttonous guests and tension thick enough to cut with a knife. His gaze flicks to the window. From Lady Raima's peak black smoke still drifts up to darken the moon.

"As well as could be expected." He kisses her brow. "How were the boys?"

"They missed you at dinner." Miya huddles close. "Chiku went down without a fuss. Half of Kuili's maize ended up on the ceiling. The ones old enough to talk couldn't stop asking about our... guests." She clutches at his chest. "Except Matla. He tried so hard to be mature about this. Even when he looked ready to explode with questions."

Tannabok represses a shiver. No matter how much strength he takes from Miya at his side, he'd rather his family be sent to the other side of the city, if not out of Manoa entirely. A courteous host doesn't burden his guests by having them dine with restless little boys. But what reason would he have to drive his children from their own home? What would he have to be afraid of?

"Matla's a good boy," he assures in a steady voice. "He'll keep his brothers polite." And as far away from bothering their company as humanly possible.

"Should he also teach them to be... reverent?"

His brows draw down. Those blazing yellow eyes had belonged to nothing benevolent. That beautiful face had been too unnerving to gaze directly at. But with generous feasting Tulio's eyes had mellowed into blue. Miguel's formidable aura had dissipated. Tannabok had stopped worrying about them brawling over dinner.

And started wondering about other facets of their relationship.

A weary chuckle escapes him. "Well, it never hurts to be polite."

For eternity they lay in silence. Maybe if he'd had some of that wine after all sleep might have finally found him.

"...They're exes, aren't they?"

Tannabok may question possible gods, but some things are beyond speculation.

"Oh, most definitely."


Secluded in the heart of his temple, away from people and petty distractions, Tzekel-Kan prays. And prays. He delves deep into the lore past down to him by his predecessors. He brews potions and burns incense to invoke a meditative trance. He murmurs invocations until his throat goes hoarse. His back aches from remaining prostrate before the idols.

Still no visions find him. The Jaguar God stalks the deepest dreams, the fine line between this world and the next. But Tzekel-Kan's mind races too fast for sleep.

Even if he could he doubts Balam Qoxtok would deign to find him. Tonight the world holds its breath. Lady Raima simmers without erupting. No wind stirs the trees. Despite the stars overhead, the air hangs heavy with a storm that refuses to break.

Again Tzekel-Kan wonders what beings have entered his city until the flimsy masks of mortal men. He had been so ready to declare them gods... and then he had lain eyes on them himself. Neither looked like any god Tzekel-Kan knows. Tulio's yellow eyes belong to nothing human. Miguel had almost hurt to gaze upon. Chima had not known what to call them. These strangers had offered up nothing. Tzekel-Kan had been tongue-tied.

And then Chief Tannabok had declared him his honored guests, depriving Tzekel-Kan the chance to take them into his own protection. Or to question them further. Why should a high priest fret over foreign 'mortal' guests?

One does not question divinity.

Tzekel-Kan shudders. When he had introduced himself as speaker for the gods, Miguel had sneered. Under those terrible green eyes, Tzekel-Kan had felt small. Smaller than he'd ever felt as an anxious young acolyte. Smaller than he'd ever felt under the gaze of the Jaguar God.

For the first time in years, the high priest of the Jaguar God had been... terrified.

Shaking himself from that memory, Tzekel-Kan turns to Chel. The troublesome acolyte just begging for the altar. The thief that had dared steal from the Great Temple. The 'tour guide.'

When Tulio had snatched their 'welcoming gift' from her, when Miguel had ominously declared whatever was to come had already been foretold, Tzekel-Kan thought he'd understood what Chel had been trying to tell him.

Upon returning to the sanctuary of his temple, with time and distance from them, Tzekel-Kan had began to doubt.

Fortunately, he does not have to rely on faith alone.

"My lord?"

Tzekel-Kan lurches upright. He squints against smoke and shadows at a familiar figure.

Despite clearing his throat, his voice still comes out low and strained. "Yes, Chima?"

His head warrior grips his spear a little tighter. "You have a visitor, my lord."

"Ah." He rises to his full height and smooths back his hair. "Send him in."

Tzekel-Kan has no shortage of 'visitors' across the city. Especially in Tannabok's ranks. He vaguely recognizes this one as a palace servant. He creeps into the high priest's presence timid as a mouse. His name is insignificant. He doesn't dare look Tzekel-Kan in the eye.

"Well?" Tzekel-Kan grits out. "How fare our... guests?"

"They're, um..." The servant's shifty eyes focus elsewhere. He gawks. "Oh. Oh."

Tzekel-Kan follows his gaze to the stele of the Dual Gods. Every temple in Manoa has a shrine dedicated to the Lords of the Fifth World. The servant's eyes bulge in... recognition. And are fixed on one god in particular.

Oh.

Tzekel-Kan quirks a questioning brow. Chima bows his head. "Apparently L... Tulio has cleaned up his appearance, my lord."

Renewed hope and enthusiasm bubble through him. Tzekel-Kan rubs his hands hands together and clamps down on a vindicated grin. "Ah," he sighs. "Perhaps we should prepare for our... reverent ceremony after all."

A ceremony devoted to no one god in particular, a mere Person of the Vine clubbed before the entrance to Xibalba. He can't make a sacrifice more neutral than that. If they hurry they can have it ready for dawn.

The servant startles from his shock. "L-Lor-They're vegetarian, my lord. M-Miguel and Tulio."

"Vegetarian," he echoes blankly.

The servant nods emphatically. Tzekel-Kan slumps. Certain health restrictions or religious schools prevent the consumption of meat; some abhor only red meat, others fowl, and others still avoid eating even things lowly as flies. The gods demand blood; usually their priests try sating them with animal sacrifice, but will always escalate to human lives if the situation demands it.

All except Lady Death, who spurns all tribute.

And the Dual Gods, who have no priesthood, or even a presence in the Great Temple that has long awaited their arrival.

With renewed understanding, Tzekel-Kan again ponders the events of today.

"Of course," he demurs. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves." He smiles serenely. "Thank you, Chima, that will be all for tonight."

His trusted warrior bows and takes the servant with him. As they take their leave, Tzekel-Kan turns his gaze back to the brazier, and watches the last embers burn themselves out.

Tzekel-Kan is sworn to Balam Qoxtok above all others. No wonder why Miguel had nearly looked ready to smite him for daring to insinuate he could speak for other cults as well. Especially when a 'tour guide' had been compelled to take gold from the Great Temple and stumble out into the wilderness to meet her 'tourists.' Miguel and Tulio have obviously chosen their speaker, a woman who stands against all Tzekel-Kan has striven for. He knows he's been rebuked for his hubris.

It could have been worse. He could have exposed Miguel and Tulio's true identities before they deigned reveal themselves. He could have denounced Chel as a thief or even denounced her 'tourists' as...

Tzekel-Kan shivers. Whatever he may have first sensed about Tulio, his glimpse of Miguel's true nature had been anything but demonic. A mere mortal priest was just... unprepared for how powerful the true Lords of the Fifth World really are.

In a burst of cold sweat, he spins back to the idol, and stares in horror at the figure he'd overlooked. The Dual Gods of the stele ride upon Lord Ayau, the Feathered Serpent. Miguel and Tulio had arrived with a horse named Altivo.

He's forgotten to ask what had become of their herald.


He has luxurious accommodations awaiting him. With the stomp of his hoof palace servants would scramble to ready him a sumptuous feast all his own.

Instead Altivo grazes under the vault of the starry skies. The grass is thick and lush. He can follow the crisp scent of apples to an orchard bursting with fruit. The trees are low enough for him to grab apples right off the branch. All their skins are gold, their flesh richer than any apple he's eaten before. Altivo eats his weight in them. Even now an immortal's appetite lingers.

So does a stubborn old godly pride. Altivo relied on a Devil and an archangel to save him from the sea and then keep him alive in all those miserable days adrift. Upon reaching dry land, he had become their babysitter, and left increasingly exhausted as they once again became hellbent on their eternal war. Why should he suffer their bitter arguments over mealtimes? Or get woken up by Tulio's unrelenting nightmares?

This late at night there's no mortals to fret over him. He's still close enough to civilization to not worry over predators. Even if that volcano does explode during the night, he'll be too deep asleep to care.

Just as Altivo eats his fill, a soft wind stirs the trees. His nostrils twitch at the sweet scent of rain.

A shadow stirs in branches above. Equine instinct urges him to shy away. But, even now, he's so much more than a horse. He remains right where he is.

The serpent slithers down the branches to stare in naked curiosity. Altivo gawks right back. This land has no native horses, just as Iberia doesn't have snakes resplendent with feathers.

Altivo's eyes soften. He nickers in recognition, then again in gratitude. He remembers how the tide had shifted that last bitter night at sea, a wind that carried with it the promise of life and salvation.

The serpent flicks out his tongue. Its just touches Altivo's ear. He squeals in surprise and lurches away.

With a hissing laugh, the serpent sticks out his tongue again, and hurls himself through the tree. He undulates through the air like a fish through water. Even as his physical form dissolves, the wind tugs playfully at Altivo's mane.

Altivo tosses his head. Rearing up, he bugles his challenge, and races him into the night.


Their world is light. Their world is song. They are His left hand and His right, brought into being as one, and destined to remain entwined unto the end of time.

Their world shatters; in loathing, in utter destruction, in the war to end all wars. Their harmony fractures. For all one half reaches desperately back, in fear and confusion, the other burns too hot to reach. If he's not with them, then he's against them.

The Host recoils from the betrayal of their brothers and sisters, all led by the brightest of their number. Their Creator roars, and they roar with him. Despite their shattered ranks they rise higher than ever. He flies at their head, unifying their voices of grief and disbelief into a rallying call of who is like the Lord? THERE IS NONE LIKE THE LORD!

One by one, his siblings fall like stars. He cuts the wings from their backs and kicks them down to the ruthless world below. He is the right hand, the leader of the Host. He tears through their siblings to spare others the burden. The screams of the Fallen should be his to bear, and his alone.

But when it's the Morningstar he faces, he... he can't. Even now, he lowers his sword, and tries to-

Searing flames slash for his wings, his sense of self. He lashes back in blind reflex, an animal instinct he didn't know they had, and ends it. He keens his grief and why why w-

Claws sink into his wings. Every time he struggles, every time he scream, his foe grips in tighter. The same hands that once preened his feathers now grip heavy as lead. They drag him down down d-

In a strike greater than there will ever be again, their Creator swats down the rebel at last. He Falls, burning a hole dark and deep through creation, and into a Hell of his own making.

When the last of their siblings plummet, the Host huddle together. Their wounds are made whole. They embrace in love and tremulously raise their voices once more, to drown out the agonized cries and desolate wails of those abandoned below.

Apart from the others, he hesitantly runs his hands over his primary wings. His feathers are white and radiant.

Underneath them, the claw marks of Sam-the Adversary-are puckered scar tissue.

He might have prevented his Creator from healing him completely. Or perhaps it's a warning left by Him, to never again let his pity bring him so close to Falling. He knows better than to question why. Just as they should know better than to ask about-

sorrysorryWE'RESOR-

In a blinding bolt of light, the storm blots them out.

His thin, wavering voice cuts off.

He's begging all alone. And now it's his turn to-

Down down down he drifts, toward cold and abyssal depths. At first his wings are leaden weights, then so numb he can't feel them at all. He fumbles with his armor. One by one, glimmering pieces drop into the dark. He thrashes for the surface.

It's not enough. It will never be enough. Not now, not ever again. Mercy saved him twice before from his inability to let go of the Adversary. It will not spare him a third time. He gasps on a breath more seawater than air. And sinks.

The longboat above drifts away. Implacable tendrils coil around his legs and pull him away from air and sky. His vision fades, red-violet at the edges.

No. No. Pleaseplease pl-

Unable to hold back any longer, he finally opens his mouth, and lets the sea flow in.

The sour, heady sea.

And the world flips upside down. He's flat on his back, tendrils wrapped around his limbs. He kicks and thrashes against... against warm, soft arms.

A hand slaps him hard on the back. His lungs spasm. He hacks out wine. As he does, the hand gently rubs his back in a motion half-familiar.

"Easy," soothes a voice rich and deep. "Easy. You're all right."

Green eyes flutter open. He lies in a bed of grapevines. A full moon sails overhead, illuminating a verdant garden. The air is fragrant with ripe fruit and rich soil. For a moment all is right in the world.

Memory nags him. No cedars shelter him under their branches. The smells aren't quite right. Even the skyline of the town in the distance isn't familiar. He weakly turns his head to wine-red eyes and rich dark hair framing a gentle, foreign face.

He chokes on something that might be a sob. "Y-You're not-"

Her hand cards through his hair. He freezes. Something warm and wet springs up in his eyes.

"Shush," she murmurs. "Shush." One hand brushes the hair from his face. The other offers up a golden cup. "No more nightmares. No more. I promise."

When she tilts the cup to his lips, he imbibes without a second thought. The wine is warm and sweet.

Darkness, deep and gentle, carries him off.

He sleeps soundly.

If only for tonight.


Somewhere else entirely, a woman furiously rubs her aching temples, and grits her teeth against the fire in her veins. Her blood's been boiling for hours. She can't help it, with those... things gallivanting through the city like honored guests. There's only one solution to her headache.

And she's been long overdue for one anyway.

When a cup of wine is waved under her nose, she snatches and downs it on reflex. She barely has time to savor the taste before it evaporates in her maw.

Raima exhales steam. "What was that?" she jeers. "A toast to the end of the Fifth World?"

"Not exactly." Paquini's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Consider it a... sample."

"To what?"

"To our usual stakes. Because I bet you two barrels of wine they can make it."

...What?

WHAT?

Raima clenches her fist. The wine cup crumbles to ash. "Absolutely not!" she snarls. "I thought you were with us!"

"I promised you all I would think it through first. And I have." Paquini's smile gains a fierce edge. "Turns out I'm on your dad's side after all."

"Then my father's finally gone senile!" The force of Raima's outburst sends spittle flying from her mouth. Those embers of lava are quick to peter in soil made dark and moist by Paquini's presence.

The Feathered Serpent's winds carry all omens good and bad. He's brought the valley's destruction with him before, and he's done so again. Her dad's bitten off more than he could chew before. And now that arrogant little armadillo has invited in a power that might only bring the end of the Fifth World, but all the worlds that might come after.

Paquini scoffs. "Oh, have a little faith."

"I don't care what pitiful truths you tricked out of them with wine!" she snarls, the whole earth quaking with her. "They're not worth the-"

The Lady of the Vine leans forward, all traces of the humorous mask falling from her face. Her roots wind thick and choking through Raima's soil, enough to bind the earth in place. Raima beholds the ferocious creator long hiding behind that genial wine deity. Two goddesses stare each other down. In their own Worlds they were both great goddesses, heads of their pantheons, but those ages have come and gone. Both still have strong ties to the earth of this land... strong enough to topple the other.

"Two. Barrels. Of wine."

Raima sneers. "And I promise to savor them. I'll give you all a few extra seconds to head for the hills before I blow."

"Uh huh." Paquini bares her teeth. "And when I make you choke on your words you're gonna give me two barrels of your best pulque."

"You're on!"

Paquini pulls away, her vines releasing her choke-hold. Raima takes a deep, calming breath. The plants growing along her slopes straighten back to their full height.

"Was it something you saw in them?" she grits out. "Or that Chel of yours?"

Paquini smirks over her shoulder. "Find out for yourself."

Raima scowls and rubs at her aching temples. "And how am I supposed to unwind from all you and my dad put me through?"

"You've got a husband, don't you?"

Oh.

Right.


After many nail-biting hours, Lady Raima's peak finally stops smoking. Everyone watching holds their breath a little longer... and breathes a sigh in relief when her top doesn't blow off. Most especially the brawny young warriors being eyed by her priestesses. Sometimes sending one down to her hall distracts her long enough to stop an eruption.

Elsewhere in the city, Lord Cassipa's cenote begins to steam. His wife has dropped by after all.

The Rain God's high priestess waves her acolytes onward. Barrel after barrel of alcohol, maize beer and pulque and even wine, is dumped down Lord Cassipa's sacred pool and down to his hall.

Just in case.

Notes:

Tzekel-Kan and Tannabok despise each other. Of course they've got the city crawling with spies :D

And, yes, in practically every universe the gods of Manoa have some version of this argument; give these idiots the benefit of the doubt, or immediately squash them like the insects they are? This time around it just happened to be even more... tense than usual. And when the Volcano Goddess was never all that good at handling pressure...

Chapter 16: the frantic chase (the crazy ride)

Summary:

In which two idiots try to resume a battle of good and evil... and can't even find each other.

Much to the relief of everyone forced to share the same roof with them.

Notes:

I uploaded a chapter on what was technically October 3 for me, but it the update date was set for the 4th. So here's your second update in a 24 hour period :D

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

Chapter Text

After the usual slew of nightmares his sleep is... different. His belly is full, his bed soft, and the wine warm in his veins. His pit subsides into violet darkness and the screams of the damned fade with it. For the first time he drifts in deep, dreamless slumber.

A whisper of instinct still makes him his crack his eyes open. He rolls over to glower at that bright, stubborn speck of light shining outside his window. Dawn is barely a glow on the horizon.

With a bleary grumble, he turns away and burrows into his pillow. He slips back into bliss.

Hours later, he throws up an arm to shield against an obnoxious sun, and groans just for the sake of it. Humans are such whiny meat-bags. To him, a debilitating mortal hangover is barely a tickle. In fact, he feels-

Tulio bolts upright. His brow scrunches. He feels... he feels...

He feels great! Aside from the slight fuzz of the hangover, his head is clear. Clearer than he can ever recall. The world around him is sharp and focused, not the desperate dream of a Devil unable to ever escape his prison. Tulio raises his arms in a stretch. Aches and pains from the journey have faded away.

With a giddy laugh he falls back into bed and cranes his head to face the sun. The warm, warm sun. Finally, he can just lay back and...

Miguel.

Tulio's eyes snap open. He shivers. He's forgotten about Miguel! Miguel; the vigilant, unrelenting archangel. God knows what he's done when Tulio was idle. Tannabok is such a righteous soul. Miguel's probably been wearing him down all night, singing the glories of God and warning of the Devil in their midst. It only takes one faithful new leader to really get the ball rolling.

Tulio springs up from bed. He trips over all the jewelry he kicked off in his sleep and stumbles into the hall.

The curtain to Chel's room is folded upon. She's reclined on a couch, face stuffed with fruit.

"Chel!" he blurts in naked relief. Then he clears his throat and remembers dignity. "Um, hey."

She swallows her mouthful of melon. "Good morning." Her eyes flick down to the vibrant platters of food arrayed before her. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

His stomach rumbles. Tulio laughs over the sound. "Oh, I already ate. Gotta get a head start, y'know? So much to see, so little time!"

"...Right." Chel sets down her melon rind. "Well, I'm just finishing up."

"Great!" Tulio steps into her room and offers a gallant arm. "Shall we?"

"What about-"

"How about this weather, huh?" he enthuses. "You can't ask for a better morning than this!"

"...Sure."

Chel reluctantly follows along, but she follows all the same. What choice does she have? She volunteered to be their 'tour guide' and it's that lie that keeps her under Tannabok's protection. It gives Tulio all the opening he needs. He's no stranger to skeptical souls. With time and charm and persistence, he wins them over.

Chel's as powerless as he is in this, but power he has to give. He can practically make her a queen in this land. If it's the other sort of power he's looking for, his secrets will soon bear fruit. He can show her how to bewitch the gullible and divine the future. His lesser legions can even serve her every whim.

But he soon realizes it's not power she's after. Not really. After all, it's not an ambitious soul that flees into a treacherous jungle with only a bundle of stolen gold.

She only wanted in to get out.

Tulio gets it. Really. No get its more than him. He's gotten out, and he is staying out.

As for what he's getting Chel into... well, it's just business, nothing personal. At least he's offering a very, very fun rest of her mortal life.

Definitely more fun than whatever Miguel is trying to preach.


A light, harsh and bright, sears his eyelids. Miguel whimpers and tries to escape. He only rolls off his bed to smack onto the hard stone. The throbbing in his temples intensifies.

Tulio's tricked him! Just like he tricked him into admitting how much mortal food really affects him. That snake goaded him on purpose, to drink all that... that wicked wine! Wine enough to make even Heaven's mightiest archangel miserable from the resulting hangover.

Miguel groans and cradles his head in his hands. How does he make... it... stop?

A cool wave washes over him, refreshing as a rainstorm in the desert. The ringing his ears subsides. He smiles wearily down at his hands.

Right. He's a healer. These hands have done so much more than strike down evil or deliver souls into the hour of their death. These days, people call upon the heavenly warrior so much he forgets he's more than-

Something close by growls. Miguel rolls to his feet and reaches for a blade that refuses to come. He searches for his foe.

And blinks down at his own stomach.

...What?

"I-I just ate!" His rebellious stomach grumbles. "Y-You f-"

The emptiness inside him rumbles again, commandingly. Miguel grips it with both hands. Since the time he bled living red, he's reminded how unnervingly close this body is to mortal.

Not that it needed sleep before. Or nagged him with lingering pains. Or hungered even after he filled it with a bottomless feast.

He remembers the Watchers entrusted by their Lord to shepherd over humanity on earth. The same decadent Watchers soon twisted and consumed by mortal temptations. The Watchers that infected themselves with desires no angel could cure.

Oh.

Miguel sinks to his knees. He turns anxiously skyward. "I-I-I was trying to be gracious! I'm a guest here. I was just..."

The pit inside him growls contemptuously. Miguel remembers eating a polite amount last night, enough to fill a human belly. He also remembers gluttonously devouring many more times that, filling all those strange depths that should echo with the Heavenly Host.

Oh, no.

No no n-

Miguel lurches to his feet. He stumbles across the room.

And freezes on the threshold. Just like he did the night before. His body quakes.

Chasing an aimless Devil across a desolate jungle is one thing. This is a city. With people. People that can see and whisper and judge. This... This...

What has come to be has already been foretold. Again, Miguel remembers the Watchers. They had bestowed humanity with the early secrets of weaponry and cosmetics, of calendars and writing, long before the Lord decreed them ready for such forbidden knowledge. Instead of gradual discovery, mankind had immediately succumbed to overindulgence.

It had taken a flood to rid the world of the Watchers' sins and wipe the slate clean. Only Noah and his chosen few had survived.

Deep, deep down, Miguel knows he's not supposed to be here yet. The Lord shrouded this place from even his knowledge. And then Tulio, disobedient as ever, had stolen a map before it should have been used. Miguel's followed him here without the Host, without any truths to sing, without his wings to lift him above this sinful earth. Every clumsy word of his mouth might give away a truth these people are not ready for, or else twist an important message beyond comprehension.

Miguel has not walked among humanity since Sodom. He was supposed to be in Sodom. Even then, he he couldn't outright lie to them. He'd depended on Samael to shape a story for Lot and his family, to frame falsehood into a heavenly test of goodness.

Just like he tried to rely on Tulio to guide them both through last night's feast.

With a deep breath, Miguel charges into Tulio's room. He finds it deserted.

So is Chel's.

Fists clenching, Miguel thunders down the hall. Servants scatter before him.

No more talking, no more dancing around the inevitable. He is sending the Devil down to Hell with his bare hands and then he's going home.

Who is like the Lord?

There is none like the L-

Something small and quick darts into his path.

At his speed, there's no avoiding it.

Miguel yelps and falls to the floor. So does the person he tripped over. The temperature around them soars, his wings straining to burst into existence and terrify this clumsy mortal with a proper display of...

He blinks.

The little boy blinks back. He's flat on his back like a stunned turtle, lower lip quivering. Frozen in the hallway are three other boys not much older.

His anger drains quick as it came. Miguel tries for a comforting smile and the song he usually croons to the children he escorts to the heavenly gates, but the notes refuse to come. Instead he flushes in shame. What mortal words could possibly make this any better?

"Um, fear not?"

"...What?"

"Oh, never mind." Blushing further, he sits up from the floor. "I'm sorry about that. So, so sorry."

The boy blushes right back. "So am I, my lord."

His heart skips a beat. "I-I'm not the- a lord."

Two of his brothers exchange a glance. Then one elbows the other and winks back. "Oh. Right."

Miguel sighs, tension easing from his shoulders. "Right."

The oldest boy plasters on a grin and pushes his way between them. "Of course, my... um, honored guest. They're only... playing around!"

The littlest one cocks his head. "If you're not a lord, what can we call you?"

"I'm Miguel and... uh, they call me Miguel."

"Hi, Mr. Miguel." He sticks out his hand. "I'm Naui."

Miguel shakes it. "It's nice to meet you, Naui."

Naui pouts. "I'm sorry again for knocking you over."

"And I'm sorry for knocking you over. I should have been paying attention." He stands, helping the little boy climb to his feet. "Are you all right?"

"Uh huh. Are you all right, Mr. Miguel?"

He huffs a laugh. "I'm all right, Naui." Because... he is. The furor that possessed him a moment ago suddenly seems so insignificant. Especially when he needs to make sure four innocent little boys haven't been traumatized for life over it.

Or maybe he's underestimating the resilience of such bright little minds. Two of Naui's brothers immediately scramble to introduce themselves as Yei and Ome. They shake his hand with gusto. The oldest one, Matla, tries to comport himself with dignity. Mostly he's just embarrassed by his little brothers. Miguel knows the feeling.

Naui wonders into the garden past the hall. He gasps in dismay. "Oh, no! The ball!"

His brothers follow him. It's not caught in a bush or in the branches of a tree. A brown ball instead floats at the center of a sizeable pond.

Ome groans. "Nice going, klutz!"

Yei rubs his hands. "I'll go get it!"

Matla grabs him by the shoulder. "No way, Yei. No one wants to clean pond scum of your hair again. I'll just go... fish it out."

"With what?"

"A branch."

"What branch?"

"Um..."

"Yeah, Matla! What are you gonna do, break a tree?"

"What did these poor trees ever do to you?"

Miguel calmly strides past them. His bare feet ghost over the surface with scarcely a ripple. He picks up the ball, turning it over curiously. The material is dense and smooth, so different from the typical leather or pig's bladders.

When he glances up to ask the boys what it's made of, he finds them all gaping like fish.

"...What?"

Naui boggles. "H-How are you doing that?"

"Oh." Miguel smiles and purposefully doesn't look down. "Well, this little pond can't be that deep, can it?"

"Not for you, apparently," Yei grumbles.

"Yeah." Ome elbows him again. "Because he's a you-know-what."

"What?"

Matla slaps his hands over both their mouths. "N-Nothing, Mr. Miguel!"

Slightly unnerved, Miguel tosses their ball back and hurries back to the certainty of dry land. Rather than catch it, Matla angles to bounce the ball off his elbow. Ome and Yei kick it between them. Naui can't quite copy them. As the ball hurtles toward him Miguel reflexively leans forward to catch it.

Ome snags it first. He beams up. Miguel smiles down.

Expression turning impish, Ome turns to Yei. They pass the ball between them before Yei kicks it at his chest.

Miguel grabs it with both hands. The boys laugh up at him. Except Matla, still gawking at them all.

His smile twists into a grin. He kicks the ball up with his knee, then bounces it off into the garden. Even Matla charges eagerly after it.

Miguel follows. The leader of the Heavenly Host has never backed down from a challenge.


Trying to contain their boys is like trying to cage a storm. Tannabok would love nothing more than to turn them loose for the day, but gods forbid they stumble into their guests' tour of the city. Or Tzekel-Kan's attempts to 'improve' it.

Not that Chel's tour is going to spread past the palace anytime soon. She stops in front of every statue and carving, spinning an elaborate backstory for each. Very little is accurate. Tulio soaks the lies right up. Or just listens for every chance to ramble on about exotic locations like the wide salt sea and the shores of sunny Italy. In turn Chel smiles a little tighter and makes up another anecdote to tie back to her tour.

As the pair continues to drown each other in tapir shit, diligent servants keep the surrounding hallways clear of potential calamity. And redirect their princes down safer routes.

The servants checking in on their... other guest find him still very much asleep. And snoring like thunder.

Ever so slowly, Tannabok and Miya allow themselves to relax. Chel has Tulio well contained. Miguel is down for the count. Considering all the wine he downed last night, they might not even hear a peep from him until suppertime.

Just when they both consider an afternoon nap, a desperate messenger bursts into their chambers. He can barely gasp out princes and Lord Mig-

Tannabok thunders for the gardens, Miya right behind him. It's a ballgame! It has to be a ballgame. Their boys are always so careless with their...

They slow down at the sound of laughter. Four childish voices they know by heart. And a fifth; deep, loud, and delighted.

Most of the curtains and columns around the garden already have a secret audience. The chief and chieftess squeeze their way in too.

Their boys have found a playmate.

Miguel's hindered by his long white robe. The hem is tripped and dirtied from where he's struggled. Even still he moves with liquid grace. He reels circles around their sons, deftly bringing the ball back under control when it bounces off, or giving it the smallest of nudges so Naui stands a chance of hitting back. His grin is wide and guileless, the true self Tannabok only glimpsed after Miguel downed at least two whole barrels of wine. His green eyes are bright and so very, very gentle.

Tannabok and Miya slump together. They fumble for each other's hands.

In their most secret of hearts, a knot that's been winding there since yesterday unravels. Somehow, someway, they know everything will finally be all right.

Squeezing Miya's hand, Tannabok gives their fellow spies a firm look, and quietly shoos them on.

They leave the boys to their game.

Notes:

I got stuck home sick today, but not so sick that my muse didn't wake up :D

Per the Book of Enoch, the Watchers are angels charged with directly watching over humanity. Most fail spectacularly, both by seducing mortal lovers and passing down forbidden knowledge to humanity before God intended for them to learn it. Such forbidden knowledge includes weaponry, writing ink on paper, sorcery and... cosmetics. It took the literal Flood to wipe out the resulting nephilim and knowers of those forbidden secrets. So Miguel has every (traumatized) reason to avoid even flailing his way into a people he's not supposed to be speaking with until his fears over Tulio yet again goad him into it.

Michael is most commonly a warrior angel across the Abrahamic faiths. Starting pretty early in on Christianity, he started gaining some... healing aspects that were pretty rooted to old pagan temples and sacred springs thought to have healing properties. Mostly because those sites (such as the Michaelion) were later reconsecrated as Christian churches with Michael as their patron saint.

This kind of thing... tended to happen a lot during the Christianization of various places. Such as all those old German mountains sacred to the pagan gods getting shiny new churches atop them... almost all dedicated to Saint Michael. I'm sure this sort of thing had no consequence whatsoever :D

Chapter 17: tell the truth

Summary:

Do these idiots actually tell the truth?

...Well, yes and no.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

After a single night under the chief's roof, Chel wants to never leave. The palace is great, the palace is safe. There's servants to wait on her, a luxurious mattress stuffed with feathers, and no way Tzekel-Kan would ever dare show his face here. Why should the city's most powerful priest concern himself with Tannabok's two 'mundane' guests? He's a speaker for the gods! And there are definitely no gods here, no sirree.

Fortunately her tour has no reason to ever leave the palace walls. Every hall is lavishly decorated. Every artifact has a story behind it. Chel makes sure of that. She might know only a few of Tannabok's predecessors, but she makes up dozens more. She spices them up with old melodrama from her childhood neighbors. When she runs out of juicy stuff, she throws in a bit from the more obscure myths she knows. It's not like her 'tourists' even know who the Dual Gods are, let alone lesser deities like the Sloth Goddess or the Parrot God.

If only she could finish a single description.

"See this stone? It looks like jade, but it's actually green obsidian from-"

Tulio whistles. "Oh, that is green all right! Green as the grass in-"

"And this golden sun was made in honor of-"

A wistful sigh. "Ah, the sunny shores of Italy. The weather is lovely this time of year!"

"You know what else is lovely?" Chel beams up at the closest mural. "See how vivid that purple is? We make it from a special shell we can only find by the sea."

Tulio leans in, his expression a rigid mask of his suave smile from last night. "Have you ever seen the sea, Chel? It's all salt; salt water, salty breeze. You can gaze straight into the horizon and never know what's on the other side. Not until you sail into the sunset... um, sunrise!"

She grins and throws out her arms. He barely lurches back before she can knock him in the nose. "Speaking of sunrise, we really should try this tour again tomorrow. We missed the best light to see it by."

"You know what I miss? Genoa! People always say Venice is more impressive, but you can't beat-"

On it goes. And on.

Chel finds herself missing her old duties. As an acolyte all she had to was stay silent and submissive. Until Xaya had tried to run, she'd blended right into the background.

At first she's glad the idiot is padding out their time, then a little ticked she can never get a story out. Where's the satisfaction in pulling off a good scheme if her target is too inept to even pretend to listen? Tulio babbles onward; a relentless flow of fantastical lands and cities she's never heard of before. Chel wonders if any are true. For a while, she lets herself listen, and get half-swept away by endless horizons and uncharted shores.

But he drops even more names, more sights she'll never live to see. Her smile strains. Her throat aches from trying to speak over him.

And Tulio. Keeps. Lying.

The more she shrugs him off, the harder he tries. Stubble has already sprouted under the neat trim of his sideburns. He slithers close enough for her to smell sulfur and last night's wine on his breath. His ponytail is undone, wild curls askew. With every lie his yellow eyes shine a little brighter, a little more frenzied.

With the afternoon sun beating down she has every excuse for a late lunch break. Even an early dinner. Another feast to shut him up. Chel dredges up her patience... and finds she has nothing left to give.

Groaning, she drags a hand down her face.

Tulio's manic grin falters. "Um, are you o-"

"Okay," she grits out. "Who are you?"

He pales. "I..."

"What's your angle?"

"W-What angle?"

"On your scam!" she spits. Whatever this is.

Tulio laughs. "There's no scam! Why would you think there's a-"

Chel glares with all the intensity she never dared show Tzekel-Kan.

Tulio drops his exuberance, and for a heartbeat the naked desperation beneath it is laid bare. "...Isn't this what you want? To get in?" He tilts his head, yellow eyes gazing straight down to the darkest pits of her soul. "To get out?"

She flinches back. "H-How..."

The wind shifts, carrying with it the sound of laughter. Chief Tannabok's children must be playing outside.

It is not their voices that drives the sulfur from Tulio's eyes. His head snaps toward its source. He drifts toward it as if called by a ghost.

Chel follows. She blames her curiosity alone. Together they creep down a hall and gaze into the verdant garden beyond.

Their jaws drop.

She needs a long, long moment to realize that man among the children is Miguel. If he hadn't smiled so gallantly before escorting to dinner (and then gotten uproariously drunk at that dinner) she might not have recognized him at all. He's abandoned graceful dignity to romp aside four dirty, raucous boys. His white robe is stained, his face flushed, and his eyes so very, very gentle. She can't rip her eyes off him.

Finally she musters a glance at Tulio. After an eternity, his lips curve into a wide, dopey grin. Dopey as the same smile that's infected her.

Inevitably Miguel notices his audience. He slides to a halt in front of them, nearly tripping over the hem of his robe. A ball bounces off his head. The boys chase after it undaunted.

Miguel stares.

Tulio stares right back.

Then they both straighten to their full heights and blush even redder.

"W-What are you doing?"

"What are you doing?"

"What's with that look?"

"Uh, what's with your beard?"

Miguel blinks. He hesitantly lifts a hand to his chin. He gasps and flinches away from the golden stubble sprouting there. "I... I..." For a moment his eyes are wide and lost, then a shadow of his old ego flickers in them. "I-I-I'm... um, growing it out?"

His hands fly to his mouth. He pales.

Tulio only snorts and shrugs it off. "You've got quite a way to go then."

Red floods back into his cheeks. "Oh, like you're one to talk! You shaved yours off for that silly little thing called a beard!"

"Hah!" Tulio jabs a triumphant finger. "But you like my silly little beard!"

"I... I do n..." Miguel trips over his tongue again. He glances uneasily at the chief's sons. All four now stare at them in morbid fascination. "Um, game-over everyone. You win!"

The youngest boy frowns. "We weren't playing to-"

His older brother shushes him. "Naui, don't be rude to the g-guests!"

Another boy gives them a shit-eating grin. "Yeah. The guests."

They scramble forward. Chel introduces herself without batting an eyelash. Tulio freezes. Over the princes' heads, Miguel watches him like a hawk. Blue eyes dart away with a nervous flash of yellow.

But the younger children are insistent as they are adorable. A very bemused 'Mr. Tulio' blinks at their politeness, then kneels down to shake their hands. Miguel's brow furrows at them.

Then he turns her way, suspicion sharpening. He peers her into her soul like Tulio did, trying to weigh some deep and secret part of her.

Chel scowls. Miguel flushes and glances elsewhere, self-consciously tugging at his sleeve.

Her gaze rivets to his arm. That lean, supple arm. Funny how she didn't notice that detail last night.

Miya, with cosmic sense of timing, chooses that moment to step into the garden. Her sons drag her forward to meet their 'guests.' Chel greets her chieftess with a measure of grace. She's the only one who bothered to change her clothes and make herself presentable this morning. Her idiots straighten their soiled clothes in vain. The humidity has made Tulio's curls run rampant. Miguel's curls have instead lost all their life, hanging limp and dead under his ears.

Miguel snaps to attention. He greets Miya with solemn dignity dampened by his sweaty robe and the excited children tugging at his arms. Tulio kisses her hand and delivers her an endless stream of flattery... a stream that ends when Miya's cheeks start turning red. He clears his throat and steps back so Miya can finally take a deep breath not reeking of wine.

"I've come to make sure my sons are presentable for supper tonight." Miya smiles. "You're warmly invited to join us." Her 'guests' gulp. "Of course, if you prefer to dine in your chambers or later with my husband tonight, we'll readily accommodate you."

Miguel dips his head. "Thank you for her generosity, my lady, but tonight I planned on... meditating in private." His stomach grumbles forlornly. "Without f... um, earthly temptations to cloud my head."

His playmates blink at him. Ome's eyes widen. "You mean you don't wanna eat with us?"

"I do! It's just that..." Miguel trails off at their plaintive expressions. "Well, I suppose I can have a quick bite to eat first."

Tulio's nose scrunches in thought, weighing his awkwardness of small children against the chance to watch his rival humiliate himself again.

Naui grins guilelessly at her. "Ms. Chel, do you wanna come too?"

She beams. "I'd love to."

Tulio gapes at her. His gaze uneasily flickers from Miguel's intense stare down to the children pouting up at him. "Sure," he sighs. He juts out his chin, blue eyes peering levelly down at green. "Why not?"

Miguel stutters wordlessly. He blanches, then flushes ten shades of red and stalking out of the garden. Tulio leers after him even as Miya calmly herds her boys off in the opposite direction.

As Miguel vanishes from sight Tulio's expression softens. He glances down. That tender smile falls from his face the second he realizes Chel's still here. "I-I'm not..."

She arches an eyebrow.

"He's not-"

The eyebrow climbs to her hairline.

"We're not..." At her deadpan stare he deflates. His eyes flare a bitter yellow. "It's not what you think."

"And what do you think I think?"

"Even when we were still... when I was still..." Tulio peers out into the garden at somewhere long ago. "We were never like that. I didn't even know I could like until after I-" Scowling up at a fruit-laden tree, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Now I know what I am and what I'm not. And Miguel is...  He can't. And I definitely cannot. Not for something-er, someone-like him. Not now, and not ever."

Chel's mouth goes dry.

She still pushes forward. "And what do you know you are?"

Tulio falls still. "If I told you I was called the ruler of this world, would you believe me?"

She peers long and hard into his face. Her lip quirks. "Probably not."

He snorts and slumps against the tree. "Of course not. And you'd be far from the first." After an eternity the bitter smile falls from his face. His head falls into his hands. "I... I'm sorry. For that. This time around I can't even put my heart in it."

"I know."

His head snaps up. "Y-You know?"

"I know."

She ventures toward him. He shrinks away, back slamming into the tree. Chel raises a hand. He freezes. She strokes his chin, the bristly shadow of stubble. She still half-expects to burn from the contact, but he's warm as any mortal man. His pulse thunders under her touch.

With a playful grin, Chel pinches his cheek and saunters off. "See you at supper."

Behind her he chokes incoherently. Even without turning she feels him watching the swing of her hips.

His voice is almost too soft to hear. "I... I know."

At the edge of the garden she stops. "And what do you know?"

"I know you deserve more than... than this." Her breath hitches. She doesn't dare face him. Tulio forges onward. "More than me. More than him. More than whatever He-um, they, say you should be. How you should feel. You have every right to hate it. To rise against it." His voice quivers. "To take control."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Oh, yeah?" she mumbles into the silence. "How'd that work for you?"

By the time she turns he's already fled out another exit.

Chel groans and drags a hand down her face.

Gods, her libido has poor taste.


Miguel scrubs vigorously. A cloud of dirt and grime comes off, soon swept away by the running water of the pool. He scrubs some more. And scrubs again. Until his skin is pink and irritated. He concentrates on his face, especially that unsettling roughness on his jawline.

It doesn't come off. Because it's part of him. Just like that insatiable pit that's taken up residence in the center of his being.

His stomach growls irritably. Miguel glowers at it. "Stop that!"

Another hunger pain gnaws at him. His head swims. He wonders if it's from fatigue or the steam wafting up from the water. Last night he basked in the pool's warmth like he does in the love of the Lord.  Today he wishes for the icy waters of a hammam's cold room. Anything to shock his body back into stoicism. Miguel grabs his aching temples and tries to remember how he healed his hangover. If he did it once, then he can do it ag-

A scream, high and shrill, pierces the air.

Miguel's head snaps up. He knows that voice.

He's still trying to place it when angry feet stomp into his chambers. Miguel looks desperately around. His clothes and the towels are on the other side of the room.

Oh n-

When a force bursts inside, he squeals and ducks deeper into the bath, covering parts that have never been exposed to other eyes before.

"YOU!"

Miguel dumbly gapes up. His heart pounds in an exhilaration that's neither fear nor fury.

"You," he squeaks. "W-What are you-"

Sopping wet, Tulio is kept decent only by the drenched towel he holds up by one hand. The other points indignantly at his eyes.

His very angry, very blue eyes.

"You," he hisses out. "H-How long has... has this been a thing?"

Miguel sputters wordlessly.

"Miguel!"

He winces, huddling further into himself. "Since, um, the boat." He blinks in sudden epiphany. "The night you saved Altivo."

Now Tulio flinches back. "I... I... They were yellow last night!"

"Um, yes. They've been doing that a lot. C-Changing color, I mean."

Tulio's chest heaves in short, rapid breaths. His hands tremble so hard the towel starts slipping from his grip. Miguel's horrified gaze rivets to his waistline. Just before the Devil can lose his grip, both hands fly to the towel. He binds the cloth tight up in a knot, snapping up to his full height.

"Speaking as the Father of Lies, Miguel," he grits out, "lies by omission are still lies."

"I-I-I can't lie. I-"

Tulio jabs a finger down at him. Then he storms off swearing in a dozen tongues.

After a long moment paralyzed by someone else discovering him nude and vulnerable, Miguel flies up from the bath. He snatches one towel and ties it around his waist in a knot. Only then does he vehemently dry the rest of himself.

Just when his pulse is starting to settle, it ramps up at another unwelcome discovery.

Miguel frowns down at the pinkness of his hands, a color that continues up his arms and to his torso. That's not from sunburn. Even his borrowed robe concealed most of his form. He retreats to his bedroom, away from the steaming bath and the rough towels he rubbed on his skin. As goosebumps prickle his arms, he's still patiently waiting for his skin to regain its former luster.

He waits. And waits.

Miguel fumbles for a mirror. He's faced down dragons and demons. He's not afraid of his own reflection. (He's not.)

At the sight in the mirror, he heaves a sigh of relief, and prods at his face to confirm he's not growing fangs or sprouting horns. His features are... the same. More or less. Thicker in the brow, maybe, or softer in its angles? Some difference these muddled earthly senses can't quite detect.

Except for that light golden shadow on his jawline. His reflection skews into a pout.

"I'm growing it out," he mumbles hesitantly. Because of course he can. He and Samael both wore beards to blend in with the humans of Sodom. There are still plenty of people today comforted by angels that manifest with full beards. He's not displeased by it or he wouldn't be growing it out. He told Tulio the truth!

...A truth he himself hadn't quite known yet.

Miguel watches his reflection grow worried. When he woke up this morning he'd been terrified about Tulio corrupting innocent souls and then engrossed in the ballgame. He hadn't even noticed his stubble until Tulio had pointed it out to him.

After a strange burst of fear and shock and pride, the answer had to come to him.

"I'm growing it out," he tells himself more confidently. Cortes and his men all wear beards! Won't their new converts in this land envision angels of the Lord that look like their conquer-

Shuddering, Miguel throws the mirror down on the bed. He grabs a shaving kit from the bathroom like the one that worked wonders for Tulio.

By the time he faces his reflection again he scowls at it. He already told Tulio, Chel, and the boys he was growing it out. He can't change his mind so quickly!

"I'm growing it out," he grumbles. "Just to see how it looks. Then I'm shaving it off. And I'm not leaving some... some silly little beard behind!"

Instead he uses a knife to chop off the curls that haven't cooperated since his fall into the sea. They fall off dried, dull, and dead. The rest of his golden hair springs back to life without them dragging it down. Miguel beams. Sure, his style doesn't quite resemble his younger brothers anymore, but he's the leader of the Heavenly Host! Why shouldn't he stand a little apart?

"Well," he rules, "I like it."

Miguel checks his options for tonight. There are several duplicates of the conservative Manoan robes he wore tonight. He grimaces at them. In the afternoon heat all that thick cotton had been oppressive as the long hemline that had slowed down his movements. Cloth woven by human hands just can't compare to  the garb of a warrior angel. If only his true robe wasn't still in the wash.

His fingers brush over several tunics. Their sleeves aren't any shorter than the robes and their hemlines should come to about his knees. All his... um, important bits will be covered. He should be safe in it. After all, it's not like even the sight of his naked torso could cause Chel to spontaneously combust. This form being so unnervingly close to mortal makes it... palatable to mortal eyes.

Miguel starts pulling on a tunic.

And yelps when that cotton brushes over a... a sore spot on his back. He yanks it off.

A long moment later, his hands cautiously ghost over his back. He pokes at the bare spots of skin his secondary and tertiary wings should spring from. Bound and dormant deep inside him, his muscles don't even twitch.

Over the set of his primary wings, Miguel gasps and yanks his hands away. Something inside him roils.

He inhales. He exhales. Is that an ache at the base of his dormant wings or an itch? He brings up a hand to scratch at those spots on his back, then shivers and whips it back. Hidden under the feathers at the base of those wings are two large, agonizing scars from the Devil's own claws.

Miguel considers his other options. He groans at how much they leave exposed. "No," he huffs. "Absolutely not."

Stuffing on the baggiest tunic, he storms out of his room.

Everything is... fine.

He's not itchy.

He's not.

Notes:

There's an old folk song called 'The Demon Lover' (or 'The House Carpenter') about a demon sailor that returns after years lost at sea to trick an old love of his away from her house carpenter husband and back to sea with him. He entices her with exotic locations they'll visit and all the other ships allegedly under his command. I use two versions of this song in particular during writing as inspiration - a more fast-paced one for action scenes like Tulio diving after Altivo, and a more sorrowful one when Tulio's inner Devil comes out strongest. Depending on the version you're listening to, some of Tulio's locations may sound familiar.

During the time and era of Sodom and Gomorrah, men typically wore long hair and full beards, so any angel in disguise would have worn a shape with that at least once (and many more times after in numerous cultures across the world depending on the unconscious preferences of the beholder.) But in the Renaissance and centuries onward, angels in Catholic Western Europe were portrayed as beardless and with longer, at least somewhat curly hair. Because apparently these idiots freaking out over changes in their appearances during shifts in their identity are just part of this author's experience in The Road of -insert supernatural beings here- to Becoming Miguel and Tulio :D

Chapter 18: temptation

Summary:

One must avoid giving into temptation.

But... giving into what, exactly?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tulio wastes precious time of perfecting his look to gawk at his reflection. And not even for the fun reason.

But it's not the bad version either. He frowns thoughtfully down at polished obsidian; no budding horns to file down, no fangs to lisp around, no burn scars searing their way across his skin. Just... blue eyes, devoid of serpentine slits or eyeshine. Unnervingly blue eyes.

The same blue a Creator might have bestowed upon a messenger made in His image.

Tulio grits his teeth. He raises the mirror up. Before he can hurl it to the floor, he glimpses a flash of sulfur.

Heart hammering, he lowers the glass, and peers down into its depths. Slowly his yellow irises fade back into evening blue. He grimaces.

"Well, that's creepy." A shaky breath escapes him. "No wonder you couldn't stop staring."

At least now he knows why Miguel gaped at him in the boat like he was a stranger.

Or a ghost.

One that used to be named Samael.

"That's not my name," he grumbles at his reflection. "Not now, not ever again."

In due time the mortals of this land will curse him as Beast and Adversary. If he ever chooses a proper name for himself, it's not gonna be Venom or Blindness or Left Hand of the Lord.

For now, though, Tulio's as good an epithet as any.

Before setting the mirror down, he considers the soft black shadow that has sprouted over his jawline. He grins and accentuates his roguish charm.

Oh, yeah. The stubble stays.

Now he has to rethink his whole color scheme for tonight. His gaze disdainfully flicks over red and yellow cloth. He lingers on the blue for only a moment before deciding he's had enough of that color now and chooses the least offensive option. Tying the purple wrap around his waist, Tulio deliberates over accessories. He scoffs. Still no gold.

Except for the 'welcoming gift' still on his bedside table. Tulio picks the head up and turns it over in his hands. The gold almost feels warm all on its own.

"Tulio?" Chel calls from outside his room. "You ready in there?"

Reluctantly setting the head down, Tulio strides into the hall. "Ready as I'll ever be."

For a moment they both drink each other in. He tries not to trace the curves under her light blue dress. And catches her trying to do the same to his naked torso.

She clears her throat. "Keeping it simple tonight?"

Tulio tilts up his chin. "Sometimes you need to let beauty shine all on its own." He grins. "Of course, compared to your radiance, I'm a lowly little star."

The last time he used that line he got wine poured over his head. But Chel has a more distinguished taste for flattery and beams right back. "Stars shine brightest together." Her glaze flicks across the hall. "Are you two... okay?"

Tulio snorts. "Never been better." No swords, no fiery spears, no strangling each other with their bare hands. "I just had a little spat with Miguel over his... hazy definition of honesty."

Up in the Heavenly Host truth resonates in every note. That song is too vast for any mortal mind to fully comprehend and becomes muddled in every human language. Long ago a bored and jealous archangel had played in that gray area. Manifesting as a serpent, he had slithered his way around the Lord's express commandments, and convinced Eve she was supposed to eat from a tree laden with forbidden fruit.

Tulio's smile falters. He remembers Eve's eyes, wide and gullible as a child's. He'd thought himself so clever for tricking her, to show the Lord how wrong He was to favor these foolish humans above His firstborn creations.

And then that archangel had learned his first act of rebellion, his first attempt to act on his own ambition, had all just been-

"Oof!"

A familiar force explodes out of the room and slams into his chest. Bewildered green eyes blink up at him. Then they huff and pull apart.

Tulio gapes.

"Y-You... You look..."

Ridiculous. He wants to say ridiculous.  Especially when Miguel puffs up in affront. A wisp of hair dangles in his face. He's still stubbornly in white, though this time in an oversized tunic. The hem hangs under his knees. The collar line droops too low.

Low enough for Tulio to see his collarbone. And the top of his pectorals.

"I know!" Miguel snaps. He tugs at his tunic. "C-Can we just..."

He glances at Chel in hope to appeal to mortal sensibilities. And finds her just as dumbstruck. Flushing further, the archangel stalks down the hallway alone.

Tulio boggles after him. His eyes don't know where to focus; the artful slope of those shoulders, those arms, those calves.

He and Chel turn to each other in mutual disbelief.

"Is he...?" Chel bites her lip.

He giggles hysterically. "Oh, good. I'm not the only one."

In the centuries since his Fall, Tulio has discovered particular preferences for how he sins and who he sins with. Even in the deepest depths of depravity, his lust had never before gazed upon a true angel of the Heavenly Host and considered them fair game. But Chel sees it too! At least that means he's not sinking even further into that pit of ice. Or losing even his very limited sense of self-preservation.

Then Tulio recalls Chel was keen enough to sense his dark intentions for her... and still flirted with him afterward. His giddy relief sinks like a stone.

Chel's nose scrunches in thought. "He didn't, uh, look that way last night."

Tulio sighs. "Because he didn't."

Back at the hot spring Tulio had still been surprised that his ethereal archenemy of course had a corporeal body to along with his red blood and lack of wings. And then flustered by Miguel's accidental innuendo. Tulio hadn't been intrigued by it or anything!

Belatedly Tulio realizes he had just walked into Miguel bathing this very night. The Devil had gazed upon the leader of the Heavenly Host in nearly of all of his, um, full glory and hadn't spontaneously combusted at such radiance. Tulio had been too absorbed in his own panic over his own reflection to realize something else between them had shifted.

Suddenly he recalls that image of Miguel in the bath. Naked, vulnerable Miguel, face flushed and eyes wide with-

He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Chel peers up at him. "But he still looks like... Miguel. It's just..."

"Yeah," he mumbles under his breath. "Stupid mortal eyes."

Perception is a fickle thing. So many humans that eagerly go to bed with him the night before wake up horrified the morning after. Even if he hasn't changed physically, they sense on some innate level they've been deceived, and won't fall for any of his lies again. A candle's been lit in their minds; illuminating something that was always there in the dark, something they can't ignore any longer.

An elbow nudges him in the side. Chel grins and offers him an arm. Tulio gladly takes it.

They arrive at dinner to discover Miguel has already staked his position near the front of the table. His four playmates from earlier have surrounded him. Ahead of them sit Miya and Tannabok with yet another two kids, these barely more than infants. Tulio hesitates. Miguel stares him down. The boys clustered around him size Tulio up like a wolf pack sensing weakness.

Chel tugs him onward. Tulio would prefer to sit at the opposite head of the table. Instead he's dragged only a few seats down from the madness. To spare himself the awkwardness of conversation he heaps food onto his plate. He shovels it down with a demon's gluttonous gusto.

Miguel takes no such reprieve. He barely touches his food to help the boys recount their game to their parents. He beams with their enthusiasm. No zealous spark burns inside him. His eyes instead sparkle with a joy Tulio hasn't glimpsed in centuries.

Tulio slows down on chewing. Miguel has always been fierce as a lion in defense of his flock but also gentle as a lamb to its littlest members.  No wonder Miguel's been so... approachable today. He has no reason to smite a Devil powerless as he is, a Devil that has never cared about corrupting children when there are so many dysfunctional adults ripe for the taking.

Miguel's finally let his guard down for these kids. And accidentally opened himself to Tulio's very confused instincts. Leave it to the Devil's libido to delude itself into thinking an archangel's mortal form is any less of an existential threat than the true holy fire sealed within it.

After many minutes of gleefully recounting every last pass in their ballgame, little Naui pauses. "Hey, Mr. Miguel, why'd you come visit us in the first place?"

Miguel blanches. "Well..."

Matla chuckles nervously. "Naui, you shouldn't-"

"Yeah," Ome butts in. "What's so special about our city?"

Yei grins, wide and mischievous. "Were you and Mr. Tulio, like, really, really overdue for a visit?"

Both Chel and their parents neatly try to divert their attention, but the little bastards have scented blood. Miguel is not only here to stay, but the harbinger of the end of their world. He chokes on his ineffable truths. Green eyes instinctively dart to Tulio's.

Tulio smirks into his wine cup. Like hell is he helping. This isn't Sodom and his name ain't Samael. Finally he can sit back and watch an archangel be tortured by-

For a heartbeat, any remnant of decorum falls from Miguel's face. His eyes are wide and pleading. Tulio's stomach somersaults.

"Because we're tourists, kids!" he proclaims loudly, rising from his seat. Chel and every other adult in the room gawk at him. "We go where there's glory to be seen, and you don't get more glorious then the Golden King of Cities! It was our destiny, our fate, to see this place."

Tulio could spew a thousand flatteries about this city without offering anything of substance. With time and persistence he might finally slither his way into the hearts of this civilization's most powerful couple. Instead it serves as a stepping stone; Manoa's canals carry him to Venice, its greenery to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and even his spicy dinner to the bustling markets of Malacca.

The four boys listen breathlessly. Their youngest brothers, who can't speak at all yet, are still mesmerized by the rhythm of his voice. Their parents smile down on their sons and their storyteller. Even Chel finally leans back to drift in the sights and sounds of a world across the sea. At last Tulio has found his audience. Whether he embellishes truths or creates outright lies about his travels, they're with him all the same.

Admist it all is an archangel that can throw him down at any time. Miguel might finally reveal him a liar and speak the truth of their coming. But Miguel remains silent, trying to put up the stoic facade that once came so easily to him. He's red from the effort. Maybe he regrets making the Devil the center of attention. Or he's furious Tulio is spilling secrets but can't speak up without revealing even more knowledge the Lord doesn't want these people knowing yet.

Not that Tulio pays Miguel much mind. He's too busy with telling all the stories he can.

When he inevitably has to take a deep drink of water, Naui's incredulous eyes turn elsewhere. "Were you there too, Mr. Miguel?"

Miguel's eyelid twitches. "Every step of the way."

Tulio grins at him. "Oh, yeah. How could I ever forget?"

He weaves a killjoy companion into his tales, someone who tries to ruin his fun but that he always outwits. Miguel sulks. A hand creeps to the wine pitcher he hasn't touched all night. Then he scowls and pushes it further down the table. Tulio happily reaches over for a top off.

In the newest silence Ome asks him about his adventures in Manoa. Tulio winks at Chel and tells them all he learned from her, those great works of art commissioned by their ancestors and that special purple dye from seashells. She smiles back.

"That's it?" Yei bursts out. "You've been here a whole day and haven't even left the palace?"

"You've got a big palace, kid, and Chel's a very thorough tour guide." He smirks down the table. "Besides, we couldn't leave without our... Miguel."

Miguel's eyelid twitches harder. He tears the tortilla on his plate to shreds.

"If you have the time tomorrow you really must see the bone-sticks," Miya offers diplomatically.

Miguel and Tulio both blink up at her. "'Bone-sticks?'"

"Oh, yes." She casually leans over to wipe mashed maize from little Kuili's mouth. "On their own, they're just little squares of painted bone or clay. Stack them together and they almost seem to make miracles."

"I've always one for the simple pleasures," Tannabok chimes in. "Nothing beats a sunrise on Lake Parime when the water is still as glass."

Sensing her opening, Chel tells them about the giant turtles who deign ferry passengers across the lake in exchange for food and comfort. From there they might feed great kingbirds taller than any other creature or watch the dancers of the pole gently fly back down to earth. At first Tulio tries to puzzle out the truth from her blatant exaggerations, but she believes it so much he goes along for the ride.

He glances over at his adversary. Miguel picks at the remnants of his dinner. His face is neutral. A strange storm brews in his eyes. Tulio shivers.

Naui frowns in confusion. "Hey, Mr. Miguel, are you all right? You barely touched your food."

"Hm?" Miguel rouses from his stupor. He blinks down at the pale shreds of tortilla on his plate. "Oh. I'm, um, all r- er, not hun..." His face settles back into placid tranquility. "I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest-"

His stomach rumbles like thunder. He glares down at it. With even small children looking on in concern, Miguel wolfs down several more tortillas. Then he bolts back a cup of water and stalks out of the hall. The kids blink after him in bewilderment.

"Don't mind him, kids," Tulio blurts into the silence. "He has a... sensitive stomach."

The kids light up in understanding. "Oh."

"Feel better, Mr. Miguel!" Yei hollers after him.

After that the adults plaster on smiles and end dinner on a positive note. Tannabok scoops up his babies and Miya herds off their older kids. Tulio and Chel return to their wing of the palace. They linger outside the closed curtain to Miguel's room. His heart rate spikes.

Chel furrows her brow. "Should I-"

"No!" 

The truth doesn't escape him as a serpent's hiss or demonic rumble, but in a small, pitiful voice. At the smallest provocation Miguel's revelations will burst out of him in a flood. And this place will know. They'll all know. Even Chel, who only suspects what he might be.

Then it'll all turn to dust, just like it always does. Those bright-eyed children, their trusting parents, his banter with Chel, every glimmer of warmth doused under that same frigid fear. He can't give this up, not after one night, he can't-

(He can't go back. He can't he can't he-)

Tulio clears his throat and shoves the wails of the damned back down into his depths. Chel's gaze has fixated on him, just as deep and probing as that damned armored beast from the jungle. He sighs.

"Let me check on Miguel," he cajoles in his best voice of reason. "You don't know him like I do."

Chel crosses her arms. Belatedly he remembers they met when he and Miguel were once again trying to kill each other.

Tulio's shoulders slump. His belly's full, his body free of aches, and he almost felt warm until Miguel once again reminded him of all at stake tomorrow. "Nothing's gonna happen, Chel. I just... I just want to go to bed."

"Okay."

"O-Okay?"

Her eyes soften. "Good night, Tulio."

His lip quirks up. "Good night, Chel."

While Chel retreats to her own room, he takes a deep breath and strides into the lion's den.

Miguel's ripped open the curtains to the balcony. At the railing he kneels in rigid prayer. Tulio shivers in the cool night wind. Moonlight has drained the warmth from Miguel's form, almost making him that ethereal archangel again.

"Miguel?" he calls hesitantly.

The archangel says nothing. Tulio tiptoes into his room, half-expecting his foe to spring up and dig a sword into his chest. Miguel remains still as a statue.

Tulio's puzzled frown deepens. Ancient, faded memory seeps back to him. This is not the first angel he has witnessed in the throes of denial. "A-Are you... Are you afraid you're F-"

"No."

Tulio rolls his eyes. At least he can always count on Miguel's blunt honesty. Even in the grip of mortal weakness his faith is unshakable. No wonder he remained the Lord's right hand long after the left had split from them.

Sighing, Tulio ventures to the balcony's threshold. The curtain of Miguel's golden hair obscures his face from his angle. Sure, his adversary doesn't fear for his own heavenly grace. That doesn't stop him from pondering how so many of their siblings in similar situations slid down the slippery slope into Hell itself.

"When you're down in the dirt long enough, Miguel, some of that dirt rubs off on you sooner or later. There's... There's a difference between gluttony and just not wanting to starve to death." Tulio's eyes flick to the foreign stars above. "Some Watchers understood the difference. They're the ones that got to fly back up there, wash off the memory of human weakness, and sink back into the choirs. Those that could never tell need and want apart, well..."

Tulio frowns downward. Samyaza's ilk had become demons of his court. More irritating were the Watchers too soiled for the Host and too mellow for Hell. Some wander among humanity until Judgement Day. Others are banished to the strange, hazy borders of Hell not even the Devil himself wants to think about.

"You were never a Watcher."

He blinks down at Miguel. Tulio clenches his fists and looks out to Lake Parime.

"No," he hisses in agreement. "I wasn't."

The Watchers had been dispatched to guide humanity as direct messengers, those capable of walking beside them and speaking their myriad languages. Their Creator had intended His left hand for something else entirely.

Ever so slightly, Miguel's head tilts. "Then how..."

Tulio shrugs. "Eh. What tempted the Watchers were more like... fridge benefits to me."

Not all Watchers Fell due to lust over human beings. Some instead became enamored of material beauty and some of the physical sublime, in food and art and elsewhere. Others still had simply lapsed into indifference of their tedious duties. After Falling for three other sins, Tulio had wholeheartedly embraced the other four. Lust, greed, and gluttony provide pleasurable if fleeting distractions from his pit. Sloth... Well, Tulio's never had much time for sloth. He needs to corrupt so many souls to keep Heaven from dragging him back down to Hell instead.

Miguel tilts his head up further, just enough for Tulio to glimpse his eyes. The Devil groans.

"It's... It's not like you're corrupted by all the sins at once, Miguel. Remember... Remember what happened to me?" Miguel's shoulders tense. Tulio heaves a ragged sigh. "Yeah."

Even in his last days among the heavenly choir his songs had already begun to distort. From pride. From wrath. From envy.

Tulio's gaze drifts back over the city. "It built up inside me, for years. And years. So slow I didn't even know it was." He snorts. "Or maybe I was lying to myself the whole damn time." His eyes close. "Then one day I knew." What he was, what he was not. "And I stopped pretending otherwise."

(We are what He made us.)

An eternity passes in silence.

Tulio cracks an eye open. "Miguel?"

The archangel does not answer. Head bowed, he's returned to his vigil. Every line in his frame is hard as stone.

Tulio's hand creeps for his shoulder. Then he remembers the heavenly fire raging under that mortal skin, how it scorches every fiber of his being. He flinches away before he can make contact.

"Good night, Miguel."

He pads back across the room and pauses at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. Miguel hasn't moved an inch. Tulio quietly closes the curtain behind him.

For a heartbeat he glances at Chel's room before dragging his feet back to his own chambers. He's tried pulling her down with him enough for one day.

Stepping into his own room, Tulio yanks the curtain close. He raises his arms in a languid stretch...

And crumples to the ground with a muffled groan of anguish.

His back spasms. Under two patches of skin, he aches.

N-Now? Why now? I just got here! I still have t-

The things sealed inside him lurch again. Sharp, naked bone struggles to manifest.

A strangled sob escapes him.

No. P-Please, no.

(He's not a monster. He's not he's not he's n-)

His agony subsides into a dull ache, then a strange, prickling itch before finally fading away. Blue eyes wrench open. Lurching to his knees, Tulio roves his hands over his back.

He finds only skin. Smooth, unblemished skin.

Another sound creaks out of him, something either laugh or another sob. Tulio wipes away tears and collapses wearily into bed.

"Stupid horse," he mumbles into his pillow. "You were the smart one."

Altivo had the right idea in ditching this shit show. One day soon Heaven's might will return to Miguel and he'll strike his foe down, just as Tulio will ineffably draw upon every wicked voice in the world to inflict more evil upon them. Tulio doubts they'll ever see that horse again. From now on he'll pick masters not hellbent on marching into heavenly glory.

Tulio glances blearily at the curtain. Maybe he should ask a servant to bring up a nightcap. However much wine it took last night to keep him in sweet, dreamless oblivion.

Foolish as ever, he drifts off before he can.

(And gnashes his teeth on screaming sinners.)


Across the city, the acolytes of Lord Ayau consider that has never quite stepped hoof on their temple steps, and bicker among themselves if they should cut him off. Altivo's dropped by a lot today. It was only polite to offer him all the apples he could eat. But it was a healthy sense of caution to give him alcohol too; beer and cider first, then after consulting with their high priestess, even measures of diluted wine.

A pious worshiper can never be too careful. Especially if the 'animal' that keeps stopping by has intelligent eyes. And smells like the wind and rain.

Now, hours later, Altivo blinks blearily up from another bowl of wine. A soft wind stirs his mane. His ears prick. His head swivels toward the palace. In his dark, fathomless eyes sparks an ancient light. He's needed.

The acolytes all gaze in breathless wonder as the horse springs across the temple square-

And crashes in a drunken heap.

"Why would our lord choose a form with so many legs?" wonders an acolyte.

"Who says he's our lord?" mutters another.

"Uh, who says he's not our lord?"

"Um, because he's not a Feathered Serpent?"

"Well, it's not like Lord Ayau's told us otherwise."

The other acolyte bites her lip. Their god has had every chance to send an omen to them, to their high priestess, and make his displeasure known if an interloper has been mooching off his tribute. But he hasn't, and the Feathered Serpent is the one who sends omens all the time on behalf of greater powers. Altivo himself has neither confirmed or denied anything.

Just like the Dual Gods have not yet shown their wrath over a 'tour guide' stealing a sacred idol from their Great Temple to present to 'tourists.'

With a deep sigh, the dubious acolyte squares her shoulder. "Well, I think we all can agree that Altivo... means something to Lord Ayau."

Her companions nod in agreement. Some go to sweep up Altivo's mess. Others scramble to grab him pillows and blankets. Just because he's not a formal guest of their temple doesn't mean they can't make him comfy outside it.

Whatever duty he's missing out on tonight can't be that important.

...Right?


Once Tulio leaves, Miguel's head falls into his hands. He delves deep down inside himself; past mortal sensations and fleeting distractions for that eternal, ineffable truth. He knows his depths should resonate with the Heavenly Host. He is their leader, their compass. He is an archangel with six radiant wings, celestial fire shaped into human form only by the conceit of mortal eyes. He is the Right Hand of the Lord, His sword and His shield.

Cold sweat breaks out on his back. His shoulder blades ache with wings that refuse to come. Inside himself are no songs, no certainties. He hears only his own racing thoughts and the... the things seeping up from some strange, primal part of his heart.

"I am not afraid of Falling," he reminds himself. "And I am definitely not Falling."

Miguel's hands twist into his hair. Again and again, he strains for the skies, to burn away these impurities in a pillar of flame and ascend glorious as ever.

His stomach rumbles.

He grits his teeth. "I'm not lying to myself. I can't lie. I can't." Heat roars through is veins and pounds through his temples. It's too muddy, too viscous, to be holy fire. The Devil's slithered his way inside him at long last.

"I... I'm not him! I-I hate him! I hate..."

Miguel's tirade cuts off. He peers up from his hands and considers the words that just tumbled from his mouth.

That's not right. Even after everything.

Unless...

Tremulously Miguel speaks his true feelings toward the one he once called partner, and blinks back tears when he still can.

But that means...

"I can't lie! I can't!" Just to prove he can't, he blurts out, "I can lie! Could you say that if you..."

Wait.

"I can't lie! I cannot lie. Except... apparently I can."

Oh no.

Nonono.

His head snaps skyward. He nearly cries out to his Creator, to his brothers, to any of the Host listening for him to please come home. He chokes back his wail at the last moment. This is no longer empty ocean or wild jungle. In the still night air, he can almost hear Chief Tannabok's boys whispering and giggling to themselves. The last thing is to scare them further. Or for anyone to stumble upon him so very, very lost.

Miguel searches the heavens again. The stars he and Tulio helped their Lord illuminate are so cold and distant. The moon above seems to shine especially bright.

A night wind, sweet and strange, stirs his hair. He can almost hear it (her) calling him.

Miguel resolutely falls back into a disciplined stance. In every holy tongue humanity has, he murmurs reverence into the darkness, and fills the silence that should be filled by the Host. So what if he prays for mercy, for deliverance?

He tries not to think of those dark nights so very long ago when he and his brothers had turned their backs to their forsaken, newly-Fallen siblings who had done the same.

(Even then, the Adversary has always been too proud to beg.)

Notes:

Per the Book of Enoch, many Watcher angels rebelled against Heaven and were cast down into Dudael until Judgement Day or into Hell itself. But not all of them, so presumably at least some avoided mortal temptation. But... their Fall had little to do with Tulio's.

Chapter 19: a little help

Summary:

Chel just wants a good night's sleep.

Tonight is not that night.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tonight Lady Raima no longer simmers with her fury. The chief and chieftess sleep without fearing for their children's lives under their own roof. Tzekel-Kan has shed no blood to appease divinity.

Manoa still holds its breath. Serpents flee the careless feet they would have once bitten. Caimans and crocodiles retreat deeper into than swamps instead of ambushing unwary people on the wild side of the lakeshore. Caretakers that fight losing battles against sickness find their weakest patients have... stopped declining. Fevers refuse to rise. Chest infections do not drown victims in their own fluids. The demons of pestilence are too proud to retreat, but also too timid to claim what were once certain victories.

Even the most demanding Lord of Xibalba is ominously silent. Those who live on the city outskirts no longer hear the calls of jaguars at night. Farmers in the distant fields no longer spot dappled pelts prowling after them. Hunters that brave the jungle don't spot any of Balam Qoxtok creatures either. Tzekel-Kan has secluded himself since the arrival of the 'tourists.' His Jaguar God has not yet come to him in dreams.

The Lords of Xibalba dwell at the edges between one world and the next. Their dangerous beasts emerge from the jungle and murky waters. Others steal into the city at night to instead prey upon mankind through infection and pestilence. They're death-dealers and soul-stealers. Of course they feel the ripples in the realms beyond their city better than any ignorant mortal.

From a place below Xibalba seeps the stink of sulfur and the wails of millions. When their prince struggles too hard beneath their feet or stirs above in fitful dreams, the whole spirit world might tremble with him. The Serpent Goddess flicks out her tongue in intrigue. The Rat God drools at the possibilities that come with serving such a power and stealing all he can under its nose. In a bone-white palace the Skeleton Goddess orders her musicians to play louder and drown out the sounds of idiot temptation. The Corpse God grumpily turns over in his sleep and wonders what a deity needs to rot in peace around here.

Lord Xarayes, the very God of Xibalba, regards the chaos with the same empty apathy that in time condemns men and gods alike to black oblivion. He pours endless water down those cracks to the burning world and returns his domain back to its eternal darkness.

...For now.

Yet, whenever that heavenly storm in the world above threatens to finally break, even the demons down in Xibalba tremble. The darkness below at least offers opportunity. That deluge from above threatens to wash them away in a flood even greater than the one Lady Eupana used to drown the First World.

Lord Xarayes rubs his temples with the impending headache. Many of his lesser lords count themselves lucky that wayward messenger is too busy crying out for his Father to yet realize the demons here can already be prey. Is he a herald of war or a herald of death? Or both? Not even the Rat God dares steal a life in Manoa with that avenger hanging over his head.

But 'tourists' are not the only thing a demon has to fear. Whenever the moon shines in the world above, they're caught under her light.

Normally she hunts unthinkable things at the edges of the world, those evils too vast and ancient for human minds to dwell on long, just as her diligent husband safeguards the day. Any puny cough or fever might slip under her beak. The boldest might even steal a child from her.

(So long as there's a frantic parent there at the child's sickbed, there's always a body to find.)

Tonight is no normal night. She swoops upon the city itself. Every pestilence in the city trembles under her shadow. Elders and older siblings abruptly wake up to check on children, all sleeping blissfully in their beds. Their guardians are especially vigilant.

Just like their Owl Goddess.

Paquini's extended no protection to these interlopers tonight. They dare take shelter in the palace sworn to the Sun God's royal line. One has the gall to kneel under her light and (cry out like a forsaken child) try calling an unfathomable force down upon her children. Her instincts clash, two sides clamoring to be heard.

Kama descends on silent wings.


Over a verdant garden rages a furious thunderstorm. Trees quiver with its force. Gales shake the fruit from their branches. A few catch fire from thunderbolts, swiftly doused by the lashing rain.

At its border stand a man and a woman dressed only in crude animal skins. They wail and weep into their hands. Above them loom the messengers of a higher power, stoic as they are resplendent. Both know the weight of their sins just as they know the futility of begging for clemency. Deprived of paradise, they stumble out of the only home they've ever known. Beyond the verdant garden stretch a dry, desolate plain.

As the humans slink into the distance, murmurs ripple among the messengers. A few faces flicker with emotion; sorrow, acceptance, and contempt. One by one each is bestowed a gift. Those with fiery swords will prevent interlopers from ever intruding into this pristine place. Those granted poisonous swords will descend among humanity to drip bitter death into their mouths. Their faces harden in resolve. With purpose comes clarity.

Apart from the others is the one responsible for this. He gapes after the weeping mortals and stammers on words that won't come. He huddles into his wings. Several companions, those not yet granted their purpose, glance uncertainly among themselves. Should this rebel be protected or condemned?

One barely hesitates. (They're partners, now and forever.) Chin jutting out, he strides away from his brothers. His right hand reaches out.

When the storm above them begins to roll back, he flinches back, and falls to the ground in submission.

The rebel quivers harder. He pales. From his mouth tumbles a thin, shaky sound of sorrysorrypleaseplea-

The clouds above him part.

And...

In a ruined, smoking plain stands a desolate pillar of salt. Its crags shape a disturbingly human silhouette.

"Dammit, Edith!" the rebel roars into its face. "I told you not to look behind you! How hard was that?" His face turns red. "The one time I need you to listen to me, and you can't even do that, you stupid f-" He raises a foot to kick the pillar's base, then sighs and steps back. "Oh, what's the point?"

For an eternity he stares into its craggy face and the vague emptiness of its eyes. Then he whips around.

"What's the point?" he murmurs brokenly. "Every time I actually want you to listen you all just... just..."

(How come his partner gets their love and reverence, while he's just-)

A harsh, fateful sound cracks out of him. His eyes flare a yellow sulfurous as the smoldering field around him.

"Really," he hisses. "What's. The. Point?"

His six mighty wings snap open. They would be magnificent, if their feathers weren't dull and ragged.

Furiously taking to the skies, he leaves this dead, forsaken place behind him and...

His song is wrath and pride and envy. His discontent siblings join him one by one, for his song is their song. They're better than this. They want more than this and they'll do more than this.

(His partner? What about his partner? Forget his partner.)

He shines brighter than them all. He's their guiding star and their morning star, lighting their way through dark doubts. They'll rise with him, higher than they ever have before, and...

His world is darkness and agony and endless wails. He gnashes into screaming, thrashing sinners so at least someone down here is in greater torment than he is.

He claws toward freedom. His wings beat the air ineffectually. He'll lure a million souls down into his bottomless pit, and then a million more, however many it takes for him to climb his way out of here.

Every time a part of him tastes earthly air, that light from above finds him, and that fiery sword impales his heart to send it back from whence it came.

(He wishes he could burn down here. Hatred is fire; hot, bright, and searing. Hatred is a dark reflection of love, not its antithesis. But he's condemned to this icy, forsaken dark, because not even his partner can still-)

But...

Part of him slithers free of his pit, again and again. There's so much temptation in the human heart. It's so easy to charm his way inside. Most eagerly invite him in. (He's not the inferno, just the spark. They fill their souls with kindling long before his words ever reach them.)

Before that fateful expedition can depart across the western sea for lands unknown, he limps aboard the flagship with a plain face and a cloven hoof. He spins grandiose plans for all the fun years to come. Already the crew festers with resentment. They've been pressed into this suicide mission against their will. Their captain must answer to an 'admiral' that threatens to charge him with mutiny and constantly rewrites his travel logs to portray himself as the brave, pious explorer.

With an ego that big, even the Devil himself can barely get a word in. Yet. He's played the waiting game before.

When a sharp-eyed sailor first sights land (a feat their 'admiral' will claim for himself), even the Devil allows his heart to lift. He imagines a garden of earthly delights untouched by mankind. Here, off the edge of the world, sheep might stray from their shepherd and give in to all their secret desires.

But this island is inhabited. Their admiral captures the first human souls to meet him here and demands they take him to the source of the gold they wear in their ears.

Things go downhill from there.

When his foe (partner) finally hunts him down again, he's too miffed to even put up a fight.

"Hey!" he complains to the radiant figure above him. "Don't blame me for this! They're doing all this for you gu-"

A fiery spear to the throat rudely cuts him off.

Oh well. Beyond the islands already ravaged for gold and glory there lies a whole continent barely explored, an even Newer World.

All he needs to do is get out...

"Do it. Before they do it to you. Look at them. This is a map to die for, a thing to kill for. Do it. Do it do it-"

A furor in the world above, blood and steel and broken oaths. A window opens.

He grasps for it even as it closes.

Please. Pleaseplease....

The window slams shut. Nude and trembling, he collapses amid a room of bodies. These gamblers have all killed each other. His lungs heave for breath. He gulps down free air.

And lets out a weak, joyful sob. Out. He's out.

No ice. No darkness. No sinners squirming in his mouth.

He curls his knees to his chest just to enjoy the freedom of his legs. His eyes flutter peacefully closed.

He can think, therefore he is. He's still himself. Even after-

(You are what He made you.)

Yellow eyes snap open. His breathing quickens. Moments after winning his freedom, he can feel the first tethers sinking into his soul. He shivers from inescapable cold, from what his foe will do to him to grind him down into that ice forever.

He fixates on the map amid these murdered men, his in to get out.

His destiny, his fate.

Desperately he reaches out and...

He thrashes in something soft and squishy, meaningless words buzzing in his ears. Is he still struggling in his pit or has he been Falling this entire time?

Strong arms pin him down. That incomprehensible voice raises into a shout.

He sobs.

"Tulio!"

He falls limp at the sound. This is not another curse to drag him down or a God-given identity that's tainted him to the core. Nor is this an empty epithet, not anymore. Those three syllables echo with purpose. He tingles with the rightness of it. That's a name, his n-

A hand takes his own. He clutches it like a lifeline.

"Tulio."

The world around him crystallizes. He's lying on a soft, soft bed. Pale moonlight filters in through the window. He blinks again, finally focusing on Chel's face.

"I'm not going back," he whimpers. "I'm not I'm not I'm-"

"Okay."

"O-Okay?"

She squeezes his hand. "Okay."

Tulio sighs. His terror drains away. With it fades the last of that frantic energy. All that remains is the ancient, bone-deep exhaustion long hiding beneath it. He closes his eyes.

"Hey, Tulio?" Chel lightly tries to tug her hand from his. "I'm gonna need this back."

"Sorry," he murmurs.

He still holds on to her. He can't remember when he last connected to anyone.

Chel huffs a laugh. She pulls her hand away, pushing something else into his hand. Instinctively his arms fold around it. It's small and hard, but warm; like sunshine, like a hearth, like his partner's loving smiles in that life so long ago. Tulio basks.

"And Tulio?"

He weakly mumbles in response.

"Please stop giving me nightmares."

He drifts off before he can answer. His sleep is deep and dreamless.


Cradling a stolen idol like a child would their doll, Tulio conks right out. His face falls slack. His teeth stop chattering. Chel presses a hand to his forehead. He's no longer burning with cold, but reassuringly warm. She sighs in relief.

Despite already being unconscious, Tulio still whines in protest when she pulls away. He curls tighter around the idol.

"Sleep well," she murmurs. "It's... It's gonna be okay."

She knows he won't have a problem with that now. A little comfort goes a long way. Chel's no stranger to night terrors herself. As a little girl, when she'd first dreamed of burning snakes slithering into her bed or invisible bats scratching at the window shutters, her parents would always stroke her hair and promise everything everything was going to be all right. Even when she'd been getting old enough to realize that was a vow they could never keep, Chel would sleep well anyway.

Chel frowns when she tries and fails to remember the last time she had a solid night's sleep. Definitely not the morning she'd stolen gold from the Great Temple in a sudden burst of frantic inspiration and ran like the Jaguar God himself was at her heels. Definitely not last night when Miguel and Tulio's nightmares seeped into her own.

Maybe back when Nami was still alive? He'd been the last lover eager to spend the whole night with her. And even more eager than she was to just cuddle and moments of quiet intimacy. She always could sleep better with a warm body beside her, even one that never bothered to touch her after the post-coital bliss had worn off.

Too bad Nami was just the last in a string of ill-suited partners. And then dropped dead of a burst appendix not even three months after she broke up with him.

After a long pauses, Chel reaches out to brush a lock of curly hair from Tulio's face. His head nuzzles toward her palm.

Her lip quirks up. "Good night, you beautiful idiot. Again."

In the hallway her feet drag to a halt. She should just assume it's a good thing Miguel's nightmares didn't invade hers again and call it a night. Everything is... fine.

Cursing her own stupid sentimentality, Chel peeks into his room anyway.

And freezes like a mouse caught under the owl's shadow.

Wings. Wings wide enough to blot out the sky. For a heartbeat she's a little girl again, caught under ragged bat wings as her grandma's labored breaths rasp into a death rattle.

But these wings are feathered. A head swerves halfway around to stare at her. It's not the smashed face of a bat, but wide and bone-white, with a wicked beak instead of fangs. Eyes deep and dark as the night sky stare at her and-

Chel blinks. It's just the moon, right up where it should be, casting strange shadows in its milky light.

Right over the pale figure crumpled beneath it.

"Miguel!"

She races to him. He's freezing to the touch, shivering from the night wind and the stone balcony. Even as she hauls him upright, two words spill out of him in his hoarse, broken voice.

"We're sorry we're worry we're-"

"Miguel!" Chel says again, calmly as she can.

Green eyes crack open. They peer blearily up at her. "C-Chel?"

"I'm here," she soothes. "I'm here. How... H-How long have you been out here?"

His eyes glaze over. A shiver more violent than the last wracks through him.

Chel staggers to her feet, dragging him up with her. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

He weakly tries to pull away. "I-I'm not tired. I'm not weak. I-I'm good I'm g-"

"You're. Going. To. Bed."

Miguel shuts up. When Chel props him up on her shoulder, he jolts at the contact, and winds an arm around her shoulders. He desperately stumbles inside with her. His head never leaves the crook of her neck. His hot, ragged breaths prickle her skin. Green eyes flutter.

Chel dumps him into bed. He's out cold by the time he hits the mattress.

She stalks back to the balcony. Glaring up at the moon, she yanks the heavy curtains close on its cold light and that even colder wind.

Lady Kama is a slayer of nocturnal demons and a... savior of lost children. Within her radiant palace her children might forever play under her watchful light, free of the pains of loss and struggle and ever growing up. Chel doesn't care whether the Moon Goddess aimed to kill Miguel or kidnap him. This idiot belongs to her.

She's his gods damned tour guide. He's not getting lost on her watch.... assuming that wasn't a brief hallucination induced by sleep deprivation. Or finally starting to crack under years of Tzekel-Kan's eyes upon her, just waiting for her to slip up so he can get the satisfaction from her death he couldn't from Xaya's.

Just in case Chel isn't losing her sanity, she lights a brazier. In her past life Lady Kama was a solar goddess but since the Crocodile God's attack she shies away from firelight just as she does the Sun God's brilliance.

Once the flame is lit, Chel feels immediately braver and also more confident she imagined it all. Why would the Moon Goddess herself bother with... um, whatever Miguel is?

When she checks on him his shivers have already subsided. His cool forehead is growing hot under her touch. He too fumbles after her. Chel passes him a pillow instead. Miguel hugs it to his chest. She rolls her eyes in fond exasperation and bundles him up in blankets for good measure. With a soft sigh he nestles into it. The anxious crease between his brow finally eases into drowsy contentment.

Her sleep-deprived mind observes there's more than enough room for her to join him.

Too tired for this shit, Chel storms back to her own bed, and crashes down face-first.

No more nightmares dare to find her.

Notes:

Ever since I solidified her personality and her... intensity, a certain divine OC of mine is hellbent on worming her way into every single story where these idiots are accidentally desperate enough to attract her attention. And this time she will. not. quit.

Thirty years before Spanish really started encroaching into the American continent, there sailed a certain Genoan that headed a expedition of Spanish adventurers... a lot of whom were pressed into this involuntarily. That Genoan was the kind of guy to lie to about spotting land first in order to claim the monetary reward waiting for him back home. And also the guy who tried really, really hard to write the actual captain of his flagship into obscurity even if he didn't exactly have enough proof to have the guy tried (and probably executed for sedition) back home.

Even by the standards of SPANISH FUCKING CONQUISTADORS, this Genoan was apparently called 'Pharaoh' (yes, after THAT Pharaoh) when he was in charge of those islands he 'discovered.' And opened the floodgates for every other tyrant out there like him.

Without going into any graphic detail about what exactly that Genoan did, there were up to 40,000 Lucayan people in the Bahamas in 1492.

By 1520, they were all gone. And the Bahamas were empty. For 130 years.

And the Devil had so little to deal with it when these idiots later tried to rationalize their behavior! Unlike later settlers like, say, the Puritans in the late 1600s New England colonies later blaming the Devil for hyping them up during the Salem Witch Trials, Europeans had a lot less fear in the demonic. Even in early settler periods bad harvests or bad weather would be explained as 'God's provenance' not any witchcraft or devilish influence. Believe it or not witch trials actually largely subsided in the 1400s as superstition! Because of course the Devil really couldn't have that much power in God's creation; he'd just trick idiot peasants into thinking they were being turned into animals (and trick the idiots around them into thinking those idiots were animals) but couldn't REALLY do it.

But then in the later you get into the 1500s, the more that fear is hyping up again. Probably because 'external' threats to Christendom were either long gone or just paled in comparison to perceived 'internal' threats (Catholics vs Protestants, all those New Christians in Spain that couldn't REALLY be 'Christians' deep deep down, ect.)

TLDR: People suck and have always sucked, but their reasons after the fact for why they sucked so hard don't always blame external bad influences.

Chapter 20: shake on it

Summary:

After untold centuries, two mortal enemies finally reach an agreement.

If only for today.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tulio wakes with the morning star. Warm and snug under his blankets, he watches as the sky outside pales from deep indigo into pale pink and purple. At sunrise the horizon ignites into brilliant shades of gold. Even the brightest star fades away before the resplendent sun.

No chill in his bones. No distant wails of the damned. All he hears is the morning's first few warbling notes of birdsong. He could fall back asleep and doze well past noon.

Instead he rolls out of bed. For once he's excited to face the day. Without the usual desperation burning beneath his giddiness. With a fond smile Tulio he places the golden head back on his bedside table. The metal is still invitingly warm he pulls his hand away.

By some odd coincidence Tulio opens his curtain just as Chel does the same to her own. They blink at each other from across the hall.

He waves. "Um, good morning."

Her dark eyes stare inscrutably back. "Good morning."

Tulio ducks his head, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. He can't remember the last time he lost composure like that without also losing his sense of self. In the broad light of day he wonders if Chel will work up the courage to ask about the source of his night terrors.

Or maybe far worse spilled out of him last night. Chel was the first human here unfortunate to catch his eye. Even yesterday she'd come close to recognizing the foul truth under his human guise.

Still Tulio swallows his bitter fear to blurt out, "Uh, thank you for..."

She shrugs. "Don't mention it."

"I'm sorry you had to see... that."

Her eyes soften. "Don't apologize. Not for that." Chel's casual mask slips a little further, revealing an empathy that borders on vulnerable. "It just... happens sometimes."

It is not the happy souls he's drawn to.

For a moment he's tempted to reach out. But he's caused her enough hell the last few days. Between upsetting Chel further or antagonizing an archangel, he chooses the lesser of two evils.

Tulio purposefully turns back to admire the sunlight spilling into his room. "Well, we've got a beautiful day ahead of us. Better go make sure Miguel doesn't sleep half of it away again." Plastering on a defiant grin he strides forward and wrenches Miguel's curtain open. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

Of course the archangel is wide awake this morning. But he doesn't kneel in prayer. Instead he leans heavily against the wall of his balcony, either staring out into the city or skyward toward home. Tulio freezes on the threshold.

Miguel never looks his way. "I'm not going."

Those three words are a miracle not even the Devil himself can question. He should gladly take Miguel at his word and leave him to mope. Then he should take Chel by the hands and dance outside with her to savor one perfect day without heaven's wrath hanging over his head. No conning, no corrupting. No sinning out of sheer survival. He can finally just be... relaxed.

Yet Tulio can't bring his feet to move. Or stop Chel from edging past him into the room. Their shoulders brush. Tulio's breath hitches.

Then a load, frustrated groan escapes him. "Oh, come on! What's wrong this time?"

"Nothing's wrong!" the idiot huffs. "I'm finally clearheaded again. Go ahead and have your little diversion. I can't afford any more tempt-uh, distractions, from my purpose."

"What purpose?"

Miguel leaps into the air. He whirls around to find Chel more than halfway across the room.

The archangel loudly clears his throat. "W-When did you get here?" he demands in a lower tone. Not that Tulio will ever forget a mortal woman made the right hand of the Lord squeal like a little girl.

"I'm here for my purpose." At Miguel's dumbfounded blink, Chel sighs and points out toward the city. "I'm your guide, remember? I've got a tour to give."

Miguel puffs up imperiously. Without his wings he just looks full of hot air. "I don't recall ever agreeing to that."

Now Tulio rolls his eyes and strolls into the room. "Oh, please. What are you gonna do, just stand there and do nothing until you... need to go back to work?"

Miguel clasps his hands together. Then he glances at Chel and anxiously folds his arms together. "You... You know what I intend to do." Because God forbid the idiot actually has to explain how and what he's praying for in sentences mortals can actually understand.

"Yeah," Tulio sneers. "Go ahead and waste the only time you'll ever have off until the end of..." He coughs. "Y'know, until the end of your... our next shift. And you know how long that it is. It's long. So long it can practically feel like an eternity."

Green eyes glare at him. "And you always make that eternity feel even longer!"

Tulio sputters indignantly. Miguel turns back to the balcony, scratching irritably at his chin. He's growing out a beard all right. The faint stubble from yesterday has sprouted into dark blond hair covering the whole lower half of his face. Even the hairiest mortals can't grow out a beard that fast. Not that Tulio will ever give him pointers on properly playing human.

Tulio storms off.

He storms right back when he realizes Chel didn't follow him.

Hands innocently behind her back, Chel tiptoes toward the balcony. Tulio's jaw drops in horror.

Not even a foot away from an archangel, she stops. All she has to turn the corner and she's in direct smiting range.

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

Miguel sighs. Tension drains from his stance.

"Yeah," he murmurs as if confessing a mortal sin.

Chel rounds the corner. She rests a hand on his shoulder, the other touching his elbow. "You know, you really shouldn't miss it."

"I know," he blurts out mindlessly. Then he gasps and shies away from her hold. "But I-I-I... I couldn't."

"Why not?"

Miguel bites his lip. He's a messenger with no message, a song without a choir. How can he be a right hand when divided from the heavenly body? His body quakes with the paradox.

Tulio takes a step toward them. "I won't tell if you won't."

He expects the angel to scoff or scowl. Instead Miguel peers anxiously upward. "He-He'll still know. He always knows."

"...How often does He let you know that He knows what you know? Or let others know what you know?"

Miguel blinks. Then he slumps in understanding. Their Lord had known the darkness festering in the Morningstar's heart long before his Fall, the unhappiness that had soured into resentment that had tainted all else. In His omniscience, He had known it like He had known the brightest of His angels was doomed to Fall.

And He'd never said a word. Not even when his lightning bolt seared all six wings from the Morningstar's back.

For a heartbeat Miguel's eyes are wide and lost. Then his expression narrows. "What's your angle?"

"No angle! Why do people think I always have an..." Tulio trails off at his glare. "You think you're the only one that could do with a day off?"

"Like all those days in the longboat didn't count?" At Tulio's deadpan stare, even Miguel concedes that point. "Or in the jungle?"

Tulio pauses. Those first idyllic days in the wilderness had been his freest since paradise. He had never quite trusted Miguel not to smite him when his back was turned or his eyes closed. Always that need to survive simmered in the back of his mind. Without mortal souls to feed from, he had shivered in the mild night air and regressed into a desperate, all-consuming drive toward humanity. In his despair at the waterfall he'd lashed out at Miguel with lethal intent. If Chel hadn't stumbled into them when she had...

"D-Did you ever let your guard down out there?" he asks. "Just once?"

Miguel's stance wavers. Then he squares his shoulders. If he possessed his wings they'd be unfurled to their full span. "How could I?"

Tulio drifts forward until only Chel stands as a buffer between them. "I... I won't try anything. Not if you don't."

Green eyes peer inscrutably into his own. Miguel's hands clench. Tulio takes a step back, face contorting in a bitter sneer. Right. Everything the Father of Lies says is a deception. Who can ever trust a serpent? Not now. Not ever a-

Chel sticks out a hand. "Shake on it."

"W-What?"

She smiles, sweet and ruthless. "That today you'll shut up and let me give my gods damned tour. Anything else is off-limits."

He immediately takes her hand. "Off-limits."

A spark of electricity thrums between them. Tulio jolts and lets her go. The weight of his promise still lingers.

In some dormant part of himself, that itch from last night prickles.

The Father of Lies should have blustered and made grandiose declarations without ever promising anything. He should have sussed out loopholes or shaken her hand without ever once thinking to keep his word.

But Tulio hadn't been thinking when he'd taken Chel's hand and giving something of himself in turn. Once he was a being bound by his every word, his every song. Even now, when he truly means something, he means it.

Of course today he's only a tourist. He has every reason to ignore the harsh realities of his normal life and just bask in his experiences today.

Chel offers her hand to Miguel. His facade crumbles. They shake on that same promise, touch lingering a tad longer than proper.

Then Miguel coughs and yanks his hand back. "So, um, when do we leave?"

"When we're ready to leave."

Miguel grimaces down at himself. He tugs at his sweat-stained tunic and rasps a hand over his beard. "Fair enough."

Tulio returns to his room. He casts off his old hip wrap for one dyed light blue and green. At least the color scheme should complement whatever shade his eyes decide to shift into today. He frowns down at his jewelry selection. Still no gold. Even though most of Chief Tannabok's sons are old enough to wear golden earrings. And all the palace guards and servants he's seen.

Except Chel, who wears green stone in her ears. Tulio blinks at the realization, eyes darting to the stolen head she gifted him, and wonders why she was so desperate to get in to get out.

With a sigh he checks his reflection. His eyes are still stubbornly blue. Unlike Miguel's rapid beard, his stubble remains artful. Whatever ugly truth is simmering beneath his human skin hasn't bubbled to the surface yet. He can fix his ponytail and ignore the dull tension building under his shoulder blades.

He peeks out of his room to again find Chel's curtain open. She's just settling down for breakfast. This time he eagerly accepts the offer to join her. He can't go gallivanting off on an empty stomach.

They're still eating when Miguel finally bursts out of his room. He freezes in their doorway. Chel gapes around a mouthful of food. Tulio chokes on his drink.

Miguel huffs. "Oh, what is it now?"

"Nothing," Tulio wheezes as he tries very, very hard to not ogle an archangel's bare torso. He clears his throat. "W-What, um, happened to your robe?"

Miguel self-consciously crosses his arms, expression dangerously close to a pout. "Apparently it... disintegrated in the wash." His brow furrows. "Whatever happened to your... ?"

"Those old rags?" Tulio smiles wanly. "I had them burned."

When he'd manifested nude and vulnerable amid a tavern of murdered men, he'd scavenged the least bloody clothes he could from them. After getting apprehended by Cortes he'd never had the chance to get rid of those awful rags. Not until Manoa.

Miguel's angelic robes being too finicky to be washed by human hands doesn't explain the wine-red hip he chose over more conservative garments.

Then the idiot squirms for another reason entirely. One of Miguel's hands twitches toward his back. Tulio's shoulder blades do not itch in sympathy.

Chel mumbles something unintelligible.

Miguel blinks at her. "What was that?"

Her gaze darts away from his lean torso to focus on the small goatee now framing his face. "I, uh, like what you did to your beard."

Miguel's lip quirks. "Thank you." He quizzically looks her over. "And I... like your dress?"

She beams, brushing the green fabric down. "Have you eaten yet?"

A thunderous growl from his stomach answers that for him. Miguel blanches. He fumbles for a scripture to explain away his hunger without outright lying.

Tulio groans and rises from a very comfy couch. "Hey, Miguel, there's a difference between temperance and denying yourself a basic human need."

"I'm not- oomph."

Tulio pops a grape into his mouth. Miguel swallows it.

"It's good, isn't it?" The archangel scowls at him, indignant as a cat dumped in water. Tulio grins right back. "You want to stop sulking and join us now?"

Tulio plops right back down beside Chel. After a long pause Miguel sits in the chair on the opposite side of the table. And devours most of the dishes they haven't touched. Aside from a few pale tortillas at dinner last night Tulio doubts he'd eaten anything yesterday.

When the last bite is done, Miguel's green eyes wistfully trail back toward the window. Chel rises from the couch and drags Tulio up with her. Taking Miguel by the other hand, she tugs them both outside. They freeze on the stairway, blinking in the bright morning light.

Chief Tannabok's palace has brilliant blue walls bordered in gold. The building across the lake is twice its height, primarily painted in dull black and deep red. Tulio squints. Those carvings etched into sides look an awful damn lot like human skulls. And the snarling heads of unidentifiable monsters. A whisper of interest stirs in him.

"Hey, Chel?" he murmurs. "What's that?"

Her palm grows sweaty in his own. "The Jaguar God's temple."

The temple of a god that would need very little convincing to join the Devil's court. Not that Tulio would even need his cooperation. The moment Cortes gazes upon those skulls he will see an altar devoted to Satan himself. And his conquistadors will shape the Adversary a new face to wear and...

Chel's hold tightens into a squeeze. Tulio startles out of his trance. Her eyes stare blankly ahead. Miguel's glare fixates from the temple to him, sharp and suspicious.

Rather than quail at an archangel's building wrath, Tulio takes a deep breath, and thinks of what a human tourist might say to such a macabre sight. "Well, he's got... quite some taste in design."

Shaking her head, Chel comes back to herself. "That's a way to put it," she mutters.

She drags them forward. Their eyes instinctively fixate on the tallest structure in the city, shining radiant gold. It towers over all other buildings like it. Chel stops when they get near. Tulio and Miguel bump into her. If not for her grip they might have both wandered past her to ascend those tantalizing steps.

"What's that?"

Chel lights up. "The Great Temple."

They both flinch back from the pagan power they've nearly trespassed upon. Even the Devil himself is powerless against such a beloved god until their faiths start blurring.

"Great Temple," Miguel squeaks. His horrified gaze takes in how many similar buildings tower above the treeline. "Then all of those are also..."

She grins. "We're a very pious city."

Oh.

Oh gods.

"Can your tour focus on the people?" Tulio asks weakly. "And not on your... pyramids?"

(Ziggurats. Those are ziggurats. The temples are on the top.)

Her eyes bore into their own, their intensity not quite matching her innocent smile. "Of course. I'm sure since you already knew about our city that you must know all about our Dual Gods."

They shiver at the title.

"Right," Tulio blurts out before Miguel can spontaneously combust. "We know all there is to know about those guys."

"I'm sure you do."

Chel guides them onward. Once the Great Temple is behind them Tulio's heart stops doing somersaults. He finally drinks in the vibrant buildings and the beautiful birds flitting above their heads.

Tulio's gaze rivets to Miguel. With wide eyes the archangel watches the birds soar overhead. He beams guilelessly after them. Tulio's heart skips. He hasn't seen Miguel so joyful since they helped their Creator shape a world from nothing.

Before he can chase that wonder from Miguel's face Tulio guiltily looks away. This isn't just his day off.

Ahead they hear the telltale sounds of a market, one like and unlike all those Tulio ever visited before. He and Miguel quicken their pace, Chel just keeping ahead of them, and think no more of strange gods or siren temples.

(He knows what he is and he knows what he is not.)

Notes:

Why, yes, I intended to cover more in this chapter. But these incarnations of the idiots needed a whole damn chapter just to agree on 'oh god i need a break from this' and 'why yes we can go one day without trying to kill each other.' Especially since this Miguel is trying to desperately backtrack on any 'weakness' he slips up and shows to the world. Usually he's the instigator for dragging the OT3 gung-ho into godhood. And this time around FREAKING SATAN!TULIO is the one with the confidence (and self-esteem) to nudge this idiot forward. And this sadistic author brain loves every drop of cruel, cruel irony :D

I always discover something new when reviewing screenshots for these fics. And it does my OT3 heart joy to realize exactly how close Chel got to Miguel when convincing him to go run havoc down in the city. (And also how thirsty all the damn animators were in this movie. For all three of these idiots.)

Chapter 21: the day off

Summary:

Two mortal enemies and their tour guide finally take the day off.

Now if only they had the impulse control to stop goading each other on.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Where better to begin a tour than Manoa's beating heart? Most stalls in the marketplace have already opened up and business is just starting to boom. Customers throng in the late morning and the late afternoon, around the most oppressive part of the day. Miguel and Tulio gawk like the slack-jawed tourists they claim to be. People nervously watch them from the corners of their eyes. Upon realizing these two are not gods about to demand reverence, the crowds flow easily around their presence.

Hands behind his back, Tulio strolls up to the closest vendor and starts to make small talk. He prods a few questions from her before she waves him off for paying customers. Then he moves to the next stall. Chel hears him start to gauge her city's economy, what's valuable and what's not. Before he even quite understands the basics, he bullshits along. He agrees no bolt of cloth is worth that much and eagerly agrees with another customer that the seller ripped her off.

Miguel bounces back and forth like a rubber ball. He wants to know the name of every good, every stallkeeper, what they do for a living and how their wares work. Chel soon gives up trying to chase after him. He buzzes around in a circle, always darting darting back to her with a thousand questions. He's an avid listener.

When Altivo strides onto the street with three children, Miguel finally slows down. His grin softens into a more tender expression.

"There you are, old boy," he murmurs. "I wondered where you ran off to."

Altivo thoroughly sniffs him, before nickering and bumping his nose into his hand. Miguel pats him before kneeling down to introduce himself to the children shyly gathered around the horse's legs.

Tulio has more... 'discerning' taste.

When he finds the first board of patolli players, Chel promptly hauls him away.

"Come on," she groans. "You don't even have anything to bet."

"Not yet I don't."

Bidding Altivo and his playmates goodbye, Miguel heaves a long-suffering sigh.

Chel arches an eyebrow at him. "Has he always been like this?"

Miguel's lips twitch. "Since the beginning."

"Hey!"

They descend into bickering that lacks the heat from that first stressful dinner. When Chel resumes her tour, they shut up and listen. She tells them about the canal they walk beside. The buildings around them have irregularly cut stones that prevent them from collapsing in earthquake. Their vivid red color comes from them the ocher in their paint.

As they near their destination, her boys gape up in awe. Four young men are just spinning back down to earth.

"The flyers of the pole," she says simply. "It's an ancient tradition."

Miguel tilts his head. "But why?"

"To better connect with our ancestors. And... other heavenly beings."

They clam up. Despite blanching they still peer up in morbid curiosity.

"Every time I think people can't get more absurd," Miguel mutters.

Tulio shrugs. "Hey, at least they tie themselves to the pole. That still makes them smarter than all the people that strap themselves to kites." A pause. "Or those idiot scholars that tried gliding out of towers."

Chel stares wistfully at the dancers. Lowly acolytes don't get to glide among the gods and show off their courage. Mere outsiders should definitely never get such an honor, but who would have dared question these two 'particular' tourists and their tour guide?

Then she glances back at her boys. Their eyes have never left the fliers. Under Miguel's indignity and Tulio's faint nausea is... need. Hungry, aching need no flimsy bravado can hide.

"Of course," she demurs. "You two are much too sensible to try."

A beat.

Tulio snorts and strides forward. "Whoever said I was sensible?" Miguel sputters after him. His rival laughs. "Don't worry, Miguel, we all know you're much too sensible to consort with heavenly beings."

Miguel's face skews up in thought before lighting up. "I promised to let Chel give us a tour, didn't I? How could I miss out on a main attraction?" He beams and skips past them both, Tulio dumbstruck behind him.

The young men at the pole eagerly accommodate their 'tourists.' Once ropes are securely tied to their ankles they scramble up the ladder. Chel follows eagerly behind. Normally four fliers dance at the same time to represent the cardinal directions. No one else feels like interrupting their trio.

At narrow platform on top Miguel and Tulio freeze, flinching away from each other. With a giddy laugh Chel leaps first. Only then do they follow.

Closing her eyes, Chel revels the wind on her face and whipping through her hair. Her stomach somersaults. She nearly feels weightless. If not for the burn of the rope around her leg she might fool herself into thinking she slipped free of the earth completely. Miguel whoops. Tulio makes another sound entirely.

In her landing Chel scrapes her palms and dirties her dress. Miguel rolls onto his back to gaze longingly skyward. Then and he winces and sits up, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. Rubbing his eyes and grumbling about dust, Tulio stomps away from them. Their spectators uneasily avert their eyes.

By the time Miguel stands up, blinking in bewilderment, Tulio returns as if nothing were amiss.

Next Chel guides them to the city gardens. Here acolytes tend to the sacred birds of the air, sacred messengers to heavenly gods such as Lord Kama and Lord Kinich. It's taboo for hunters to kill them. These creatures are the eyes and ears of divinity, a source on humanity far more impartial than prayers and offerings. Any murdered messenger might complain to its divine patron and get that hunter cursed. And some birds are actually souls visiting from the spirit world. Gods forbid anyone kills their own grandma by accident and really makes the rest of their afterlife awkward.

Not that Chel explains all that nuance. "These birds are of great spiritual significance to us. We feed them to foster a harmonious connection."

Miguel grins. He wades into the chaos to accept a bowl from the acolytes. A rainbow flock of parrots and other birds promptly swarms him.

Tulio hangs back. A few parrots curiously swivel their heads to stare up at him. He glowers suspiciously back.

Chel edges a few steps away from him, enough of a buffer for the birds to start pecking away at her own seeds. "Not a bird person?"

He snorts. "More like animals aren't into m-" He breaks off in a horrified squeak. Kingbirds twice a man's height stride out of the trees.

Beaming, Miguel holds up his bowl. Several adults stoop down to eat from it.

An adolescent, only half as tall as its parents, sets its eye on Tulio. It tugs curiously at his ponytail. He yelps and shoves it away. The kingbird, used to squabbling with its siblings, nudges right back. Tulio's hands sink deep into its feathers. He goes still. Breath hitching, a runs a quivering hand down the bird's neck. It croons and leans into his touch.

His eyes narrow at the ragged crest the bird is just growing into. His fingers start straightening those uneven feathers. "Wow, bird," he mutters. "Way to take care of yourself."

The bird churrs back, eyes half-closed in bliss.

Then its jealous siblings promptly swarm them. Tulio vanishes under a flock of bickering teenagers. Chel wades in to rescue him. The birds won't let him go until at least one has at least gotten a thorough head scratch.

Spitting out feathers, Tulio finally stumbles free. Chel pulls back the tumbled bird's nest of her hair.

Miguel hasn't batted an eyelash at them. He's surrounded by adult kingbirds, all hunched down his level. He fastidiously grooms each bird and chides them on their preening habits. His audience bites back laughter. The acolytes, engrossed by the scene, shush them scandalously.

Tulio blinks at her tangled hair. "You, um, need help with that?"

"Yes, please."

His nimble fingers twine into her hair. She barely feels him untie each knot. Chel returns the favor. She's nowhere near as graceful but Tulio never winces.

By the time they finish Miguel is finally done with his birds. His face, scrunched in concentration, scrunches even further at his audience. "What?"

"Nothing!" Tulio blurts out. His head tilts. "Just, when did you get to be so..."

"So what?"

"...Cute."

"I... I am not!"  Miguel furiously turns to Chel for affirmation. "A-Am I?" At her expression, he whirls toward the acolytes. Neither can look him in the eye. His pout only proves Tulio's point.

"Ugh!" he cries. "When did you get to be so... so...?"

Tulio leans forward. "...So what?"

With a strangled sound, Miguel stomps away from them. Even the birds don't twitch from such a display of 'fury.'

Now Tulio glances uncertainly down at her. "H-He is, isn't he?"

"Very."

Tulio doesn't share her smile. Whatever he truly feels vanishes back behind his mask. He scratches irritably at his shoulder.

Chel leads them onward, calmly talking about the flowers in the gardens and the types of bird fluttering overhead. This time her boys don't say a word beyond polite murmurs of interest. They awkwardly sneak glances out of the corners of their eyes before darting right back to the scenery. One flushes red. The other blushes back. Then they look at her, flush even redder, and look away white-faced.

She almost misses the night she thought looking at them too long might have melted her eyeballs.

Almost.

They reach Lake Parime just as a ferry is pulling away. Chel takes her boys by the hands and leaps aboard. Miguel yelps, throwing out his arms and nearly slipping on the turtle's smooth shell. She grabs his shoulder to steady him. Tulio whips his hands back from doing the same.

Obliviously Miguel grins down at their ride. "Oh, wow! I didn't realize they'd be so big."

She giggles. "Look down into the lake. Our kingfish can grow to be even bigger."

Tulio frowns. "And these things take passengers in exchange for food?"

"We give them a lot of food, and a safe place to lay their eggs. In return some of the older turtles swim routes to places they get fed the most. We've had this arrangement for as long as anyone can remember." Lady Eupana is the very goddess of Lake Parime. Only by caring for her oldest children can Manoa properly honor Grandmother Turtle.

"How do you know they like doing this?"

A fellow passenger side-eyes him. "Do you think we'd be standing here if she didn't?"

Tulio snorts. "Point taken."

At their destination Tulio jumps for the safety of dry land even before they finish pulling up to the dock. Miguel instead kneels down to run a wondrous hand down the turtle's neck spikes. The turtle stares up at him with the fathomless patience she has for all curious children.

"You're big, all right," he murmurs. "Bigger than... than an elephant!"

"An 'elephant?'"

Miguel bites his lip, but Tulio doesn't hesitate to answer. "It's sort of like a... giant tapir." Chel perks up in recognition. "Only elephants have scaly gray skin, longer trunks, and giant tusks. And huge ears." He waggles his hands against the side of his head for emphasis.

"Not the kind people ride," Miguel blurts out, before clapping his hands over his mouth like he spilled a forbidden secret.

Tulio shrugs and stares dubiously down at the turtle. She gazes inscrutably back. "It's not like I've ever ridden either kind."

Today the bonestick artists are out in full force. Miguel and Tulio watch wide-eyed as tiny tiles are arranged into larger images, then gasp in awe when the first one in the sequence is tipped over. They marvel as birds rise in flight and butterflies emerge from cocoons.

"Huh," Tulio mumbles. "Never seen anything like this before."

Miguel smiles. "Every time I think mo- er, people can't ever get more amazing."

Chel hesitates. Bonesticks are how the miracles of the great gods or smaller natural wonders might be spiritually reenacted. "To us bonesticks come together to make a work of art that borders on the sublime," she explains cautiously. "It's the closest most of us can come to magic."

Miguel's wonder dims. Tulio's eyes snap to her. "Magic?" they ask as one.

Great. One wrong word and she'll reignite their ferocity all over again.

"A talent possessed by the few, or else slowly gained through study and discipline." It's an avenue not worth pursuing. Chel doesn't have Tzekel-Kan's natural gift. Even if she could steal forbidden texts stored in the hearts of the great temples, she wouldn't have the years needed to yield results. Not when Tzekel-Kan might have called for her blood to be shed on Balam Qoxtok's altar at any time.

Tulio smiles wanly back. "You'd be surprised how often skill and sorcery go hand in hand."

"One's deception," Miguel says coldly. "And the other is-"

"Uh huh," his rival breaks in. "Then how do you explain all those pious emperors that had a golden tree of singing birds and a floating throne surrounded by roaring metal lions?"

"T-That was human ingenuity!"

"To all the people that visited Byzantium, what was the difference?"

Miguel slumps, stumped by the question. Tulio leaves him behind to curiously inspect the closest image. The artist responsible for it perks up.

"Would you care to try, my lord?" he asks immediately.

Tulio blinks. "'My lord?'"

"I'm, um, trying to be... respectful, my l- uh..."

"Why don't you just call me Tulio today?"

"Of course, my... Tulio."

Tulio chuckles. His eyes take in the artist's handsome face, his muscular bare torso. "And what can I call you?"

"W-Waya." He clears his throat. "My name is Waya."

A crowd also eager to please their 'guest' encircles them. They offer bonesticks, paints for his desired colors, and helping hands to help bring his vision to life. At first Tulio basks in the attention. Then even more people press in. He stares helplessly down at his growing pile of tiles, the rainbow of paints shoved into his face. His eyes, flashing anxious yellow, dart for an escape.

Leaving Miguel to simmer on the sidelines, Chel once more strides into the chaos. This time people frantically clear a path for her. Young kingbirds fear neither man nor god, but no adult in this crowd dares get between a 'tourist' and his 'tour guide.' She plops down beside Tulio.

"It's okay if you don't feel like making something," she says brightly. "I'm sure no one here meant to pressure you."

Her words ripple through the plaza. Waya and the others hastily give them breathing room. With anxious smiles they assure Tulio and Miguel no pressure was intended. Of course their city's go- honored guests are welcome to observe all they want and not required to intervene in the affairs of mere mo- um, humble artists.

Tulio hesitates. His reluctance wars against his showboating instincts and sheer inability to admit weakness. Then he glances at Miguel. A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Oh, I couldn't," he demurs delicately. "Not if my partner doesn't feel up to it."

Miguel's composure cracks. He gapes like Tulio slapped him with a fish. Their adult observers awkwardly avert their eyes and edge away from them. Children stare in morbid fascination.

Staring Tulio straight in the eye, Miguel shows his teeth in what can't be called a smile. "Of course I'm up to it!"

"Y-You-"

Miguel strides forward. "Besides, you definitely need to my help to make something worthwhile."

After a long moment, Tulio musters up enough bravado to leer back. "Funny. I can't remember the last time you made anything at all."

Before they can devise a way to kill each other with tiny tiles of clay and bone, Chel sidles her way between them. "Then it's a great thing you two are working together on this."

A beat. They both straighten and flash her tense smiles. "Right," they hiss through clenched teeth. "Together."

For five minutes her idiots shoot down each other's ideas and make unsubtle comments about poor personal taste. Even their inability to agree on a single color devolves into a nonsensical argument on gardens and one very busy week. Chel idly picks over the bonesticks. A glint catches her eye. She picks a dark blue tile and turns it over. The other side gleams gold.

"This." Tulio's hand folds over her own, before he coughs and flinches back. "This is the one."

Miguel puffs up to reject it on basic principle. He promptly deflates once Chel shows him the bonestick. Green eyes squinting down, he gently it takes it from her. "Well, it certainly... has potential."

"It's the one," Tulio states in utter certainty.

Chel holds up another with the same color scheme. "You need a lot more than one."

Miguel can't even stand up the first piece before their crowd recedes to the edges of the plaza. All other artists have dissembled their creations and offered their tiles to the cause. Her boys turn the whole plaza into their canvas. They painstakingly work out from the center, arranging tiles in a dizzying pace. Their banter softens into a thoughtful exchange of ideas.

Their audience watches from the sidelines. Most diligently sort the unused bonesticks into piles more easily plucked from. Only Chel dares step forward to help them set up tiles. There's a rhythm to their speech. Once Chel slips into it she understands the order unfolding from the chaos around her. Her boys revolve around her, never quite touching. Their steps become a dance.

Whenever creative differences threaten her harmony, Chel neatly flows onward. Miguel's crescent moon shrinks and rises further into the scene so it no longer takes up the whole left half of the plaza. Tulio's massive star is resized to match the other heavenly bodies. Warm reds and oranges creep into the bottom of blue and silver. No longer is the vision a nighttime sky, but a darkness on the brink of dawn.

As they near completion, Chel and Tulio lean back to drink in their masterpiece. Instead their eyes flicker to Miguel. He hunches over the final pieces, tongue sticking out in concentration.

"He is cute, you know," she whispers to Tulio. "Very cute."

"Yeah," he mumbles. "And... so are you."

"Hm?" Miguel looks up from the bonesticks. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" they blurt out at the same time, scooching apart like twelve-year-olds caught mooning after each other.

With only a small frown, Miguel shrugs it off. He motions toward the people on the sidelines. They all graciously turn him down and scoot a little further back. He and Tulio won't meet each other's eyes.

But they have no problem facing her.

"M-Me? I, uh, couldn't possibly-"

"It can't be anyone else but you," Tulio breaks in. He smiles weakly. "You're our tour guide."

"Yeah," Miguel murmurs. "G-... Um, who knows where we'd be without y- this place. Or you to show us here."

Chel stares long and hard at them. For how much she's glimpsed of who they are, she still has no idea what they are. Her mind shies away at what might lie under Miguel's human sincerity. Tulio refuses to be seen. His eyes flit away, hunching into himself. One, so desperate to reach out; the other so desperate to avoid rejection.

She nudges the tile with barely enough pressure to tip it over, and brings their vision to life.

Gold ripples out from her touch. Tepid dawn gives way to a radiant sun. Under the noonday light it shines all the brighter. Their audience gasps and marvels. Chel blinks back an odd rush of tears. Miguel beams down in satisfaction at their hard work. Tulio's open pride soon collapses into bitterness and grief. He turns away.

Her hand finds his. He squeezes back. His ragged breaths even out.

Chel reaches for Miguel. His fingers twine with hers even before he consciously realizes it. When she stands to leave they follow her without complaint. A few observes blink curiously after them. Most are still too engrossed by their masterpiece to notice their absence.

Most of the marketplace has already closed for the hottest part of the day. She still finds an open stall to buy some fresh fruit and three bowls of cool honey-sweet porridge. The vendor all but gives her food away. Anything to make such honored guests enjoy their stay here. Her boys bicker for the honor of carrying lunch. Chel splits it between them. She ignores all the little bites Tulio sneaks in their search for a place to eat.

Away from the crowds they sprawl out in an empty square to enjoy their meal in peace. The verdant trees around them provide ample shade. For a while they eat in silence. Tulio drowsily leans against a tree trunk, eyes half-closed. Chel's ready to join him. These two have run her ragged.

Miguel's nowhere near ready to nap. He basks in their surroundings with the same awe from hours ago.

"This place is amazing." He beams. "Thank you for making sure I didn't miss it."

Chel smiles back. "I'm just doing my job. Why tour a city at all if you aren't going to see it up close?"

"Um, yes. About that." Miguel sheepishly clears his throat. "This whole thing was a... a happy accident. Especially all it took to get us here." He brushes a lock of hair back from his forehead. "Apparently I really did need a day off."

Tulio's lip quirks up. "Told you so."

Miguel's halfhearted scowl is quick to mellow out. "Yes. I suppose you did." Blue eyes snap open in disbelief. Miguel, turning to watch the clouds drift by overhead, doesn't notice. "I forgot mort... uh, life, could be so simple. You're in one place at one time and you don't need to worry about anything else. Nothing to pull you in a thousand directions."

His 'partner' snorts. "What. All these years and you never learned to delegate?"

"Rather hard to do when your fl... family grows larger by the year and they all ask for you by name." A beat. "N-Not that I'm complaining about that or anything! 'Iron sharpens iron' and all that. I am a-"

Tulio groans. "Yeah, yeah. I know!"

"I know that you know!" Miguel huffs, slumping wearily back. His eyes have never left the heavens. "When did all of this get so... complicated? Remember how simple everything was back then?"

The good humor falls from Tulio's face. "Maybe for you."

Miguel splutters. "Y-You're saying life is simpler now, when you're..."

"Yes," Tulio grits out. "Because I'm straightforward about it now, and not talking myself around in circles to justify my very existence."

Green eyes widen. "B-But back then you were also a-"

"I was never like you!" Tulio snarls skyward, eyes flashing venomous yellow. Then he sighs and turns away. "...Not in the ways that mattered."

Miguel stares helplessly after him. When he seems ready to stand up and leave them, his gaze meets hers by accident. He pensively tilts his head. "You know, Chel," he muses, "it's been three days since our arrival and I still know only your name and your remarkable patience."

"It's been a pretty eventful three days," she points out. And neither of you ever thought to ask.

An odd smile flits across his face. "By recent standards, yes." Miguel glances around. "Did you, um, grow up around here?"

Chel considers the wide stone road leading to this square and the vibrant, well-maintained buildings bordering them. Their idyllic surroundings have little in common with the dirt paths and ramshackle wooden homes on the city outskirts. "Not really."

"Oh?" Miguel wonders. His face falls at her expression. "Oh."

Tulio's gaze slants their way. "Do your earrings have something to do with that?"

She self-consciously brushes her hair over her earlobes. "Gold is a sacred metal only Manoan citizens are permitted to wear. Even our greatest guests aren't allowed the privilege."

Miguel's brow furrows. "But you speak as if Manoa were your h... um, as if you grew up here."

"I did." She smooths down her dress, the same deep green as the plain stone in her ears. "My ancestors did not."

Generations after Manoa conquered the People of the Vine, they and the People of Gold stand apart from each other. Even when they now share the same language, the same streets, and worship the same gods. Her status as an acolyte demands she wear imitation jade to remain aesthetically pleasing to the gods she serves. Other Vine People must set themselves apart by their naked earlobes.

Miguel gapes in horror.

Tulio only leans back against his tree. "Of course. People really are alike everywhere."

"Apparently so." Chel considers all the fantastical lands these two have seen, her own nebulous knowledge of the world outside the valley. "I'm never getting out, am I?"

"Not really." He smiles wearily back. "To the top of it, maybe, but never out."

Miguel's fingers dig into his hip wrap. "That's not true," he murmurs in ineffable certainty. "Not in... Not in where we're from."

Tulio goes white.

"Uh huh," Chel drawls. "And exactly where are you two from?"

"It's... hard to put into words. Nearly impossible, even." Miguel stares ahead, somewhere else entirely. "Somewhere with light and song."

"A garden in the middle of a barren desert," Tulio murmurs absently. "Or a forest of cedars up in the highest mountains, with trees so tall you can't tell where the branches end and the clouds begin."

"T-That's not-"

"Well, it was true, wasn't it?" Tulio's eyes glint hard as ice. "Before things got complicated."

Miguel's gaze darts back to Chel. "Somewhere... peaceful," he concedes. "You're so high above hu... er, everything else in the world that all the struggles down here seem so... petty."

"Yeah," Tulio deadpans. "Because you threw out all the sour notes in your choir."

Miguel blanches and turns away. A tremor wracks through him. Chel nudges his shoulder. This time their physical contact doesn't startle him back to himself. Tulio watches them, confusion deepening into concern. He reaches out to-

Altivo's whinny splits the air. They all fly apart and scramble to their feet just as he gallops into the square with three young boys chasing the ball at his hooves. Sighting what's ahead of them, the kids gasp and skitter back. Tulio does the same, stumbling away until he slams into Altivo's side. Their ball rolls past.

Chel reflexively stops it with her foot, kicking the ball upward. Miguel deflects it with his hip.

The tallest boy catches their ball. He and his friends gawk. Chel winks. Miguel smiles warmly down.

Grinning right back, the kids bounce the ball between them before sending it back. Tulio yelps and snatches the ball right before it smacks him in the face. The boys gasp at his sacrilege.

He hastily flings the ball away. "What?"

Chel calmly catches the ball from midair, bouncing it against her hip in demonstration. "The hip, Tulio, the hip. No hands allowed."

"Yeah," agrees the youngest boy. "We're not little kids any more. We play like warriors!"

"We play like gods!" crows the middle boy.

Miguel's smile goes rigid. His eyelid twitches.

"G-Good for you kids." Tulio coughs and finally rips his gaze away from the curve of her hip. "But I'm not playing."

Chel shrugs. "Suit yourself."

She bounces the ball to Miguel, who instinctively kicks it out into the court. The boys laugh and give chase. It takes only a heartbeat for Miguel to dash after them. Tulio slinks to the sidelines. Altivo tugs at his ponytail, rolls his eyes, and trots into the game.

Chel's played this game since she was younger than these boys. Some of her earliest memories are toddling after Xaya and his friends until they let her join in. Her muscle memory still remembers how to roll the ball over her shoulders or skip around a ball to kick it back into play. Her playmates watch in admiration. She only has the advantage of experience, coordination, and being twice their height.

Although their only real goal is to keep the ball in play, Miguel throws his heart into it. He flows around her and Altivo to reach the ball first. He bounces shots off his forehead. With the kids cheering him on, he leaps up for a flying kick. For a moment he floats like gravity holds no dominion over him. The ball ricochets off his foot.

Snorting a warning, Altivo starts lunging after it... then stops to let nature take its course.

Tulio barely ducks out of the way before the ball slams into the tree he was resting against. "Oh, come on!"

Miguel flushes. "I-I'm not coming on,"  he retorts indignantly. "T-That was-"

"Uh huh," his 'partner' drawls. "Sure it was."

"I'm sor-"

"I know a challenge when I see one." Tulio raises the ball like a weapon. "And I promise to crush you into the dust."

"Um, we're not playing against each other," one of the boys points out.

Tulio blinks down at them. "You're not?" All three kids shake their heads. "Then what is the object of this game, pray tell?"

"To not let the ball go out of play," chimes in another.

"And also to have fun," pipes up the third.

"Oh. Right." He appraises the age of his competition, then tries staring Miguel down. "Are you sure you don't want to make the game... interesting, kids?"

Chel strides over to his side to rip the ball from his hands, taking special care to grind her foot down onto his own. "How?" she asks sweetly. "Now there's seven of us."

"...Point taken," he squeaks out.

She throws the ball back into play. After a split second, her idiots charge after it like madmen. Miguel aims at Tulio's face. His rival tries for a low blow. They kick up dust clouds. Bits of rock and rubber go flying when the ball smashes against the ground between them. Chel's palm instead flies to her forehead.

Their young playmates gawk at the carnage. Then they yell and eagerly stampede into the fray.

Startling out of their mania, Miguel and Tulio try to avoid them. Instead they trip over each other and flail to the ground. Altivo leaps after the ball, bouncing it off his side to deflect its lethal speed. Chel neatly deflects it back to the boys. They pounce after it as if nothing were amiss.

Tulio vehemently shoves Miguel. "Get away from me!"

"Get away from me!"

"You started it!"

"It was an accident, and then you started all of this!"

"You... mincing, beautiful twit!"

"Y-You wicked, handsome scoundrel!"

In a lull between insults, they pause over what the other said... just in time for the boys to come hurtling back their way. They're dragged back into the game. Now mindful of their little playmates, they dodge gingerly around them, and never again let the ball spin out of control. Their steps ease into a cautious new rhythm.

This one is slow enough for Chel to follow. She spins her way into their uneasy dyad. Between the three of them the ball gains stability for the kids to enjoy the game indefinitely. Altivo flits around at the edges, increasingly content to fall back and enjoy from the sidelines.

An audience joins him there. They linger with wondrous smiles or reminiscence over their own childhoods. Little kids without their inhibitions flit in and out of the game. Their watchers never linger long. Chel and Altivo give them pointed looks, or their observers nudge each other and tiptoe away. Why should some tourists fooling around attract such a reverent spectacle? No one wants to draw their attention to the obvious.

Or dare to disturb this strange new, fragile thing blossoming here.

Miguel and Tulio's egos inevitably find a non-lethal way to reassert themselves. Miguel again grows bold with his leaps and kicks. Tulio spins theatrically around the ball and bumps it off his hips with gusto. They revolve around her in clear competition for who is the superior showoff. Chel responds the only way she can; by reeling between them to turn their silly posturing into something even sillier. Her dance partners readily oblige.

Above the square stands Tzekel-Kan. At first he flips frantically through his holiest book. Then he gawks down at them in utter bewilderment.

Chel waves impishly up at him.

After a long moment, he numbly waves back. Not even the high priest and speaker for the gods can explain what these idiots are. Or what they are to each other. What they are to her... Gods help her if she knows anymore.

They aren't tourists.

And she's no tour guide.

Notes:

Gods help me, this is not where I wanted this chapter to end, but I'm over 5k in already and that particular scene and it's build-up are gonna need more time. So, for once, we end on a positive note :D

Flight-envy seems to be a thing across a wide number of cultures. Mesoamerican cultures have numerous iterations of the Palo Volador (a version of which apparently exists in El Dorado.) Alongside those Islamic scholars that tried throwing themselves out of towers with primitive gliders, there also stories nearly as old of prisoners being strapped to kites in China (and even reconnaissance kites to gauge the distance of troops across the battlefield.) But if you're a being that actually belongs up there...

Tapir species exist in both Southeast Asia and the Americas. Asian elephants have been tamed for centuries in both agricultural and wartime usage. African elephants (except maybe for the type of war elephants used by the Phoenicians) were never tamed like that.

Long before they reached a practical scale, mechanical contraptions were used in Greco-Roman temples to add to the experience of worshipers. That carried into the Christian Byzantine period, where the Eastern Roman Emperor had a golden tree of singing birds, mechanical roaring lions, and a floating throne were used to dazzle visiting dignitaries. (Similar things could also be found in Abbasid and Persian courts.)

Chapter 22: the thrill (has gone)

Summary:

A high priest decides to offer some advice.

...It goes as well as you'd expect.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

As the sun overhead slants ever westward, their flood of playmates finally tapers off. More kids wander home for naps or mealtimes. Those left drag their feet and bite back yawns. The three adults among them slow the game's pace and wander into the growing shade.

With the ball passing sedately between them, the first kid asks a question, and soon even more pipe up. Tulio casually regales them with some of the tales that enthralled Tannabok's boys the night before and makes up even more for good measure. He basks in their wonder.

This time around he has to share the attention. Chel might not know the wonders of the world, but she knows all this city's little secrets, the stalls with the best snacks and the abandoned gardens perfect for games of hide-and-seek. Even Miguel indulges them with all he's learned today about Manoa. In turn he wants to know more about the children themselves, their families and what their ordinary lives are like.

"My mommy's a weaver!"

"And mine's a doctor!"

"Well, both of mine make pretty things out of gold!"

"Hey, Mr.-"

"My mom did a lot of jobs," Chel breaks in. "And my dad worked in the fields."

A boy perks up. "So does my dad!"

"What about your dad, Mr-"

"My daddy gets to crush up snails to turn them into the color purple!"

The same little shit from earlier refuses to be denied. "And what about you, Mr. Miguel?"

"We already know what he is," whines another.

"Yeah," pipes up a girl. "A guest!"

"You mean, a g-" Five other kids scandalously shush that boy, and his contribution is lost.

Miguel plasters on his bravado. "I'm a tourist, of course." Because today that's a truth even an angel can swear to.

Another kid tilts their head curiously up at him. "But what do you and Mr. Tulio do when you aren't traveling around places?"

Miguel's smile goes rigid. Tulio instead imperiously tilts up his chin. "What makes you think we're lowly enough that we need to have actual jobs?" He's the prince of darkness and ruler of this world, dammit. Every other demon in Hell fears his shadow. Miguel, for all he's trumpeted as champion of the poor and downtrodden, is leader of the Heavenly Host. Churches and kings are christened in his honor.

The little shit squints dubiously at them. "Does that mean you're warriors?"

Miguel's smile dies. He roughly bats the ball to Chel. "When I have to be."

His admission sparks something among the little monsters. Some proudly yammer on about their dads and uncles and big brothers. A girl that claims her daddy is the best archer ever is laughed down by those with family that are spear-throwers. Everyone knows that spear-throwers are the weapons used by the gods themselves.

Heedless of all the winks and cheeky smiles sent their way, Tulio and Miguel lock eyes over all these innocent heads. The brave warriors these kids boast so highly of are cannon fodder. Even the few men Cortes leads will be able to mow their way through through the city's fiercest defenses. What's left of Manoa will become yet another battleground.

The itch under his shoulder blades sharpens into a dull, throbbing ache. Cortes will be making landfall any day now.

When the ball next comes his way, Tulio steps aside, and lets it bounce out of play. "Oops," he says hollowly. "Guess I lost." Again.

The little shit frowns. "But we aren't playing to-"

Tulio stalks off.

He'll keep his promise, all right. And the best way for him to shut up is to remove himself from this situation. Let Miguel enjoy playing with some kids without worrying his mortal enemy will yet again ramp him up into a zealous furor. Let Chel finish up her tour without a desperate demon trying to drag her down with him.

In a pavilion above the square, Tulio stops to take a deep breath, and tries reaching for the calm that came so easily this morning. He finally has a few hours of alone time, with no expectations and no prying eyes. It's what he's always wan-

"Hello, my lord."

Tulio clamps down on a startled squeak. His pride instead makes him stand up straight. "Oh, Tzekel-Kan," he drawls. "What brings you here?"

Even at Tulio's tallest the high priest still has several inches on him. He clasps his hands and leans forward, toeing the line between respect and something else entirely. "Frankly, my lord, I came to seek you or your partner out." Tulio's stomach tumbles at the word. "Your preference for... Chief Tannabok's hospitality prevented me from requesting an audience with you until today."

Tulio stares intently into the high priest's eyes. Tzekel-Kan realizes their proximity and retreats a few steps back.

Lord. Tulio's vanity luxuriates in that word. Because he is a lord; the Lord of Hell, the lord of this very world. He almost rose up higher than the Lord Himself.

(Not that you ever could. Not really.)

"Yes," he demurs. "So what I can I do for you?"

"I have seen you and Lord Miguel out among the people, and I understand how disappointed you two have been in what you've seen so far." Tzekel-Kan's face twists. "The legend of Manoa's grandeur precedes us. The Dual Gods created our Fifth World and bestowed a paradise upon us. But, in their perfection, they could not know how imperfect the humans were they left behind."

Tzekel-Kan waves arms, his very motions sucking the sunlight from the pavilion. Tulio's breath hitches at sorcery, true sorcery. The air grows cold with a power not his own, sharp as obsidian and dark as the deepest jungle. Two glowing green serpents manifest above the high priest's hands.

"Like snakes they are," the priest hisses. "Spineless and slippery." Tzekel-Kan disdainfully reaches out for a nearby tree. Its ripe fruit drops from its branches as a teeming horde of rodents. "They are untrustworthy as rats, stealing and cheating with no remorse." The air around them grows heavy with cobwebs. "Spinning webs of lies, like..."

Tzekel-Kan trails off. His snakes coil reverently at the feet of the Old Serpent himself. His rats greedily flock to the shadow of the greater predator. His spiders start hemming him in from all sides, for he does not sit at the center of this web.

Eyes widening, he cuts off his spells. His god's power dissipates. Their creations remain, blue and green energy now flaring fiery red and sulfurous yellow. Venom drips from the serpents' jaws and from the rodents pestilence unlike that this land has ever seen before. The spiderwebs burst into flame. Tzekel-Kan sweats under an oppressive heat.

The demon at the center of it all only feels cold.

"Yes," murmurs the Adversary. "They do."

Tzekel-Kan squares his shoulders, the uncertainty fading from his eyes. "T-They're beyond disgusting."

"Yes," he hisses. "You are."

(They are what you made them.)

The high priest trembles in rapture. "My lord, these people will not respect y... the Dual Gods if they ever deign return to us. Not if they do not fear them."

The hellfire around the Adversary gutters out. The shrieks of the creatures under his thrall are snuffed out too. Together he and the high priest shiver in the eternal cold of Cocytus. Tzekel-Kan might gaze down at the fathomless ice below him and see his future. Instead he gapes dumbly up at the incomprehensible shadows before him; a seven-headed dragon, a thrashing serpent, a three-headed beast with six ragged wings.

"Are you so sure of that, Tzekel-Kan?" demand the dissonant voices of the demon imprisoned in this bottomless pit. "Would they REALLY? Or would you wind up just like M-"

(...You are what they made you.)

(He's not a monster. He's not he's not he's n-)

He strains against his shackles, the earth above and below him heaving from the effort. The shadows around him burn away, searing white as-

"Oh."

Tulio steps uncertainly back. He's just himself, a very confused tourist standing in an untouched pavilion. The high priest is not a smoking pile of ash. Or a pillar of salt. Tzekel-Kan falls to his knees, tears shamelessly flowing his cheeks.

"'Oh?'" Tulio echoes.

"S-Stars."

"...What?"

Tzekel-Kan blinks. He sheepishly clears his throat and rises to his feet, calmly wiping his face against the mantle draped across his chest. "The stars, my lord," he repeats with more clarity than before. "I saw... how egregiously overlooked the stars. I've misread the heavens. For that I apologize profusely. How can I guide those under my care down here if I do not rightly see those up there?"

Okay, he's driven the high priest off the deep end after all.

"Yeah," Tulio says slowly. "You do that."

Tzekel-Kan bows and takes his leave.

Tulio blindly bolts in the opposite direction. Or at least a direction without high priests, or concerned little kids, or the archangel about to impale a fiery spear through his heart, or-

Barely two steps out of the pavilion, he slams into a familiar face.

"Chel," he breathes in horror. "I-I..."

He should shove her down and flee the avenging angel behind her. He should silence her before she reveals his true nature.

(He can't go back. He can't he can't... he... can't...)

He's tired.

So very, very tired.

"I... I can't..."

Miguel. Did you ever imagine it would end like this?

Oh, Tulio.

It doesn't.

He clings to Chel, a woman who can barely keep herself above water. He has nothing to give her in return. So he takes a deep breath and steadies himself to let go.

Except this breath is more ragged than the next, and the one after even more so. His frozen heart refuses to swallow any more. Instead the ice inside cracks. Something hot and unbearable flows up and he-

With a firm hug, Chel extracts herself from his hold. He doesn't put up a fight. The last of his frantic adrenaline from all those millennia ago has finally burned itself out. He can finally slump down to Cocytus and be enveloped by the same lake that swallowed all other the world's worst sinners.

She squeezes his hand. "Not here."

Chel leads the way.

Tulio follows.

Every step away from that pavilion clears his head a tiny bit more, lessens the icy weight rooting down his feet. In the late afternoon sunshine he can almost convince himself that was just another nightmare.


No amount of mental gymnastics explain away the dull, expectant tension building in his shoulder blades.


For one terrible moment, the very earth beneath his feet threatens to split open, and unleash Hell itself upon them. His ears nearly bleed from that horrible screeching dissonance of realizationresentmentWRA-

Quick as it came, the storm dissipates without ever truly breaking. The ground stills. The horrible noise inside him subsides until only his own bewildered thoughts echo back. Worst yet is losing his wings right on the brink of regaining them. His secondary and tertiary set slide back into discomfiting numbness. Under that alarming itch, his primaries ache.

Miguel wobbles, unbalanced by the earthquake and the loss of his six most precious limbs.

He rights himself at the sound of crying.

Most of the children still in the square are fine, if a bit shaken up. They've teetered their way through or landed harmlessly on their backsides. Some stop screaming when they realize the earth isn't trembling anymore. Others sniffle from scraped palms and knees they gained during their falls.

Miguel hurries to them. For all he can't unfurl his own wings he has no problem calling up the same spark of healing power he used to cure his own hangover.

The same curious little one unwittingly responsible for this blinks in bewilderment. "B-But I thought you were a warrior."

"Only when I have to be," he retorts gently. "Just like when I have to be a healer."

Healing scrapes and boo-boos is not a waste of heavenly might. Not when it dries the tears of innocent children.

Frantic parents and guardians rush into the plaza, screaming their children's names. Some kids race to their loved ones. Other ones Miguel bundles off into the arms of responsible adults.

"Good job," he assures them. "You were all very brave." With a weak smile, he allows himself one little white lie. "M-Maybe we can play again soon, after all this nonsense settles down."

His playmates wave at him. He waves back.

When the last one vanishes, he frowns up in the direction Tulio skulked off. Chel had been right behind him. Because she could trust Miguel alone.

Miguel remembers the same all-consuming desperation that had driven him to tear the palace apart for Tulio, because God forbid the Devil take his first soul while an indolent archangel slept off a hangover. He had nearly hurt little Naui because of it, when Tulio hadn't been doing anything beside boring Chel to tears.

No such fury possesses him today. He's hunted the Devil for nigh a thousand years. Of course he knows the difference when his Adversary failed to manifest power and when he stopped himself.

Apparently Tulio still knows how to keep a promise, and today he's merely a tourist.

Just like Miguel.

For one foolish moment, he's tempted to follow them.

He promptly snorts and dismisses his own stupidity.

Time and time again, Miguel's reached out to a demon in distress. He's tried to sing him comfort through a raging thunderstorm and struggled to recall the light teasing that once flowed so easily between them. A thousand years is too vast a gap for even an archangel to bridge. Tulio has shoved away his every attempt at physical contact and twisted his every attempt at honesty until yet another personal attack against him.

He refuses to recognize his own name, the one that had once been used lovingly, and not uttered as a curse.

Miguel won't antagonize him further. Not when Tulio has resisted the same base impulses that will inevitably drive them to Judgement Day. Right now he has only his own thoughts for company, the strange and paradoxical little whispers that have been bubbling up inside since the Host left him.

Might as well get know himself better. He's not some... some demon in denial about their innermost emotions until they eat them from the inside out.

After irritably scratching at his shoulder blades, Miguel strides off to get his thoughts in order.

Wearing a hip wrap today had been the right idea after all. After being encumbered by the robe and irritated by the tunic, he'd finally felt free from both the humidity and itchy fabric. Aside from his 'partners,' few had batted an eyelash at his naked torso. Most people have instead tried and failed to not gawk at his face. And not just because his goatee makes him look rather dashing.

Who knew facial hair was such a big deal here?

Notes:

You know you've got a Devil!Tulio in existential crisis when the most corruptible man on the continent is practically screaming 'corrupt me!' and that devil's response is to instead vomit up centuries worth of trauma :D

(...And also that eensy, weensy part repressed-deeper-than-fucking-Cocytus part of himself that will definitely never show up again or anything :p)

Once again the angst train went a little longer than expected, so the aftermath of... this will wait until next time ; ) And of course these idiots would see 'pull away and let person/partner in distress even further repress their emotions rather than risk another outburst because we're shitty communicators' as a positive step in their emotional puberty. Because Idiots (totally not still) In Love :p

On Cocytus, we're talking Ninth Circle of Hell here, that frozen lake devoid of even hellfire. Cocytus is reserved for traitors; to kindred, to country, to guests, and to their lords. The deeper in Cocytus, the further you're buried in ice under all eternity. The worst are imprisoned completely in the lake. At the center is the Devil himself, for the ultimate sin of personal treachery against God. But the Devil is also mountain-sized, so he's only buried waist deep in the ice.

(...At least as long as he's putting up a fight.)

Chapter 23: missing something

Summary:

Breakthroughs, breakthroughs everywhere.

...Some of which are more literal than others.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

From the very moment of his creation, Miguel has been imbued with purpose. He commands Heaven's armies and delivers worthy souls to the gates. He heals the sick and protectors the downtrodden. Far-reaching as his Lord needs him to be, he can defend the faith in the distant corners of the globe and answer intimate prayers.

He is a celestial force stuffed into a nearly mortal skin. His head can't contain his racing thoughts. His throat strains on sublime songs. He aches with the need to unfurl his wings, to burst into flame, to abandon all semblance of humanity and return to a boundless fire.

But Miguel can't do any of those things. Like this, his name is Miguel, and this city simply calls him Miguel. They won't understand his true purpose until Heaven is at last ready to open itself to them.

Instead he heads back to the market. In the late afternoon shade business once again bustles. Idle hands are the Devil's... Well, he's never needed a voice to make music.

Miguel scours the stalls. He finds drums and flutes, rattles and trumpets, but nothing like he's looking for. His fingers itch for something else entirely. When he hesitantly asks vendors about it, they stare blankly back. Manoan does not yet have the words for those instruments.

Despondently he looks over the market. His eye lingers on a taut drum and the strings of the loom behind it. He lights up in serendipity.

If only he had anything to trade.

Vendors still push gifts into his hands for nothing in exchange. They shush his stammering protests.

"Please, Mr. Miguel," insists a stall-keeper. "You're doing me a favor. I can't sell a drum this poorly treated."

"Thank you," he blurts out. "But I couldn't possibly-"

"And I haven't touched this old loom in years," retorts the stall-keeper's wizened old mother. "My children and grandchildren did not inherit my gift for weaving." She smiles at her daughter in fond exasperation. "At least you'll get some use out of it."

Arms laden with their generous tribute, Miguel hurries back to the palace. Right now it's the closest thing he has to a ho- um, safe haven. He holds up in a quiet little garden far away from the wing he shares with his 'partner' or where Chief Tannabok's children play. He busily sets to work. If his Lord could create the whole world from nothing than Miguel can certainly improvise something with the work of others.

When he finishes construction, Miguel tunes it best he can, and then hesitantly runs a hand over the strings. He beams at the sound. Leaning back against a tree, he strums his brand new guitar, and channels all those emotions too complex to put into mortal words.

Angels are beings of harmony, and find it in all they touch. He's far from the first to have picked up a guitar.

At first he tries to fall right back in step with the heavenly choirs above. Such sublime notes hardly suit his humble guitar. His stilted attempts at earthly hymns soon ease into to those performed on bustling street corners or the quiet ballads their composers never found the courage to play in public. From their inspiration his song veers elsewhere, to something that echoes only inside himself.

For the first time since plummeting after Tulio, the physical world almost drifts by. He's still tethered to it. When plates appear at the corner of his eye, Miguel wolfs down dinner. He absently sips a cup of cool water whenever his throat goes dry.

After a short eternity, Miguel takes a deep breath, and narrows the storm inside him to one day in particular. His flurried notes soften with the ghost of Samael and deepen in dread at the Adversary lurking under deceptive blue eyes. He nearly pauses in memory at Tulio's offer of a truce. Then his song escalates, building toward the normal furor of their conflict.

Instead his fingers dance with Chel; her breath tickling his ear, the thrill of her forbidden offer, the warmth of her hand against his own. His wavering melody falls into a new balance.

Miguel plays wonder and discovery. He rises in joy with the freedom of nearly flying and plunges with his despair of falling back down to earth. He frets over his strings as he did small children and towering kingbirds. His melody gentles with a tranquility last known a thousand years ago.

Strange flourishes shake up his peaceful notes. Chel's body pressed against his own. Tulio calling him cute. Their eyes drinking him in with an interest so very far reverence, their conspiratorial whispers as they agreed on one very particular thing.

His song quivers with his own sensations; his sweaty hands and heated cheeks, the strange flutter to his pulse and butterflies in his stomach. There's a human word for it all he can't quite put his finger on.

It's...

A strange sound bubbles up inside him.

Guitar squealing to a halt, Miguel's hands fly over his mouth. W-Was that a purr? Since when do people-

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

"I-I don't... I can't..."

Except apparently he can. And he very much does.

Tulio's words from the night before echo inside him."It built up inside me, for years. And years. So slow I didn't even know it was. Or maybe I was lying to myself the whole damn time. Then one day I knew. And I stopped pretending otherwise."

Groaning, his head falls into his hands.

He can grudgingly admit why he's been drawn to Chel. She's brave enough to stare into an archangel's face with a stolen treasure in hand and insist she's his tour guide. She can see through the Devil's attempts to mislead her and leave him tongue-tied. Her stories have them hanging on her every word. And she's gentle and patient and... um, amply blessed in other places. What Miguel feels for her is no different than the temptation that once lured so many Watchers from grace.

But why Tulio? How can his nimble fingers, those cunning little smiles, that... silly little beard also make his heart race? He's the Devil himself! Why should Miguel's feelings toward him become even more tangled? Isn't it bad enough that he still l-

He chokes on something far too close to a sob.

Scrubbing his eyes, Miguel glowers up at the moon and the starry skies above. No one up there he cares about sees him anyway. He grabs his guitar and stalks inside.

For a heartbeat his feet lead him to Chief Tannabok's throne room, to either beg his advice or a room as far away from his 'partners' as humanly possible.

Instead Miguel marches back to their own wing of the palace. The right hand of the Lord does not seek out wisdom from mortals. Nor does he run away from his own battles.

Neither does he start them. At least not tonight.

With a final sigh at their closed curtains, he closes his own. They know where to find him. Assuming they're even still in the palace and not off... cavorting somewhere secret.

Too tired to care about his itchy shoulder blades, Miguel falls into bed face-first. After what happened last night he's not fighting his exhaustion again.

He prays no more nightmares find him.


For three very tense days, the acolytes of Balam Qoxtok have braced for the inevitable. Tzekel-Kan will call for the streets to be cleansed and sacrifices hauled out to his altar. Prophecy has foretold gods coming to earth in physical form and the Fifth World ending at last. The Age of the Jaguar is nigh, and it shall be written in blood.

But these are tourists in Manoa. With a tour guide who is not Tzekel-Kan. Or who has any reason to say good things about Tzekel-Kan. (Every acolyte remembers the fate that befell her brother.)

When Tzekel-Kan returns late in the afternoon, he calls for star charts.

Lots and lots of star charts.

His followers scramble for their libraries. They race across the city to borrow books and scrolls. Other great temples readily loan them knowledge... and then hastily consult other copies of that same text to figure out what Tzekel-Kan is plotting this time.

Their high priest feverishly tears his way through sacred writings. "Older!" he commands. "Show me what's older!"

From the bowels of libraries they dig out astronomical scrolls copied from the works of long-dead civilizations in distant lands. Others are from their own valley, meticulously copied from the stone ruins of ancient calamities. Often their words are indecipherable. Their constellations do not always match those recognized by modern astronomers.

On one particular scroll, Tzekel-Kan blinks and rereads. Then reads again. His eyes narrow, then brighten with a joyful recognition that makes his every acolyte freeze in place.

"Oh," he breathes. "Yes. Yes, of course. Who else could you be?"

The followers foolish enough to look down see nothing but a jumble of stars before Tzekel-Kan snaps the scroll shut.

His triumph is short-lived. Tzekel-Kan's gaze flickers from the stele of the Dual Gods up to the glass eyes of the Jaguar God's colossal idol. He frowns with a new mystery.

"Chima."

His head warrior snaps to attention. "Yes, my lord?"

"Which god do I speak for?"

Chima answers without missing a beat. "The Jaguar God, my lord." In the high priest's ponderous silence, he diligently prattles on. "The Obsidian Warrior. The Lord of War and Conquest. Possessor of-"

"What is his name?"

"B-Balam Qoxtok, my lord."

The acolytes flinch. The Obsidian Jaguar is a proud and elusive god. Among the pious, his sacred name should never be invoked so flippantly. Not outside of prayer. And especially  not in front of their high priest.

"'Jaguar Demon,'" Tzekel-Kan echoes blankly. "You believe our lord's name is Jaguar Demon?"

"Uh..."

"Do you know his name? Any at all?"

Acolytes and warriors glance desperately around their crowd. Tzekel-Kan had been the youngest priest under the old high speaker, bestowed with zealous faith and magical power no other follower had possessed. He had swiftly ascended through her ranks. Upon her death he'd been her indisputable successor. No one else knows the Jaguar God intimately as he does. His fellow priests have long succumbed to old age or lived short, unfortunate lives.

"I see." Again Tzekel-Kan glances at the icon of the Dual Gods. His sneer falls into something else. "Ah," he sighs up to the Jaguar God's jade idol. "I see."

His followers hold their breath.

"That will be all for tonight," he murmurs at last. "Leave me."

Bowing deeply, they obey hastily as they can.

All except Chima, who faithfully stands watch on the temple threshold.

Tzekel-Kan kneels before his god and prays.


Powerless as a longboat in the ocean swell, Tulio drifts obediently behind Chel. (Except that one instinctive step he takes toward that golden temple gleaming like a beacon.) His mask is impeccable. His hand is slathered in sweat. She must feel his pulse thundering through him. He wonders what color his eyes burn.

This palace isn't home. It's no safe haven. But this place is private and more comfortable than any place he's been in centuries. His heart begins to settle just from Chel guiding him her room. As she closes the curtain he bonelessly collapses onto her couch.

Then he winces and bolts upright. He irritably rolls his shoulders, straining against some dull pressure he can't seem to break. It's not painful anymore, but it's annoying, and on the edge of being itchy. Why does he have such a crick in the-

Two hands ghost over his shoulders. Tulio tenses even further. His nails sink into the cushions.

Chel doesn't pull away. She barely brushes his skin. And waits.

Tulio swallows. His mouth works without sound. He remains rigid, hanging on a razor's edge.

His silence is answer enough. She splays her hands over his shoulders. Her fingers knead. His breath hitches. Blinking rapidly, Tulio sighs and leans into her massage. Something inside him finally uncoils.

FWUMP.

Chel yelps and tumbles backward. Suddenly off-kilter, Tulio flails for balance, his wings...

His wings.

Tulio swoons. He keels forward to smack against the stone floor.

His pain is very real. Real as the foreign appendages sprouting from his back. A scream builds up inside him.

"Oh," Chel breathes.

"'Oh?'" he squeaks indignantly. "What do you mean... oh."

Tulio sits up, wings shifting with the effort. Chel crawls over the couch to plop down beside him. Her eyes are wide in fascination. Hesitantly he unfurls one for them to both inspect.

His wings should be black as his heart. This pair is a raw, tender-looking pink. Their shape is wrong. Where are his wing membranes? The arms are too blunt, too narrow. These things have no claws, only a few white spikes barely protruding from the outer edge. How is he supposed to fly with these scrawny twigs?

"Huh," Chel mumbles. She scooches closer.

"You're talking this oddly well," he notes in distant serenity.

"It's obvious you weren't human."

"S-Since when?" he squawks.

"The moment we met." He splutters. "Tulio, your eyes were yellow. And Miguel was... Miguel."

A hysterical giggle bubbles out of him. "Okay. Point taken. But this is new." He shakes his wings in consternation. "They're supposed to be more..." Hideous. "More than this."

She squints. "I think you're molting."

"Molting," he echoes blankly. "What do you think I am, some sort of chicken? I'm a..."

Tulio trails off hopelessly. In his last days as a seraphim all six of his wings had started to shed feathers. Nothing had ever grown in their place. He had glowed all the brighter to compensate and also to disguise his loss. When his wings had been ripped from him, he had desperately sprouted three new pairs to try escaping his pit. His earthly forms tend to grow small, stunted bat wings.

Never two wings like these, so pale and incomplete. Definitely not the wings of a self-respecting demon.

Chel reaches out. His wings snap wide open at her touch. Every newborn nerve ending trembles at physical contact. The dull ache from before resurfaces and recedes. His spikes push forward, looking less like weird claws and more like the tops of... quills. Under his skin a second row itches with the promise of soon breaking free.

Feathers. He's growing-

Tulio snaps his wings closed. They fold out of this world entirely, stuffed somewhere dark and deep. Chel jolts back in surprise. He curls into himself, a torrent heaving up inside.

"Are... Are you okay?"

"Fuck no," he croaks. "How about you?"

She ponders this. "Better than I was before."

He giggles again. "Fair enough." Reflexively he scoots behind her. His masterful hands caress her rigid shoulders. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No." Chel slumps into his touch. "How about you?"

"No." After a long pause, he amends, "Not yet, at least."

"...Yeah."

They've known each other three days. She's helped him question every fiber of his being and he's shown her the face of Hell itself. It's damn well within their right to enjoy a nice, quiet night without any heavy questions or earth-shattering revelations.

Instead Tulio treats Chel to a thorough massage. Knotted into her muscles is years of tension and heartbreak. He excises it bit by bit, from her shoulders down to the small of her back. They shuffle from the hard floor to her plush bed. When he's done his fingers wind into her hair. Chel has no wings to preen so he compensates the best he can.

Tulio relaxes with her. He'd forgotten the quiet pleasure of simply making a partner feel good.

Little truths bubble up between them. Chel's favorite drink his pulque; his favorite food is pomegranate. She loves the dry season and he the height of summer. She despises her normal job. So did he.

When Chel is all but dozing, Tulio sprawls out beside her. He rolls onto his chest and ignores the itch under his shoulder blades.

"Hey, Chel?"

She cracks an eye open. "Mm?"

Tulio wants to tell her a truth about himself, any truth, one she doesn't already know. One not foul enough to poison her dreams again. He reaches back through the eons to his distant, hazy youth. His real youth.

"My name is... My name was..."

Quick as he found it, his thought unspools back into nothingness, and all he remembers is the proud rumble of Samael. That other name hadn't been his. Not really. Just another false echo of a family not his own.

"Lightbringer," he chokes out instead. "T-They... They called me Lightbringer."

The brightest of the Lord's children, the first to rise (and made to fall.)

Her lip quirk. "They call me Chel."

A chasm still yawns between them (between him), but tonight their hearts are light enough to let them drift off. It's enough. It's more than enough. It's the most he's been at peace since... since it was Miguel's voice murmuring in his ear, and Miguel's gentle fingers carding through his wings.

(And they're missing him.)

Notes:

And, lo, it took 23 chapters of slow burn for Miguel-in-denial to realize "oh no, they're hot." I'm sure this little spark isn't about to set off a bonfire that will speed certain things up in any way :D

People with lutes/early guitars are everywhere across early Renaissance art. Including angel musicians. Angel!Miguel's pre-Miguel appearance was literally just a paler, infinitely more eldritch version of this baby-face here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angel#/media/File:Da_Forli_-_Music-Making_Angel.jpg

A lot of the more esoteric cults across history concealed the 'true' names of their gods behind epithets - the point where even a historically important goddess Despoine (the Mistress) can have her true name lost. Or gradually have their ancient aspects forgotten and distorted. Pan-Hermes got split into two gods. Ancient Poseidon lost his earth god status to Hades, a younger god that branched off from him. Balam Qoxtok literally means something like 'Jaguar Demon' in Nahuatl... and Tzekel-Kan's zest for the conquering side of his god means he kind of forgot about the other parts. Until a very helpful Devil reminded him what can happen if there's too much 'fear' and not enough 'respect' :D

Chel's massage triggering a face full of wings was always part of the plan. I toyed with Tulio gaining a nuanced appreciation of bat wings for two seconds... and then Miguel started playing with Altivo's mane, because oops these two idiots are touch-starved in very feather-specific ways and keep trying to preen things that aren't their partners. (Because Tulio's last real physical intimacy before and after his Fall was grooming with Miguel, and the one comfort Michael!Miguel allowed himself was the very rare preening by other archangels.) So guess who sprouted a whole new kind of existential crisis :D

I'm sure all this starry foreshadowing for the last 20 chapters will have no payoff in any way ; )

Chapter 24: carried away

Summary:

Miguel, unsurprisingly, gets carried away.

Way away.

(In more ways than one.)

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

An archangel is incorruptible. Even bound to this material form, he is not wracked by hunger or bogged down by exhaustion.

The same cannot be said for his robes, caked in salt. His hem soon turns black from the mud and dirt.

His hair is no better. In the humid air his immaculate curls start to wilt, no matter how he frets over them when Tulio's back is turned. Where's the logic in that? Miguel is clean, not matted in grease and sweat like a certain demonic foe. He's suddenly grateful his fellow archangels can't see him now. Some would fret over his appearance. Others might even have the nerve to laugh.

When Miguel spots Altivo happily relaxing in a hot spring up ahead, he nearly falls to his knees in gratitude. His being aches with the pools and fountains mortals use to ritually cleanse themselves. This isn't some frivolous indulgence, but an ablution to regain his purit-

Tulio whoops and charges ahead. He kicks off his pants. His shirt is right behind. Miguel's horrified gaze rivets to his backside.

Oh, something inside him whispers.

"Y-You can't-"

"I can, and I did." Tulio sits himself on a higher ledge in the hot spring, revealing a lean torso long hidden under his ragged clothes and wild facial hair. He smirks. "Oh, please. It's nothing you haven't seen before."

Adam and Eve walked bare through the garden. There hadn't been anything shameful about it, not in the beginning. They'd been ignorant as children until the Serpent had opened their eyes.

But Tulio knows who he is and what he wants - and that is to fluster an archangel into finally breaking composure. Miguel's heart skips.

When Tulio scrambles after his stolen rags, Miguel relishes his privacy. He strips off his filthy robe and ducks into the hot spring before Altivo can notice. The minerals clouding the pool disguise the... intimate details of his physical form. His unease soon melts away. The water is warm. It eases aches he never knew he had.

Miguel basks. No prayers or song of the Host echo inside him. There is only the chatter of the animals in the canopy above, the faint wind stirring his hair, and Altivo's nonjudgmental presence. It's... peaceful.

For the first time in his existence, a wave of drowsy contentment washes over him. His eyelids flutter close.

Then Tulio stomps back through the undergrowth, swearing at the top of his voice. Miguel startles awake. Instinct urges him to dress, to slam down his defenses and never again allow himself be caught vulnerable.

A small, rebel voice inside him wants to stay right where he is. He's comfortable. He has no reason to be ashamed of himself, and every reason to make the Devil splutter for a change.

He still rises to dress and-

He barely manages to catch his robe before it slips into indecency. "D-Do you mind?"

"No," Chel breathes. Her eyes never leave his chest.

Miguel has told humans to fear not when he came to them in visions. He has been doubted as a demon in disguise and driven the zealous near mad with rapture. Never before has a mortal... seen him so intimately.

Heat floods into his cheeks. His heart jolts.

"Oh! Oh!" Chel shakes herself. "Right. Uh, excuse me."

That little voice inside him asks her to stay. It urges him to drop his robe. Instead he splutters. H-He's never been ogled before.

Chel snaps the curtain shut. Miguel almost hopes she dares another peek.

After a long moment, his lip quirks up from a strange rush of-

Nude and vulnerable, Miguel crouches low in his bath and covers parts never before exposed to others. Tulio looms above him with bright blue eyes and a mane of sopping curls. His towel dips scandalously low.

Alluringly low.

This time Tulio doesn't open his mouth and ruin the moment. Neither does Miguel. They gaze at each other in perfect understanding.

As one, their eyes turn elsewhere.

With a deep breath, Miguel stands up straight. Tulio slowly steps down into the bath.

Chel's already beside him. She lays a hand on his shoulder. Her warmth presses against his own.

He-

Miguel bolts upright, panting for for breath. It takes him a long, long moment to return to himself.

"Well," he giggles deliriously, "that wasn't a nightmare."

He's alone in his own bed. His heart still thunders in his chest. His wings prickle in the night chill.

...His wings.

Miguel tumbles out of bed. He smashes his head on the hard stone ceiling and again on the floor below. Every part of himself throbs in pain. This isn't another dream. It's real.

Real as his ugly, dying wings.

His whole being should shine with heaven's light, but the radiance has been sapped from his primary wings to reveal only ragged, colorless feathers. Bald spots mar his plumage. They reveal the raw pink flesh and warped, blackened scar tissue beneath. Miguel brushes a wing in disbelief. A dead feather drifts down to crumble into nothingness.

No. Nonon-

Miguel staggers to his feet. He strains to unfurl his other four wings, but feels only a dull, distant ache. Maybe he's still weak. Maybe his other wings have already rotted away.

His gaze snaps across the hall, to where his Adversary sleeps unaware. Something hot and horrible flares up inside him. A familiar heat begins to manifest in his right hand.

Miguel lets his fiery blade gutter out before it even finishes taking shape. He... He can't. Not tonight. Tulio hasn't done anything yet, not really. How can Miguel strike him down when he's kept their promise to Chel?

Striding onto his balcony, Miguel finds no shortage of purpose in the city below. He struck down monsters and protected those in need long before he ever gained an Adversary. Unfurling his ragged wings, he takes flight.

In the golden radiance of day Manoa is a vibrant city. Under the cold moonlight its colors have dimmed to black and silver. Every temple cast jagged shadows and every canal is deep enough to lead into the worlds below. This is the domain of demons. They scurry through the alleyways on foul little paws and slither through the grasses edging the streets. They roost in human lungs and nibble away at their strength.

Even on the razor's edge of Falling, evil fears his coming. Pestilence slinks deeper into the darkness or freezes under his shadow. The foul night air flees before him. There is no hiding from him. There is no escape.

Chel had shown her tourists only the most beautiful sides of her city. Tonight Miguel's purpose pulls him past the spacious homes and prosperous markets. The further from Lake Parime, the narrower and more rugged the stone streets become, until they are only dirt paths. The low, ramshackle houses are squeezed next to wild jungle. The rocky ground beyond is too steep to build any further.

There are no grand temples out here. The humble little shrines mean nothing to him.

(They don't. Just like all those stubborn whispers finally silenced by the Exile.)

Miguel passes into the first home like smoke. Curled up in the front room is an exhausted little girl bundled up in blankets. She doesn't stir from her dreams. The bald little dog in her arms is not so oblivious. His head perks up, ears pricked toward the archangel once again veiling himself from mortal eyes. He whines uncertainly.

Miguel ignores them both, just as he steps over the weary father sprawled out on a threadbare sleeping mat.

The little girl is a twin. Her sister lies in the back room, bundled up in blankets that do not protect from the cold that long crept inside. They would be identical, if one was not pale and emaciated from a very hard battle against the inevitable.

She would be dead already, if not for the force that stops even disease in its tracks.

The bat splayed over the little girl is larger than she is. Its ragged leather wings shroud her form. It shrinks back from Miguel's presence, unable to face an archangel and yet unwilling to abandon to its prey. Instead it opens its mouth to weasel its way out.

Miguel preemptively silences its lies by a fiery spear down its gullet. It crumbles into a puff of foul vapor. He fans his wings, stirring the room's stagnant air with a warm breeze fresh with rain and morning dew.

The little girl takes a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes fly wide open. She bolts upright, hacking up the fluid in her lungs that nearly drowned her.

Instinctively Miguel kneels at her side. He rubs her back. Under his touch healthy color floods into her cheeks. The hollows in her cheeks and the dark pits under her eyes dissolve like a bad dream.

"Easy now," he soothes. "You're all right."

She sniffles, ready to bawl her eyes out anyway.

Then the bald little dog butts his way into things. Miguel falls back in surprise. The girl is bowled over, her sniffles soon turning into giggles.

"M-Mochi! Mochi, stop!"

Mochi does not stop. He only whines and licks her harder.

Miguel blinks dazedly up. The girl's father and sister gawk right back. Before he can muster up his grace and leave them to a joyous reunion, Mochi tackles him next. The right hand of the Lord is powerless against such frantic, slobbery kisses.

"Stop!" he huffs breathlessly. "B-Bad dog! Bad dog!"

"Mochi!" three voices cry at once.

The dog finally relents. He scampers back to his family's side. The girls' father widens his embrace to grab onto him too.

They stare at him. He stares right back.

"Hi," one twin pipes up.

Miguel sits up, tightly folding his wings. "...Hello."

"I'm Cera," says the girl he saved.

"I-I'm... I am who I am," he offers, a fig leaf between his true self and a face these would people would recognize as Miguel the tourist.

"And I'm Canah!" her sister adds. "This is Mochi." The dog barks happily at his own name. "And this is Daddy!"

"Thank you, my lord," their father croaks out. He reverently kisses the brows of both his little girls. "If you hadn't come when you had, t-then..."

"I came when I was needed," Miguel answers gently. "But I'm not... I'm not a..." Canah sticks something small and sticky into his hand. "W-What's this?"

"A honey cake!" Cera gushes. "They're really good, my lord!"

"And we have to say thank you," Cerah adds matter-of-factly. "'Cause you let us keep Cera and Mochi because now she won't need him down in... you know."

To not be rude Miguel scarfs down the honey cake and departs with the remains of his dignity. Before he stops at the next household he stops to diligently scrub the sticky honey and dog slobber from his face. At least there are no shortage of demons to take his frustrations out him. After all those weeks stranded with Tulio he pent up a lot.

Miguel is an archangel, a healer and champion of the downtrodden. He pierces burning snakes and pustule-ridden rats. He cools fevers and the fire of venomous bites. No pestilence is too small. Every ailment slain is one less evil in the world. Every life saved is one less for perdition.

With those he heals comes the tearful, grateful loved ones. They squeeze him in hugs and sob into his chest. Miguel soon becomes at adept at making his escape before the heaping platters of food and sticks of incense come out. He never reveals his name or a face these people would recognize as either an archangel's or a tourist's. For all he can't yet openly and zealously proclaim his allegiance he serves as he always had.

It's not enough.

It's nowhere near enough.

His bald spots creep ever larger. Every evil slain is another feather fallen from his plumage. For all he cleanses the city of pestilence he cannot purge the one that has taken root inside him.

When there is no more left to slay, Miguel lands desperately in a deserted street, and unfurls his wings to confirm his worst fear. He sobs at their wretched state.

No. Nonono-

"Excuse me," calls a voice soft as the night wind. Miguel gasps and folds his wings, stuffing them into a deep, shameful part of himself. In this dark street he can call them a trick of the shadows. "Are you all right?"

Miguel whirls toward the only other person in the street. The woman clutches a yellowed shawl against the night chill.

"Yes," he declares with his old confidence. "Everything is fine."

She steps closer, dubiously tilting her head. "Are you lost?"

"I'm not..." Miguel surveys their surroundings. His shoulders slump. In his single-minded pursuit of his quarry he hadn't spared a thought for how all these strange streets looked from the ground. "Well, maybe a little lost." He chuckles. "I am a tourist, after all."

Her dark eyes sparkle. "If you say so."

Miguel steps forward to shake her hand as he had with so many others this morning. "I'm Miguel."

She delicately takes his hand. Her dark, manicured nails are mindful of his skin. "My name is Kama."

"It's nice to meet you, Kama." He takes a polite step back, smiling up at the clear skies above. "It's a beautiful night for an evening stroll."

"The night should be a calm, quiet time." A faint, scolding tone creeps into her voice. "But it's much too late for someone as... inexperienced to this land as you to be wandering the streets alone."

A delirious smile tugs at his lip, his exhaustion from earlier once again flooding over him. "Maybe it is."

Kama shuffles closer. "Would you like to come with me?"

His smile falters. "To where?"

"My home isn't far from here. It's a warm, safe place to rest your head should you wish." His stomach chooses that moment to rumble. Her lips purse. "Or for a hot meal at the very least. I always have one ready for my little ones."

Miguel searches her eyes, deep and dark as the night sky, and finds no falsehood there. Her concern for his well-being is sincere as her offer. His only other alternatives for tonight are to wander the streets like a lost soul or return to the palace.

How can he face Chel when he's sliding down into sin? Or let Tulio realize his part in pushing the right hand of the Lord to Fall at last?

"I'd... I'd love to."

Kama beams bright as the moon above. It eases some of the dread already building in his heart over his Fa... failure. She offers a hand.

Miguel takes it.

Notes:

Every demon in Manoa: Maybe if we just stay real quiet and don't kill any one for a few days maybe he'll just go... Why do I hear boss music?
-DIES IRAE INTENSIFIES-

When you set a very melodramatic archangel loose, there's only one way things tonight could have ended :D Unfortunately for him, he's only sped a certain process up a lot ; )

Readers of certain other fics of mine might recognize a few familiar faces here. Due to some terrifying idiots no one wanted to provoke, some that would be dead in another 'verse are still very much alive.

And someone else has finally... succeeded where so many other iterations of herself couldn't. Because of course Lady Kama, in all of her unconditional love and... unorthodox sense of cuteness would look at the very sullen, very feathery archangel and go 'baby!' And given how willfully ignorant Miguel chose to remain of Manoa's pantheon and how oblivious he is to his changing role in this city this time around, he fell right into her doting, maternal talons.

And that's how Miguel got carried away by owl(s)! :D

Chapter 25: the spirit world

Summary:

Tulio is lost.

So very, very lost.

But down here there are those even more lost than he could ever be.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He Falls like a shooting star, the stumps of his wings still smoking, plummeting through the heavens and smashing through the earth below.

He...


Tulio smacks into hard stone. His nose crinkles at the stench of mud and mildew. He groans and rolls over, blinking blearily skyward. His pounding heart eases at the sight of a familiar star shining through the black clouds above. Sitting up, he surveys filthy streets and ramshackle buildings in a style he recognizes.

Good news; he hasn't tumbled back down into Hell after all. Bad news; he's sleepwalked into Manoa's slums while most of his mind was yet again reliving his Fall.

Tulio searches the skyline for any familiar markers. With the sky this dark he can't even spot the Great Temple. Up ahead he spots a single light shining through the gloom. He strides toward it.

The only soul out this late turns out to be an old man, bald and big-eared. He casually sits over a fetid canal, a thick leather shawl hunched around his shoulders. A little fire burns beside him.

"Hello," Tulio calls out in his most cordial voice. "Nice night we're having."

"Quiet night." The old man hums down at his fishing pole. "Quiet water."

Tulio stares down in morbid fascination. "W-What are you even fishing for?"

"Don't know." The fisherman turns his way. "Anything interesting, I suppose."

"Best of luck to you," Tulio offers brightly. "Do you happen to know the way back to the palace?"

The old man grins. "Tourist, huh?"

"Yeah. I lost my group and everything." Dressed only in a hip wrap, he shivers against the night chill. "C-Can you tell me the way back from here?"

"Afraid I don't know it from here."

"How about back to the Great Temple?"

"Don't know that either."

Tulio takes a deep, steadying breath and tries not to snark a harmless old man. He cranes his head skyward again, to that one particular star that shines brighter than all others. If there were any others out. Tulio's brow furrows. Something niggles at the corner of his mind. Something vital.

"A-Are we close to sunrise?"

The old man waves a hand. "Eh. Not particularly."

Frown deepening, Tulio turns both east and west for any sign of light on the horizon. He spots only darkness. By the time he and Chel moved into her bed it had been far past sunset. It's both too late and too early for this stubborn little speck of light to still be out.

"I'm lost," Tulio blurts out. "So very, very lost."

The old man tugs hopefully at his fishing pole. "If I were you I'd pick a direction and start walking. You'll eventually find someone who can tell you a lot more than I ever could."

Tulio snorts. "Thanks for the advice, old man."

The old man grins, vaguely familiar. "You're welcome, tourist!"

Tulio stalks onward. The warm glow of the fisherman's fire soon fades, but the street almost seems to glow from a faint, sickly light of its own. His bare feet squelch through muck. Eh. He's walked through worse. A lot worse. His eye still twitches at the skittering claws of rats, their little squeaking calls to each other. He's never liked the greedy little pests.

Every once in a while, his eye is drawn toward something in the refuse piles; a water skin covered in tooth marks, a white shroud, a bone gnawed beyond recognition. Beady little eyes peer from behind every heap. The squeaking behind him intensifies.

Hissing furiously, the old serpent spins their way. The scavengers squeal and scatter from his presence.

Down the street the stench is burned away, the mud beneath his feet baked dry. The air hangs hot and heavy. For a moment Tulio swelters. Then an icy cold seeps up from the earth below. He shivers with familiar chill.

A house up ahead blazes through the night. Fire dances in every window. Smoke billows from its chimney. In the threshold lounges a bald, lithe woman dressed only in a tight dress of leather diamonds. Her golden eyes rove over his form.

"Hello, handsssome," she calls. "Come and ssstay a while."

On any other night Tulio would dive forward without a second thought. Now a faint, cautious whisper keeps him from flirting back.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but not tonight." He flashes a suave, polite smile. "Perhaps another time? Another place?"

She flicks her forked tongue. "We'll sssee, ssstranger."

Oh.

Tulio, about ready to swoon, suddenly realizes human women  shouldn't have forked tongues. And should have eyelids. Her form flickers in the haze, revealing a golden viper basking in the heat.

OH.

"Um, excuse me, but where exactly are we?"

"My home." The viper woman idly waves a hand toward her fiery abode. "The finessst place in all Xibalba."

Oh f-

"I see," Tulio squeaks out. "And how would one get out of... um, back to the world above?"

"Why would you want to, ssstranger? It'sss not sssafe tonight." She hisses fearfully at the sole star above. "There are sssnake-eatersss out." The woman slithers closer. "Ssstay with me tonight and you'll never want to leave."

Tulio's gaze drifts back to her home. Under the roaring flames he almost hears faint, agonized screams. The air reeks of smoke and burning flesh. Charred hands claw at her windows.

He bares his own fangs right back, the road between them splitting open for the icy gales of Cocytus to come roaring out. The viper woman shies back. Her fires gutter out.

"Sorry, my lady," Tulio chirps. "I'm already taken."

Even after the fissure to his prison below rumbles shut, he leaves the viper shivering sullenly in her coils.

Beyond the viper's nest is only darkness. His feet sink back into the cold, sucking mire. A desolate wind blows through ruins little more than rotted wood and tumbled stone. How quaint.

Of course he isn't alone. From atop the tallest skeletal building looms a ragged shadow. Shrouded in a tattered leather cloak is a bat demon. Those big ears and squashed-up face can't belong to anything else.

"Nice little setup you have here," Tulio calls up conversationally. "Where do you keep your souls?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," sneers a voice soft as the night wind.

His eyes flick to the many piles of rubble. "You buried them for all eternity, huh? Can't go wrong with the basics."

"Move along, thief!" The bat demon spits down at him. "You and your partner have stolen enough from me."

"Partner? I d-don't..." Tulio trails off, grinning ruefully skyward. Leave it to Miguel to get right back into smiting the same night his Adversary slides a few levels short of Hell. "My partner isn't a thief. Contrary to what certain grudge-holding Italians may believe, a soul doesn't belong anywhere if they're still alive. Not even down here with us."

The night wind rises in a furious shriek. The bat demon dives.

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

Tulio snaps his own wings open. Their gruesome, skeletal shadow dwarfs this little corner of Xibalba. His adversary flutters back. Again the earth beneath him trembles, toppling the last of ancient ruins and splitting their foundations open.

The bat demon flees into the night. Tulio folds his wings and doesn't spare him a second thought.

Ahead the filth in the street grows deeper and murkier. Tulio wades through it until it seeps up to his knees. Uneasily he thinks of his bottomless pit below, the frozen lake that's swallowed him up to the waist. He doesn't trust his itchy, threadbare wings to carry him.

Instead Tulio steps atop the mire. Ice blooms under his feet, freezing it solid. He glides over a solid surface and ignores the bones floating in the water beside him.

Crocodiles and alligators growl at him as he cleaves a path across their swamp. Their colossal mother glares at him from the ruins of her sprawling, half-drowned palace. She and Tulio gladly pass each other by.

As the water level declines the bones only grow more numerous. They are soon joined by corpses black and bloated with decay. Tulio gingerly tiptoes around each one. No evil sleeps among these souls. Their slumber is deep and restful. He slows with a pensive frown, but continues on without disturbing them.

The streets beyond the swamp are cold and dry, bleak as the bleached skeletons strewn across them.

Bone by bone, the dead streets stir. Black eye sockets swivel his way. Tulio peers into their depths. In them he sees he primal wants that sometimes gnaw away at a human soul until only emptiness remains. Even though he has only hatred and bitterness to offer, they claw for him anyway. They will devour his evil as they had their own love and hope.

The air around Tulio pulses hot and white. Some skeletons have self-preservation enough to shy away from his radiance. Those not so swift or sensible crumble into ash.

Towering above the streets is an alabaster palace. Despite its stark exterior inside shines a warm red glow. Tulio drifts toward it like a moth to the flame.

And stops at the stairway.

Sitting on the steps is a man with a large hooked nose. His gaze never leaves the star over their heads.

"Um, hey," Tulio calls out cautiously. "Are you... okay?"

"I'm dead," the man answers dreamily.

"...Yeah. I can see that."

In life he must have been a great chief. Now the blue cloak he huddles inside is worn and moth-eaten. Only a few dull, broken green feathers remain in his headdress. Was this once Tannabok's dad or granddad?

Tulio clears his throat. "Why aren't you inside?"

"I'm... waiting."

"For what?"

"My wife." The man blinks, then shakes his head. "No. For our partner. I'm waiting for him. It's night. This is our time together."

"Okay," Tulio says slowly. "Then where is he now?"

"With my wife. There was... a threat... No." He frowns up at the star. "A child. Her child. Our child. My partner is hers; her children are mine. We're together even when we're apart." His gaze drifts to the horizon. "But our partner's taken too long, and now I must go on without him."

"Where?"

The shade lurches to his feet. "West."

"Why?"

"Because I must." He shuffles down the stairs.

Tulio anxiously glances between the warm light of the palace and the ominous darkness further down the street. "But-"

"Her watch is almost done," the shade cuts in, a tad of impatience creeping into his lifeless tone. "I've never kept her waiting."

The shade's steps are slow and tottering. Tulio easily catches up to him. The shade, well-used to walking with a companion, makes no fuss against leaning against him for support. Down the bone-white streets they go.

Tulio makes polite conversation about the weather and how nice that palace looked. The shade ignores all his unsubtle hints except to grumble about having a schedule to keep. Tulio's gentle attempts to guide the shade back, or at least to the side of the road to rest, fare no better. The frail, stubborn old shade steadfastly tugs himself back on course.

His neck prickles with the knowledge that they're being followed. At times Tulio catches a pale shadow skulking at the corner of his eye. Every time he turns to face them there's nothing there. The skeletons know better than to let themselves be caught.

Ahead a vast jungle swallows the horizon. Only blackness looms under its towering branches.

"Hey," Tulio tries. "Is there a way forward that doesn't involve the ominous jungle?"

For the first time the shade turns his way... and gives him a deadpan stare. Under the starlight his eyes glint a strange shade of gold.

Tulio sighs. "Just checking."

Slow and implacable, they trudge onward.


The exterior of the White Lady's palace is white and bleak as her streets, pristine as bleached bone. Inside her halls red-gold fires merrily burn in every hearth and brazier. Tables heaping with food and pitchers of alcohol stretch on to accommodate a plentiful feast. Between festive conversations and celebrations, her guests pause to gorge themselves. No one worries about overstuffed bellies or pounding hangovers.

Not anymore.

Every member of the Skeleton Goddess' court sloughed off their flesh and blood long ago, along with the sorrows of their old lives. Her spirits still take pride in their appearance. They wear sumptuous clothes, elaborately style their hair or paint their visible bones. Each one glows with a light of their own. Their very souls radiate contentment. For many the White Lady is their final destination.

For others she is only a way point.

Tonight an innocent question from one astute reveler passes into clandestine whispers. A few people sneak off from the party to check under tables and in corners. Their search ripples outward. More souls try to tiptoe into the search and only attract yet more searchers.

Despite people's best efforts to keep it quiet the truth spreads like wildfire. Even after countless years of contentment in the White Lady's halls, humans still savor a good scandal. And it inevitably reaches their hostess.

"My deepest apologies, Lady Iztaya," one brave soul murmurs at last, "but, um, Lord Kinich appears to have wandered off."

Outwardly Iztaya remains the picture of elegance. Her naked skull has no way to physically express emotion.

Yet on some level of existence, she twitches.

When Kinich was first murdered, Munah had challenged every last Lord of Xibalba to get him back, for Kama had been so grievously wounded by the Crocodile God and even more so at losing her husband. Their efforts in raging against against Lady Death herself had brought their partner back... partially. Kinich is still doomed to die every dusk. All nights of the month, save one, Kama takes his place to watch over the world above. In turn Munah leaves Kama's side to ensure Kinich is never alone in his journey through Xibalba.

...Except tonight, because Munah desperately needed to stave off disaster elsewhere. Of all the Lords of Xibalba, he had entrusted Iztaya with keeping Kinich safe.

Iztaya rises from her throne to glide across her palace. Never mind the sun himself permanently dying on her watch. She instead dreads the hell his partners would rain down upon Xibalba if something ever happened to... him...

The Skeleton Goddesses freezes at her palace steps.

Oh.

Oh, no.

The Sun God stubbornly shambles west, an idiot by his side. In the empty black skies above Xibalba shines a star that should not be there.

Even if she wanted to, Iztaya could not give chase.

A crowd, large and weary, stretches between them. They cluster around the base of her palace. At her arrival a few huddle together or slump in submission. A few lean toward her like flowers starved for sunlight. None quite have the courage to touch her palace steps.

Here are the charred souls that have walked forth from Itzli's fires. Between them they carry those they unearthed from Tzinacon's suffocating rubble. And here are Ayin's drowned, hauled up from her waters and still glinting with frost from the ice bridge that cleaved across her mires. Iztaya even spots a few of Tlilihui's, woken up early from a restful decay. They yawn and blearily rub away their last pieces of rotted flesh, revealing the gleaming bone and golden glow beneath.

Oh.

"You fool," Iztaya mutters after the one responsible for this. "You ignorant, auspicious fool."

Kinich and his 'guide' continue onward, under the path of the star above. Countless more souls ignore Iztaya's refuge to creep after them. Her home is not paradise for most nurtured on tales of Eupana's verdant isle... or for those already reaching for what comes after the life after.

The idiot has no idea of all he sundered. He never once sees the lost souls following him; their one glint of light in the endless dark, their herald toward an imminent dawn.

And they're all heading straight for the Jaguar God, who always jealously guarded his souls even more Tzekel-Kan puffed up his sense of self-importance. There's a reason why the Sun God still remains half-dead. One god has always been pettier than most.

A spiteful brat and the blundering fool. Ordinarily Iztaya would gladly sip pulque with Tlilihui and relish the carnage, but tonight she has work. Unplanned, unexpected (but never, ever unwelcome) work.

With wide open arms, the White Lady steps forward to claim her own.

Notes:

Dante was very, very, VERY salty about his contemporary Italian politics. To a point where he put at least one person that was still alive in his time down in Hell, because apparently some souls are just so wicked they get dragged down and tortured early and leave a mortal 'shell' behind. Except even Tulio now agrees that neither nor Miguel can truly 'win' with a human soul until it's dead (and any chance to change that final judgement is dead with them.)

I had a vague idea of Tulio finessing his way through Xibalba and unwittingly picking up souls by winning 'collateral' with his loaded dice... only he turned out to be very, VERY cranky and just kinda stomped his way through it all. And unwittingly picked up countless souls that decided following this drama queen beat an eternity burning/buried/drowning/decaying, because of course he did.

And also one very bleary, mostly-dead sun god with a stubborn sense of cosmic timing, because whoops, Kinich's normal partner in the nighttime is a little too busy trying to make Kama give up her new 'kid' before the eldritch entity in question (or the even more unknown, terrifying Creator of that entity) catches on as to what she did. (Because, even though Munah himself is like the literal God of Grand Heroic Gestures, that's still too far.)

Chapter 26: the more i learn (the more i see)

Summary:

The more they learn.... the more they wish they didn't learn.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The jungle is vast and dark. Peering through the trees Tulio sees only shadows. Even the outskirts are littered with fallen weapons and the gnawed, yellowed bones of their warriors. Their empty sockets almost seem to stare into his soul.

As his stubborn companion hobbles into certain doom, Tulio hesitates only for a moment. Nothing in this wood can be worse than what his own sinners are subjected to. He steps forward.

Under the trees the soft silver light of the star above shines through after all. There are no desperate souls perpetually chased and ripped apart by wild dogs, no harpies ripping branches apart. Tulio presses an ear to a colossal tree trunk. No tortured moans echo from within. The tree is just a tree.

The jungle is blessedly silent.

Ominously silent.

Of course they're not alone.

Their watcher stalks on velvet paws. Green eyes flash under rays of starlight. Oblivious or uncaring, the shade never falters in his course. Tulio never loses track of their hunter. A ghost of instinct tilts his ear to its every breath, to catch its eye every time it circles them. His instincts disagree on if this is a threat to be smote or a new demon to be commanded.

Tulio does neither. Their stalker never springs for his throat. Nor does it slink forward to pledge fealty and beg for scraps. Not a jealous tyrant protecting its turf, not a pestilence demon eager to join the strongest side.

"Hello," Tulio courteously calls out into the dark. "Lovely night we're having."

Ahead of them a massive cat springs forward to block their path. He reminds Tulio of a broader, bulkier leopard. His sleek hide is black as obsidian.

"Hey." He waves a hand. "It's the Jaguar God, right?"

The cat says nothing. His eyes burn bright with a fury Tulio knows all too well.

Oh.

"Oh, great," gripes the shade. "What have you come to whine about now?"

The Jaguar God snarls.

"Not tonight, Balam Qoxtok," huffs out a shade too dead to care. "I'm late enough as it is."

"Where's your bodyguard, little shade?" sneers the Jaguar God. "Has he finally accepted your fate?"

"Perhaps my Munah needed a night off from your mewling."

The Jaguar God stalks forward, looming ever larger. "And perhaps this is the night where you finally stay D-"

Tulio sighs and steps between them. "No."

The Jaguar God roars. His voice is the pounding of drums, the war cries of thousands, their gurgled death rattles.

The starlight flickers. For a fleeting moment, the Jaguar God is puny as a kitten before the Beast himself. His fury is drowned out by agonized wails of all Hell's damned. The deity steps back with a fearful snarl, ears pressed tight to his skull. There is no running, not from this Adversary. He must submit or be consumed as so many other proud gods before him.

And then Tulio is himself again. "I get it," he murmurs. "Really. You have a place here, right? Maybe even a place of honor. But they fear you for it. And saddle you with names like Balam Qoxtok."

Jaguar Demon, his mind whispers viciously, in the same way he once had Venom of the Lord. Tulio takes a deep breath and forges on.

"Why not want more? If they fear you above all others, don't you deserve to rule? And if they won't give it willingly, why not use all the fear they gave you, and make them dread your very name?"

The Jaguar God says nothing. He rumbles uncertainly. Tulio turns away to survey his quiet wood and breathe in the night air.

"You have a good place here." He grimaces at the piles of bones amid the tangled roots. "Admittedly, it needs a little cleaning up." Tulio glances down at the ground beneath their feet, the precarious ceiling between this jungle and the bottomless pit below. "If it's respect you want, there are other ways than following me. Because you won't find any down there."

Turning back to the Jaguar God, Tulio finds only an empty path among the gnarled trees. Instead he faces his companion.

"Well?" he prompts. "Still feel like continuing on?"

The shade appraises him with golden eyes. "Youalan never stopped me. Nor could Balam Qoxtok. Neither can you."

Tulio chuckles. "Fair enough."

On they venture. Tulio guides his companion through twisted paths and catches him when he trips over roots. He does not need to help him long. Increasingly the shade picks up the pace, his steps ever more smooth and certain.

Tulio's mind must drift off, just for a second. When he blinks they're no longer striding west, but east, toward that faintest glimmer of light through the trees.

The star shining brightly overhead never falters.


The night in Xibalba is eternal, devoid of moon or stars. Even the sun himself is dead down here.

Still one bright, stubborn star shines down the branches of a jungle that should know only shadow. In the east the sky begins to pale.

The Jaguar God has known many names by the shores of Lake Parime. At first Balam Qoxtok had been invoked only in the most dire of times, when they'd needed him more than they did their Soul of the Forest. The Jaguar Demon had first been wished as a curse upon the city's enemies, not just the wild jungles to swallow their armies whole, but the power that turned their own warriors just as wild and ferocious.

In a later age, when the prosperous city had threatened to spill over its valley walls, the people had no longer feared the world outside. Their Lord of War became their Lord of Conquest. Balam Qoxtok marched with their warriors as he always had. They glutted him not only with the blood of enemy combatants, but with the blood of foreign royals and high priests, all those citizens too proud to surrender to their new masters.

It has been a long, long time since those last triumphant conquerors returned home with the People of the Vine as their servants. And longer still since the people cried for his protection against invasion.

Now the Jaguar God watches in bewilderment as an evil beyond measure calmly walks through his domain, guiding a dead sun god every step of the way. Behind them drift countless souls, burned and broken and drowned. They follow the light ahead without fear of Balam Qoxtok.

The Jaguar God considers his own souls, always so jealously hoarded. They have been impaled on his spears and slaughtered on his altars. He has gorged himself on their anger and their agony, their hopes and dreams, gnawed them down to the bone.

There are few ancient enemies among his hoard, and fewer still from the conquests. Both happened generations ago. His mother has long come to quietly sweep away most other remnants. Most souls in the jungle are Manoans. Some did not offer him proper exchange for safe passage through his jungles. Others he'd been hungry or wrathful enough to devour anyway.

One by one, his souls stir. Their eye sockets turn toward a fading source of light. Dismembered skeletons pull themselves together and haul their weary bones after the others. When the Jaguar God rumbles in consternation, no one has the decency to quiver, or the gall to fall still and pretend themselves inert as ever. He has gnawed away all but the bare sense of their identities and broken them to pieces. They've languished in his trove for years beyond count. What more could he possibly do to punish them?

(Balam Qoxtok is a curse upon their enemies. To their own people, he is a protector and provider. He is their Lord of Hunters, their Soul of the Forest. He's... His name is...)

Shaking his head, the Jaguar God sneers down at his hoard of yellowed bones, and cannot recall why he needed to claim them all. So he turns up his nose and stalks back into the shadow of his domain.

He's... tired of them.

He does not brood long before his ears twitch at the distant murmur of prayer.

His high priest has resumed his rituals.

But Balam Qoxtok is not the name he uses.


Kama leads Miguel down strange roads, steep and twisting. Overhead black clouds swallow the moon and stars so not even the deep blue sky peeks through. Miguel glances anxiously upward with a faint, instinctive murmur of unease. He sighs in relief at a familiar star peering through the gloom and thinks nothing more of it. His death grip on Kama's hand eases up. She squeezes it in reassurance.

They do not walk in darkness. In her free hand Kama holds up a torch. The shadows cast by its light flicker with wings, wide and vast. Miguel squirms self-consciously and burrows his rotting, corrupted wings even further down inside him. At least his hostess doesn't glimpse them. Tonight he's still just a tourist, humble and lost.

Ahead a luxurious, sprawling palace shines like a beacon. The lanterns in its windows shine silver-bright. Even its pale walls seem to glow. At first Miguel thinks them marble or alabaster. Up close he sees them hewn from gleaming moonstone.

Kama stops on the threshold. "I apologize in advance for my children." Her lip quirks. "They are very... boisterous with newcomers."

Miguel beams. "It's no trouble at all." Belatedly he remembers the ungodly hour. "Um, if there's any up this late past their bedtime."

She laughs, soft and trilling. "My duties make our family nocturnal. Their bedtime is still a while away."

He can ask no more questions before Kama douses her torch and tosses it aside. She shepherds him inside. After hours in the cold night air Miguel basks in the heat of her home. Despite the cold glow from outside her braziers glow golden as sunshine. He gladly warms his hands over one.

"Mommy!" shriek the voices of countless little children.

Miguel freezes as they're swarmed from all sides. Kama laughs and bends down to swoop as many as she can into a hug, kissing each one on the forehead and greeting them by name. While doing so she also gently pushes them back and gives him some breathing room.

"Hello, my darlings," she chirps. "This is Miguel."

A dozen little faces size him up. Miguel waves cautiously back.

"Is he our new brother?" pipes up one.

Kama churs. "Miguel is our guest, Yeta. He's had quite a long night, so please don't overwhelm him too fast."

Miguel assures her it's no trouble at all, but his hostess sees right through him. Once more he's herded off to the kitchen. Along the way they run into yet more children, from toddlers to teenagers. Their mother embraces each one. Miguel manages a polite smile. He has trouble keeping his eyelids open.

Aside from the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, the kitchen is empty. Miguel's mouth waters at whatever simmers in the pots.

"You don't eat meat, yes?"

Miguel shivers. He can't smell cooked flesh without remembering all the burning spears he plunged into the Devil's back, and all his agonized screams.

"Y-Yes," he agrees. "But-"

Kama hushes him. She guides him to a chair that nearly engulfs him in its pillows and lays her shawl over his shoulders. It's soft and warm. Miguel huddles into it as his hostess turns to the fire. Kama's night-black hair is tightly bound up in a bun. Underneath her yellowed shawl is finery matched by her home's splendor. Her gown is a bright white trimmed in silver. From her ears hang gold earrings. The mottled scars across her face form an almost familiar pattern.

Miguel's brow furrows. Before he can ask Kama about herself a bowl of steaming tamales is handed to him.

"No meat," she promises.

He barely blurts out a thank you before wolfing them down. Some are stuffed with hearty squash and beans, others sweet with honey. They fill parts he never knew were empty. Apparently smiting without the Heavenly Host behind him is hard work.

When done, he's more exhausted than ever. His head bobs.

Kama steals his empty bowl before it slides out of his hands. "It's okay to rest your eyes."

Miguel jerks his head up. "T-That's all right," he lies brightly. "I'm not tired!"

Night-dark eyes stare right through him. He deflates.

"You're under my roof," Kama murmurs. "My protection. Nothing, no one, can harm you here."

"I-I..."

Kama carries away his dirty plates. Then Miguel is alone, with only the crackling fire and the distant laughter of children for company. He should run after his hostess, thank her for having an entertained a stranger so generously, and vanish into the night like an angel unaware.

He really should.

But these cushions are so soft, and the shawl around his shoulders so warm. Miguel can't bring himself to move. Or keep his eyes open.

Miguel sleeps.


He is safe here. Let the storms rage overhead and the earth beneath their very feet buckle. No force can stop her from rising every time she sets, from waxing every time she wanes. Those under her protection are free, forever and always.

Free from all the pains of the worlds above and below, from loss and grief and want.

From all the pains of li-


"K-Kama," a stranger chokes out. "Y-You..."

Her voice is unfazed. "Hello, Munah."

"Kama," he breathes in horror. "What have you done?"

"What had to be done," she answers resolutely. "What no others had the courage to do."

"H-He's not a lost puppy, Kama. Y-You can't just-"

"I can, and I did."

Miguel's eyes flutter open. Kama looms protectively on the kitchen threshold, barring a richly-dressed warrior from entering. They're too busy glaring at each to realize he's awake. Strange, inhuman shadows dance across them from the firelight.

The warrior groans. "He's... He's not ours, Kama. He's not even like us."

She hisses. "He's mine until he tells me otherwise."

"W-What will Kinich say to this?"

"You know what he'll say to this, just as he did to all the others taken under our wings before." Kama pauses, her voice dropping to a low, ominous rasp. "Munah, where is my husband?"

"Safe and sound with Lady Iztaya," he assures. "I had to drop him off at the last minute, right when we both realized you..." His face twists in disgust, in a fear too great for words. "When you clearly needed my help more than he did."

"I'm fine on my own, thank you."

The light flickers and suddenly Miguel sees. Under the handsome warrior flickers a dozen others; a snarling cat, a deer tossing its horns, a buzzing hummingbird and a howler monkey puffed up in rage. Kama burns harsh and white, her faces no less dizzying. Then she is a massive owl, wings thrown out and bristling.

"Think of your children, Kama."

"I am."

Miguel bolts up from his chair, bumping into the shelf behind him. Clay bowls and plates shatter to the floor. The warrior strides forward, raising his spear-thrower. The owl's head swivels his way. In her round face are the silver marks of the moon.

He flees out the window.

And promptly smacks into a tree.

The children in the garden blink at him in bewilderment. Miguel blinks back. They're clustered around a circle of dolls, tiny little plates of food between them.

They're dead. Every last child. In their eyes Miguel watches their final moments unfold. Here is the little girl that toddled into a ruthless jungle. Over there is the boy that fell into a deep, dark canal.

So too does he glow of the silver moon, a soft voice on the wind and a warm hand in the dark. Kama is a finder of lost things. She takes them home as her own children, to keep them safe and sound forever, free from all the pains of mortal life.

(If their bodies are never found, or identified as their own, who can claim otherwise?)

"Are you... okay, Mr. Miguel?" one asks.

He folds his ugly, withering wings away. "O-Of course," he squeaks out. "Everything is... fine."

The children all stare dubiously up at him. Apparently they're better lie detectors than the Devil himself when it comes to archangels.

Kama sighs from the window. "Run along, little ones. Mr. Miguel just had a bit of a fright." Solidly in her woman shape, she picks up her shawl from his chair, and hides herself within it. "Perhaps you should come back inside now."

Miguel clears his throat and climbs to his feet with as much dignity he can muster. He watches the children shrug to themselves, wave hello to Munah, and scamper off. They're happy children, loved and cared for. Fleetingly he thinks of those little souls in Limbo, the pagan and the unbaptized, who enjoy all earthly joys even on the edge of Hell itself. Only with Judgement Day will be they lofted into the sublime.

Miguel steps back through the window. Kama shuffles back to give him breathing space and shoves Munah with her. Miguel beholds two heathen deities. So does he see a loving mother who wants only to keep her dear ones safe, and a partner who hides his fear for them behind a fearsome mask. Miguel knows it all too well.

"Y-You're not my... I don't have a..." His voice cracks on a word that should never, ever be applied to him. His heart throbs all the same, so instead he blurts out, "I... I don't belong here."

"No," the warrior agrees grimly. "You don't."

Kama takes a deep, shuddering breath. "All the same, you'll always have a place here. Somewhere safe."

Miguel thinks of Heaven, of home; light and life everlasting. Endless, harmonious song. Without need for food or drink or sleep. Where no angel is ever alone with themself and left to wander into dangerous thoughts.

He thinks of endless prayer, the voices that pull him in a thousand different directions, the relentless warrior that must always be ready to rally the Host for the final battle at a moment's notice. His breath hitches. His wings throb.

I... I can't... I can't go b-

Before he breaks, Miguel turns away, and strides back into the cold and desolate dark. Every rebellious thought screams to turn around. This time he doesn't listen.

Munah stalks to his side, then a step ahead of him. Miguel wearily follows. Who cares if this god leads him down into Hell or the crushing darkness of Dudael?

Munah groans. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're some sort of... of abandoned puppy." Miguel splutters, which only makes Munah pinch the bridge of his nose and look away. "Just because I have no idea of what you are doesn't mean I know what you are not. And we both know what you're not."

Miguel shivers. He wraps his arms around himself, tight enough to clutch at his shoulder blades and the rotting wings beneath.

For eternity they walk through darkness. Only the morning star above lights their way.

Miguel blinks. The morning star has been up there for hours, when it should vanish in the vast chasm between dawn and dusk.

Dawn creeps in all the same. Ahead the dark path gives way to waters vast and black as oblivion. Yet the sky is above begins to lighten. Obsidian skies fade to cobalt blue, then hues of rose and amethyst. Munah stops expectantly on the shoreline. His gaze turns elsewhere... and a relieved smile cracks his stern facade.

"Kinich," he breathes.

Miguel gawks at the two men striding out of the treeline. One is a stranger. His eyes bulge at the second.

Tulio gapes right back.

"You!"  they yelp as one.

"Couldn't you wait for me?" Munah calls in fond exasperation.

Slowly, a smile crawls across the stranger's face and lights up the whole shoreline. "I wait for no one, partner. Not even you."

Two adversaries splutter incoherently when Tulio's companion scoops them both off the ground and into a crushing hug. They slump in his hold.

"Good work, boys," he rumbles.

"Kinich!" Munah protests. "T-They're not-"

Kinich lets them go, only to warmly slap them on the back. They stagger from it. "Aren't they?"

"But-"

Kinich laughs and steps away from their side. "Oh, you've always worried too much!"

"I worry exactly the right amount! Who else keeps you alive?"

Kinich rests a tender hand across his partner's face. Munah leans into it. "Only the two I trust most in the world." Miguel blinks back a strange, salty wave of emotion. "We're out of time for this morning. Will you pass along a message for me?"

"Don't you say it," the god mutters. "Don't you dare."

"Both," Kinich whispers gleefully. "Both is good." Munah's tortured groan is cut off when his partner leans forward to kiss him. "That's part of the message, too. Can't leave it out."

"I'm lost," Tulio blurts. "So very, very lost."

Miguel is too. He just has the self-respect to not admit it.

Kinich laughs, stretching out his arms and his moth-eaten cloak. "Don't worry!" He beams. "You'll find your way eventually."

Their protests cut off in horrified squeaks. Suddenly the shade's headdress of ragged feathers form an emerald plume and his curved nose an eagle's golden beak. His faded cloak are cerulean wings that envelop the sky and all the tiny little forms caught beneath his blazing eyes.

With a booming laugh, the sun takes flight, and the world beneath him dissolves like a dream.


Miguel blinks, then blinks again. He blearily rubs his eyes.

He stands atop the steps of Chief Tannabok's palace, the sky a resplendent rainbow of colors above them. The sun is just breaching the horizon.

Miguel takes a deep, steadying breath. He tells himself it was all just a nightmare.

Not ten seconds later, he bolts for Chel's room.

Apparently they really, really should have focused on that pantheon.

Notes:

When Tulio could theoretically curbstomp the Jaguar God, isn't it more fun for him to spread around the existential angst instead? And he's not projecting or anything :) No projecting here :)

For all the hard stances certain religions try to take, you will find centuries of bitter and pedantic debate for every one, and maybe even schisms if enough philosophers twist themselves in knots. Like over what happens to the souls of the unbaptized if your doctrine believes in a form of original sin - like if those kids are theoretically saved by default or put into Level 0 of Hell where they can have all the earthly joys in the world even if they don't know the joys of God. Or to the souls of pagans (adults and children alike) that were good but died before your religious enlightenment came to them. I'm sure these gray spaces both Tulio and Miguel try to avoid thinking about are completely inconsequential :)

Many moons ago, Munah was imagined as Kinich's best friend and wingman. And then they sorta became a thing. And then Kama joined that thing. Because your characters just keep rebelling on you. (Which is indeed how certain twists happened in family matters.)

Chapter 27: lost (in your arms)

Summary:

Catharsis.

Catharsis everywhere.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tulio bolts upright, soaked in sweat and gasping for breath. Chel mumbles blearily beside him.

Nightmare, he tells himself desperately. It was all just a-

FWUMP.

Chel snaps awake. Tulio flails for balance. The... The things on his back are wider now, fuller. He can see their shadow cast across the room. But it's easier to right himself now. Even now, untold centuries later, his body remembers how to hold his... his...

"Oh," Chel breathes. She reaches upward.

This time she doesn't touch bare skin. Tulio shivers from another sensation entirely. It's number than before, more distant, but he knows it all the same.

Tulio finally faces his wings. His spikes have all sprouted into long, bristling quills. Their waxy sheaths are wearing thin. Fuzzy tufts are already poking through like the first tulips of springtime. These wings are not God-given. This is... him, unburdened from his wrath and frenzied desperation.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He squeezes Chel's hand. Something warm and wet springs up in his eyes. All long frozen inside him again surges toward the surface.

"Oh," he chokes.

Someone else sucks in a breath. Tulio's head snaps to the sound.

In the threshold stands Miguel, paler than he'd ever been as an archangel. His mouth works in mute horror. Green eyes widen with something else entirely.

"Oh," he murmurs, small and broken. "O-Oh, God."

Tulio freezes. His heart pounds.

Then he begins to tremble. His hand grows sweaty around Chel's. He remembers the feeling of his wings. So too does he remember the searing agony when the Lord had burned them from his back, the vertigo of his Fall and the wails of his siblings.

Miguel drifts forward like a ghost. Tulio remembers him, every last foot crushing him into the dirt and every flaming spear impaled in his back.

Before Miguel can touch him, Tulio lets go of Chel and shoves her between them. He folds his wings away, somewhere deep and safe.

"Don't touch me!" He means to hiss, to roar. Instead his voice is weak and wavering. He curls away from them both, a turtle without a shell. "D-Don't t-t-touch..." His voice gives entirely, and a sob escapes instead.

"Tulio," Chel calls gently. Her weight never leaves the bed.

"I... I'm sorry," Miguel mumbles, sounding nothing like an angel. "So, so sorry."

Despite himself, Tulio's brow furrows. Sniffling, he wipes away his tears, and blinks up at his most bitter foe. Miguel creeps backward, hunched miserably into himself and clutching at his shoulder blades. Right where his primary wings should be. Tulio's stomach churns.

"Miguel." The angel freezes. He blinks at him with hope and dread. "W-What happened to your wings?"

Miguel goes white. "I-I-I..."

His facade slips into complete and utter terror. Tulio's heart stops. Only now, far too late, does he realize how often Miguel has hidden fear from him; the night he'd been robbed of his wings, the first time he bled mortal red, when Tulio had kicked away his attempt at comfort and spouted such terrible venom for the land that did not yet even know them.

The night of that terrible storm, when Miguel's voice had cracked on his Creator's most merciful epithets.

That morning outside the city, when Tulio had finally stood a real chance at killing him.

"Miguel," he whispers. "Please."

With a muffled cry, the archangel shows himself at last.

And Tulio's heart splits in two.

"Miguel!" he and Chel gasp in horror. They fly to his side.

The right hand of the Lord weeps in grief and shame. He should be a seraph with six resplendent wings. They should be a lustrous white or else shimmer all colors of the rainbow. But the feathers on the two he has left are dull, ragged, and devoid of color. Their radiance is gone. Bare patches of skin gape through them. Tulio's gaze rivets to the base of his wings and black, jagged scar tissue.

Oh, no.

Nonono-

Shakily he and Chel guide Miguel back to the bed.

"Miguel," he croaks. "W-Why do you still have..."

"I don't know."

"I'm... I-I'm s-"

"Don't be." The angel tries to hide himself in his wounded wings. "I've done worse to you. A lot worse."

For a heartbeat, Tulio's countless scars force their way to the surface; burns and broken bones and all his numerous death wounds. Then he shakes them off. He and Chel both pretend she never saw them. Instead he sighs and reaches out toward Miguel with trembling hands.

"I was your Adversary then," Tulio reminds him. "B-But what I did... I... You were my partner."

"Yes," the angel agrees in a voice thick with self-loathing. "And you were mine."

Tulio's fingers ghost over the arm of his wing, high above those puckered scars. Miguel goes rigid. He doesn't shy away. Not even when Tulio tries his damnedest to put his ragged feathers back to rights. After a long pause Chel creeps in to help him. He shows her how to preen and straighten barbules. And bites back a frustrated sob when their efforts only make more dead feathers drift like snow. Miguel reacts only when they accidentally brush his skin. It's the only part of his wing still alive.

Not all those feathers break off evenly. A few have left sharp white stumps behind. Tulio avoids them.

Chel pokes one. And not the surrounding skin.

Miguel twitches.

...Wait.

Tulio pinches the base of another spike. Miguel's wing quivers again. He feels a tiny pulse inside that 'dead' stump of a feather, a blood supply to new vessels.

"Oh," Chel sighs. Her eyes bulge when the quill she poked grows a little further.

"'Oh?'" Miguel echoes dully.

"Miguel," Tulio begins breathlessly. "I... I think you're molting."

The angel tenses even further beneath them. "Yes, Tulio," he hisses through clenched teeth. "I can see that."

"It-It's not like going bald, you idiot. You're growing new feathers."

Miguel's head finally shoots up. He scowls at them both, then at his wings. "That's not-" Chel caresses a row of spikes. The archangel gasps at her touch, and again when his bristles grow into undeniable quills. "T-That's not..." He splutters vehemently. "I... I am not a chicken!"

Tulio laughs. Something wet falls from his eyes. And keeps falling.

Chel wraps an arm around his shoulder. He leans into her. Miguel reaches out for them, then flinches back.

Before Miguel can shy away, Tulio unfurls his wings, and envelops them both in his embrace. His free arm hugs Miguel even closer. The archangel squeaks, but doesn't pull back. Not even when Chel throws an arm around him too.

"You idiot," he sniffles into golden hair. "Never worry me like that again. I-I thought you were..."

"You're both idiots," Chel mumbles into Tulio's chest.

They both giggle deliriously and concede the point. All too soon they pull apart.... once those wings untangle themselves. Miguel scooches back. He's grown more quills. Tulio bristles with pin feathers that soon promise to unfold into radiant plumage. Green eyes drink them in.

"How?"

"I don't know," Tulio admits. Those three honest words come more easily than any half-hearted lie aboard Cortes' galleon. His gaze falls to the scars left by his own claws. "I... I thought He healed you."

"H-He did." Miguel gulps. "B-But..."

"Should I be hearing this?" Chel breaks in. She's inched to the edge of the bed.

Tulio turns to the one among them forbidden from sharing such knowledge. Miguel stares right back. He heals the sick and defends the downtrodden. No matter how ragged his wings are, he has no Beast hidden away inside him.

Tulio sighs. "We've put you through a lot."

"A lot."

"We're sorry!" Miguel cries, anxiously wringing his hands. "It's, um, been a long millennium."

"A very long millennium." Tulio drags his hands through his hair. "You deserve answers. If you want to know, then you'll know." His eyes flicker from her to Miguel's, toward all the times the Father of Lies evaded his most principal truth. "All of it."

"Y-Yes," Miguel vows. "All of it."

Tulio's brow scrunches as to what the honest, upright leader of the Heavenly Host could possibly hide, but he lets the matter pass. "It... It's not a happy story."

Chel smiles wearily back. "I'm used to it."

Before Tulio can set the stage, a few tremulous notes pierce the air. Chel's eyes go wide. He freezes in dread. Miguel's song cuts off. Pursing his lips, he clears his throat, and tries again. "I-In the beginning t... the Lord created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was... without form, and darkness was upon the face of deep."

Tulio is always ready to assist, but help is not yet needed. Though his words are slow and faltering, picked with care, Miguel spins a tale from all the threads already told. His Creator raises a verdant paradise from nothing at all. From clay He forms Man and Woman from his rib bone. Into them He breathes the breath of life. Their souls are in His own image.

"Humans were the last things He ever made," Tulio cuts in, "but they weren't His firstborn. That honor belonged to His messengers." He clenches a fist. "They had been by His since... since before the beginning, his... children. They helped their Creator make His world. They were the first to watch over it. Then He made mankind and commanded His children to bow."

"They were messengers," Miguel murmurs sternly. "They weren't made to rule, but to guide. They help people have good lives and steer them away from e... harmful things."

"But one messenger knew better," Tulio grits out. "He knew those spoiled, self-absorbed brats didn't deserve their Creator's love. Not at the expense of His own siblings. He knew he could show his Lord imperfect they were, just like he knew how easily they would break that one rule their Lord had given them."

Tulio dizzily closes his eyes. For a moment he remembers a tree ripe with forbidden fruit. He had coiled in its branches in a serpent's shape. Neither Adam or Eve had seen through his obvious ruse. They had gawked up at him with the wide, gullible eyes of children.

Until they had tasted the knowledge of good and evil.

He shakes his head and plows on. "It was easy to trick them, too easy. And they reacted just like the messenger knew they would. They dressed themselves in leaves when they realized they were naked and ran to hide from their Lord when He called to them." A shaky breath. "For their sin their Creator banished them from paradise. He drove them out into the world, to suffer age and hardship and death. The messenger knew he was next. And his Lord..."

(Even as Adam and Eve fled weeping into the wilderness, the murmuring of his brothers and sisters had swift drowned them out. He had huddled into his wings and shivered against their Father's storm. His pleas had tumbled out of him in a graceless, desperate surge. Not even Michael had dared reach for him, when the clouds above them parted...

For his Father to smile down upon him.)

"His Lord praised him for it," Tulio says hollowly. "The messenger did exactly as he'd been made to do."

(Venom. Blindness. Left Hand.)

(Samael.)

"The Creator raised him to a place of honor," Miguel insists. "He was His left hand, His prosecutor. He tested their loyalty, their faith. W-What use is free will if people won't use it?"

"Says the right hand!" Tulio snaps. "You were their guide and their strength. Y-You never had to hiss into their ears all day and hope they'd ignore you." His voice cracks. "E-Except whenever you wanted them to listen. Then they'd always find some reason not to."

Oh, Edith. Poor, poor Edith. She'd only one last glimpse of her home before its total annihilation, just like her first ancestors had longed for a final glimpse of Eden.

"Oh," Chel gasps.

They blink at her.

"'Oh?" they echo.

She taps her temple. "You were supposed to be the voices in here, right?" At their blank stares, she groans and drags a hand down her face. "You know, the little voices? The one that tells you to quit while you're ahead and the one that goads you on."

Miguel flushes tomato red. He sputters.

"Eh." Tulio shrugs. "Close enough."

His adversary promptly deflates. "Well," he huffs, "yes and no."

"I can guess which was which." Chel's smile dies quick as it came. "You wanted in, didn't you?"

Tulio chuckles darkly. "Did I ever." He had been his Father's left hand, mankind's accuser. All it had cost him was all he had been before.

(He was the brightest of them all, the first to rise.)

(The first to fade.)

(It was always in his nature.)

Miguel squints at him. "I thought you wanted to get out?"

"He wanted in to get out," Chel sighs.

"Aha! Got it." Green eyes, wide and plaintive, turn from her to Tulio. "B-But why-"

"Out, Miguel," he blurts. "I needed to get out."  Tulio sucks in a deep, haggard breath. His chest heaves. "The prayers to turn me away, all the people that told themselves their worst impulses were my words in their ear, all of... of... I-I couldn't take it anymore!"

Miguel's hand creeps for his own. "W-Why didn't you talk to me?"

"How could I?" he croaks. "You were respected, revered, loved. A-And I was..."

(He's not a monster. He's not he's he's N-)

The deluge inside him heaves to the surface. And once more floods out as tears.

Two warm bodies slam into his arms. He clings to them like a rope in the storm. He weeps as only the mindless Beast in the pit below can. What pride has he left to protect?

An eternity later, his lake finds a bottom after all. His shuddering breaths even out. Something prickles his right wing. He blinks away the last of his tears and looks up from the crook of Miguel's neck. Chel holds one of his pin feathers between her fingers.

"Um, Chel?" Tulio rasps out. "W-What are you-"

His voice rises into a squeak when Chel rubs her fingers in deeper. Off rubs the waxy coating. His very first feather ruffles in surprise. All the bristles still in their sheaths rustle with it. The ache in his wings is now a buoyant itch.

Chel calmly moves to the next one. Tulio slumps back. Miguel's hands twitch toward his left wing, before remembering how badly he reacted last time. Tulio snags the idiot's wrist and guides him the rest of the way. His need for those calloused, familiar fingers twining into his feathers far outweighs the distant pounding of adrenaline.

For a time Tulio basks. Then his instincts itch to reciprocate. He glances at Miguel, sighs at those aching scars and sharp spikes where gleaming white feathers should be, and again does his damnedest to preen a wingless woman. Tulio kneads into her shoulders and runs his fingers through her hair. Today he's tempted no further. Not with an archangel involved in their mutual massage.

Behind him Tulio's wings shiver with every feather freed. He doesn't care what color they show. His eye never leaves Miguel. Even as the angel's wings sprout more quills, his scars barely fade.

This is the leader of the Heavenly Host, the right hand of the Lord. Why does he...

Blue eyes narrow. Sure, Miguel can't speak falsehood directly, but lies by omission most definitely count. Even with his shame laid bare, he's still hiding.

Why?

Tulio opens his mouth. He hesitates.

A stomach rumbles. They all startle at the sound, then chuckle at their own idiocy. By now it's well past dawn. Tulio is famished. He just spent the last day growing wings.

With a languid stretch, he stands and folds his wings away. Miguel and Chel pout after him. Tulio's knees do not quiver.

"Enough with the faces. I'm just going to go grab us some breakfast." He squints at how high the sun is. "Er, lunch."

"What am I supposed to do?" Miguel huffs.

Chel casually inspects her nails. "I'm free now."

Miguel pales.

An idiot angel whose wings are still hypersensitive to preen. A very clever woman with no wings at all.

Tulio snorts. "I'm sure you'll think of something."


Chel moans. She can't help it.

Miguel blushes tomato red. He lets her go.

She primly clears her throat. "Uh, excuse me."

"You're, um, excused." He stares intently down at her hands. "You're... feeling better, then?"

Chel flexes her fingers and rolls her wrists. His touch had been quenching as rain, warm as a hearth on a cold night. Gone are her cramps from many strenuous hours of preening. Gone are any aches at all.

"Much better," she breathes. "Thank you."

Miguel beams. His gaze flickers down her hands. "There's... something else I can do." He gulps. "I-If you want to."

"Yes." She coughs. "Yes, of course."

Gingerly his hands take her own. This time there is no healing magic. Instead he massages, deep and gentle, just like how her grandpa used to soothe her grandma's aching hands after a long day of weaving. Chel savors it with more dignity than the last one. His fingers are nimble and calloused in a pattern unfamiliar to her.

"Do you practice a lot?" she asks neutrally.

He turns a hand over to study it. After a pensive silence, his lip quirks up. "Every day if I can get away with it. I'm a musician."

"When you have to be?"

"Because I want to be." Ducking his head, he throws himself back into his hand massage. "N-Not that I don't want any of my other duties or anything."

"I suck at all things musical," Chel admits cheerfully. "Can't carry a tune to save my life. I had this little flute as a kid that my brother 'accidentally' broke. My dad never let me near his." She smiles at a memory from a hazy night so long ago, a festival when she'd still had half a family to celebrate with. "Apparently all my rhythm went into dancing."

"You're good, then?"

"The best." At least out of all the crappy dance partners she'd had.

"Behold!" Tulio theatrically bursts through the curtain, arms laden with food. "I come bearing gifts!"

Miguel fondly rolls his eyes. "And flattering words?"

"Only for those gracious enough to take a compliment, sweetheart."

With Miguel once more reduced to a sputtering wreck, Chel calmly sits down with Tulio to eat. They purposefully eat on the floor, atop a luxurious pile of pillows, away from hard chairs that might upset sensitive wings. Miguel flounces over. He snags Tulio's apple right from his hand and plops down on the other side of Chel, biting down in contentment. Then it's Tulio's turn to bluster.

Between wolfing down food, their conversation is light and teasing. Miguel stops sprouting quills. His pin feathers grow out to their full length.

Through them his black, jagged scars are still stark against his pale skin. Chel can never keep her eyes away. Neither can Tulio.

Slowly his easy smile falters. "Hey, Miguel, is... is there something you're still holding back?"

Miguel freezes on his last bite of melon. "'Holding back?'" He laughs. "W-Who says I'm holding anything back?"

Chel sighs. "Miguel."

"I'm not holding anything back!"

Tulio, who has blithely let far flimsier falsehoods from this idiot pass him by, finally wakes up to. His eyes narrow. "Did... Did you just lie?"

"I-I-I did not."

"Miguel!"

The manic denial slides off his face. Instead he curls his knees to his chin, near hiding himself in his wings. Chel huddles close as she can to him without disturbing his pin feathers. Tulio leans over her.

"I don't know," Miguel mumbles. "I don't." His hands creep up to clutch at his scars, right at the base of his wings. "Sometimes I... I think they were supposed to be a warning."

Chel's blood turns to ice.

Tulio clutches her shoulder. "W-What?" he creaks out. "What could you do ever one day to deserve... deserve..."

Miguel stares at nothing. "We should have known better," he says hollowly. "'For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His ways higher t-than..." Trailing off, his fingers wrench at his scars.

"Miguel!"

Chel seizes his closest hand. Miguel goes limp at the sound of his name, like Tulio did that horrible night she yanked him from his nightmares. Tulio stands up and squeezes over to Miguel's right side. They brace him together.

Eventually Miguel gasps and comes back to himself. He clings to them in a death grip.

"Creation," Miguel croaks. "The garden. The Fall. A-After... all of that, most of us knew our place. They grieved and raged and accepted. But some of us... we... went before our Lord and w-we... we..."

Chel squeezes his hand.

"Why," he chokes out. "We asked him why a-and..."

A thin, mournful sound tumbles out of him, wavering in some corner of Chel's soul. Distantly she hears the sharp crack of lightning, so many terrified cries cut short, and one little voice left all by itself.

Chel lets go of his hand to fling her arms around him. Miguel's wings snap open to draw her and Tulio into their protective curtain. His terrible song cuts off in a sob.

He weeps a deluge.

When the flood at last begins to subside, Chel pulls back to start rubbing away the wax on his first pin feather. He slumps against Tulio's chest. Tulio holds him with one arm and strokes his hair. His gaze inevitably drifts to Miguel's wings. He doesn't dare touch them.

Not until Miguel guides his hand upward. Slow and delicate, Tulio begins to preen.

Until he eventually loses his fear and really puts some effort into it. Miguel has a lot of feathers.

In the silence Chel ponders how she got here. She had planned various escape attempts for weeks, coming up with a thousand contingencies and abandoning each one when she saw too many risks. Her brother had once tried to escape too, after all, and after what had happened him Tzekel-Kan would not be tricked into an easy execution a second time. People that fled Manoa were traitors. Their deaths were supposed to be slow and gruesome as possible, as warning to any other that might dare betray their city to the outside world.

And one morning she'd snapped. All her fear had gone out the window with her plans. She just grabbed an idol from the Great Temple and bolted.

Right into two things badly disguised as men. Bitter enemies that had turned from trying to murder each other to trying to stake their claims on her instead.

"Why me?" she blurts.

Her boys blink at her. They turn to each other, open their mouths, and then pause in absolute bewilderment.

"It was nothing personal," Tulio says at last. "You were the person I saw here. The first person I could speak to, and the closest."

"And I was just trying to stop him," Miguel mumbles.

Tulio arches an eyebrow. "Is that why you waiting to ambush us that first night?"

"Well, yes and no." Miguel blushes. "I... hadn't walked among mortals since Sodom. A-And... I'd needed you then, to say what I couldn't."

"But apparently you can now."

"I don't know when all that started. I only realized what I was doing when I said that I... when I said something I know to be a lie. Even now. Because it's still true." Miguel flushes even darker, eyes darting away. "Especially true." His hands rub at a scar now thoroughly covered by feathery fluff. "And, um, there's a very real chance I'm just not good at letting certain things go."

Tulio's brow furrows, but Chel isn't done. "You two were following a map, right? And not, uh... anything I did?" You didn't hear my prayers to be anywhere but here? Or for... for something to happen that was anyone but me?

"It was just business." He ducks his head, eyes flashing yellow. "N-Not that ever is just business. You were the closest person to me and I... I tried to pull you down like a drowning man would b-because..."

"'Better you than me?'"

"Yeah." One of his hands desperately squeezes her own. "And I'm sorry for that. So, so sorry."

"A-As am I." Miguel's hand ghosts over theirs. "You aren't Tulio's, but... you aren't mine. Neither. Neither is good. No one should ever make that choice for you."

"Trust me," she mutters. "I get it."

Chel has never sabotaged a fellow acolyte. But neither has she spoken up when a high priest's baleful eye had fallen upon an acquaintance or former fling. She just thanks her lucky stars she wasn't the target. It's not her fault if someone else doesn't know how to tread lightly or not look dangerous people in the eye.

"Why us?" Miguel ruffles his wings in consternation, still oblivious to the fact his feathers are now fully fledged. "What could you have possibly gained from all of this?"

Chel had known the evils of sacrifice and execution. So she had leaped after the yellow-eyed serpent and his stone-faced rival in hope her own quick thinking could bail her out. Instead she had discovered the evil she hadn't known is no evil all.

"Think you're the only ones who dream of better things? Of somewhere better than where you were yesterday?"

With new eyes Miguel considers his wings. So does Tulio at last unfurl his own to gaze upon the feathers he's quietly denied since last night.

"...What?"

"What?"

"WHAT?" they cry together.

The arms of Miguel's wings are a deep, rich blue; the color of the nighttime sky. Further down his plumage becomes mottled with deep reds and violets. In turn the tops of Tulio's wings are pearlescent, deepening into cerulean blue. Their wingtips are both lustrous gold.

All are the colors of the twilit sky just outside their window.

"Well," Tulio states in barely-veiled hysteria, "this is new."

Chel tilts her head. "What color were they before?" Miguel's dead feathers had been dull, colorless wisps before they disintegrated. Tulio's wings had been completely bare.

Tulio says nothing.

"Mine were, um, white." Miguel chews his lip. "Probably white. At least on this plane of existence. Most people just see one color and not an... um, rainbow of celestial light."

"Or else then they burst into flame," Tulio mutters.

Miguel pointedly ignores him. Instead he ruffles his feathers. He beams. "Well, I like it."

"...Yeah," his partner whispers. He runs an incredulous hand through his left wing to confirm those magnificent feathers really belong to him.

Their utter contentment does not last long. Tulio frowns and Miguel's face skews up in thought. Their wings twitch. They fidget just like they both did last night.

Chel sighs. "What is it now?"

"Everything is fine," Tulio states with no conviction whatsoever.

"Er, we might still be missing something." Miguel grimaces. "Several things, in fact."

Chel's head ducks down to meet her palm. It does nothing to hide her smile. "Just how many more wings are you gonna grow?"

"Only two pairs each." Miguel chuckles. "I mean, it's not like we're-"

"Whatever you're about to say, don't," Tulio hisses.

"I-I was only-"

Sensing another round of bickering, Chel groans and flops back onto the cushion pile. She takes two idiots down with her. They yelp and fall in a tangle of wings. Miguel, once sandwiched between her and Tulio, now winds up beneath them. Great. She's got a pillow.

Despite the idiots stammering around her, her eyes close. Her past few nights have been interrupted by unfathomable nightmares and vivid dreams of worlds not her own. After hours of tears, gut-wrenching revelations, and intense massage nothing else can keep her awake.

With only a token protest, Miguel leans back and becomes a pliable pillow. For all he grumbles Tulio barely moves away from them. They untangle their wings to form a warm, feathery blanket.

Chel drifts away into what will at last be a deep, peaceful slumber.

Finally.

Notes:

And, lo, there was Wingfic. I had to time things so damned carefully, because the moment these morons saw their 'mortal enemy's' wings or on the brink of an existential crisis the meltdowns would really begin. (But it could only happen after these morons had gotten themselves too ingrained into supernatural shenanigans to flail back out of it.)

Good fucking gods the religious/historical discourse on Devil figures. Sometimes he rebelled out of jealousy over mankind. Sometimes he's allowed to commit evil only because the Lord wills it. And other times he's just doing his job, whether as a tempter, or a heavenly prosecutor, or a punisher of sin. Iconography/theology in the early Christian movements implies a more divine role too. (And then the narrative shifted toward... something else. And oops there's my narrative for Samael!Tulio and Michael!Miguel previously being partners before the whole Fall happened, because one drove humanity to their best and the other was charged to bring out their worst.)

The Devil also figures in all those various debates over the problem of evil if your religion happened to believe in a single omnipotent, benevolent God. That vague, obscure legend of that one time Michael and a band of angels questioned the Lord can have a lot of things at its root; why humanity was ever created, why the garden or the Fall or the Devil. (It, um, didn't end well for that band of angels.) (And oops Miguel is at the point where he can admit his deepest trauma but not the very real chance he's still hung up on Satan because stubborn idiots are stubborn.)

Chapter 28: myth (into truth)

Summary:

It begins.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

As it always has and always will, the Heavenly Host lift their voices in reverence. Tonight they sing especially loud. Their normal exaltation is magnified by the trumpeting booms of the warrior angels, who boom Who is like the Lord? and resoundingly answer There is none like the Lord!

Once the Devil deceived them all. With enough centuries it was inevitable for him to contrive a guise pitiable enough to briefly make even the most vigilant of their Host waver in striking him down. His seraphim must sing even louder to make up for his temporary absence, to call him home.

An act of misplaced mercy separated their brother from them. It shall not keep them apart.

Into the darkness of a heathen land march pious men. They do not go alone. Above their heads the blazing arms of the Heavenly Host light their way.

This pagan jungle cannot hold them back. Each challenge only hardens the Host's resolve. Venomous serpents and bothersome vines are easily trodden underfoot. The crocodile-infested rivers are forded and blood-sucking bats swatted away at night like overgrown mosquitoes. Even the largest hunter of this land, a strange leopard, can only pick off the sole unwary man. Their shrieking cries at night are weak as the wind.

With every step forward, the trail unfurls before them. Cortes leads his army without a map. His faith is rewarded in every wondrous sight discovered, the canyon shaped like a soaring eagle and the waterfall with the weeping face. Each miracle must be a God-given sign they walk the right path.

Their journey retraces the steps of another. The very leader of the Heavenly Host pursued his Adversary through this land.

Soon their battle will come to an end. The Beast still wails in his pit. The Heavenly Host vault their leader even louder in his absence.

WHO IS LIKE THE LORD?

THERE IS NONE LIKE THE-

He wakes, gasping for breath, and finds himself trapped. A weight pins him down. Two of his wings are tangled. Four he can't even feel at-

"Miguel?" blearily murmurs someone beside him.

Instinctively he relaxes at his partner's voice. "S-" His mind, thick with sleep, falters on the name. Then it clicks into place. "T-Tulio?"

"Hm-hm?" Tulio yawn cuts off. His teeth chatter.

Miguel cranes his head up from his pillow. Chel whines in protest. "Wha's wrong?"

His partner grumbles and huddles into their warmth. The minuscule gap between them closes. "'M cold."

Chel groans and stubbornly nestles against Miguel's chest. "Go to sleep."

"'Kay," they mumble.

Wrapping his arms around them both, Miguel does just that. Dawn has just barely smudged the sky.


Hours later, Miguel's eyes flutter open to the bright morning sun shining on his face. Those snuggled atop him barely stir. His gaze rivets to them.

Chel's makeup has rubbed off. In sleep she lacks a tension she's carried since the day they met. His thumb lightly traces her jawline. Her lip quirks up, ever so slightly. Miguel beams right back. Tulio snores. Miguel brushes back wild black curls from his forehead. His touch lingers.

Chel opens her eyes.

Miguel flinches back. He turns up his resolute cheer. "Good morning!"

Her eyes sparkle knowingly. "Good morning."

Tulio snorts awake. His gaze flick from Chel down to Miguel's bare torso. He squeaks and lurches upright, wings snapping out of existence. "Um..."

Miguel stretches languidly, his own wings unfurling behind him. "How did you sleep?"

Tulio's cheeks flame even redder.

"Best sleep I've had in years." Chel sits up and clears her throat. "So, uh, breakfast?"

Miguel hops out of bed. Even when he hides his wings he can still feel them tucked safely away inside him. He strolls down their hallway until he meets the first servant. The poor woman tries very hard to not stare at his unkempt hair or the rumpled hip wrap keeping him decent. Eventually he returns to his pa- um, companions - carrying all the plates his arms can fit.

This time he and Chel plop right down next to each other. Tulio barely hesitates before joining them.

As breakfast winds down, Chel stares pensively at him and Tulio. Neither looks away. "Do you still want to know?"

Tulio blinks. "K-Know what?"

"Whatever you came barging in here for."

Miguel coughs. "Y-Yes, please." He glances at the sun outside and tries very hard not to see it as the eye of an eagle god. "Do you remember how we wanted to focus our tour on the people and not on your, um, pyramids?"

"W-We should probably know about the pyramids." Tulio grimaces. "Or at least the pantheon inside them."

Chel leans back against the couch. Her lips purse.

"Your people were shaped from clay," she murmurs at last. "Mine were grown on the vine." 

She softly tells of a Great Goddess bored to tears of her barren, featureless existence. Her feet carve riverbeds and her arms thrust up mountains. She fertilizes the earth with her own body and waters the first harvest with her tears. She plants her fingernails to make scaly beasts and her hair to make furry ones. Her best creation she plants with all parts of her; flesh and bone, heart and mind. Mankind is watered with her blood.

Miguel's mouth goes dry.

Tulio groans. "It's wine, isn't it? Her blood is wine."

Chel smiles humorlessly. "Paquini is still the Lady of the Vine. Her priestesses never gave up the secret to distillation, but Lord Bibi loved it so much he convinced the gods of Manoa to take her into the family. She's the goddess of wine and celebration."

Then she tells another tale, an oblivion of endless water. This time a trickster named Bibi convinces the goddess Eupana to marry him. Together they make the First World and everything in it. Their creation is a paradise.

But then humanity grows ungrateful and Eupana drowns it all. Because some things never change.

"We've always been Bibi's favorite. So he found some clever ones and taught them how to make mountains high enough to rise above the floodwaters." Her gaze turns out to the golden temple that towers over the city. "In each one a man or woman would shed their own blood to appease the gods. Now the gods had a place to live and people a place to make sure the gods were always honored."

Miguel shivers and looks away from that golden peak. "We're on our second attempt too," he offers weakly. "For, um, similar reasons."

"This is the Fifth World."

"...What?" he and Tulio echo blankly.

Bibi and Eupana's daughter, Raima, made a Second World. And later rained fiery death upon it when mankind yet again grew insolent. So her dad introduced her to the Rain God to cool her temper. Creation blossoms anew.

This time there is no clear ruler. Balam Qoxtok is an old and proud god, so he-

"That's not his name," Tulio blurts out.

Now Chel boggles at them. "...What?"

Tulio ducks his head, blushing. "Never mind."

"Fine," Chel sighs, "the Jaguar God was old and proud, so he wanted his turn. He's Lady Raima's little brother by Lady Eupana's second husband by Xarayes, Lord of the Wide Waters." She pauses. "The God of Xibalba."

Miguel frowns as the word unravels in his head. "The Place of Fright?"

Tulio sighs. "The spirit world." They grimace at each other. "C-Carry on, Chel. Please."

The Jaguar God is not the only claimant. The Two Suns, Lord Kinich and Lady Kama, have watched over the world since its first days. Just as many gods back them as others do the Jaguar God. Miguel sucks in a breath. He thinks of the inside of Kama's palace, warm and golden as the sun.

"There's not two suns anymore," he mumbles.

"No," Chel agrees bleakly. "Lady Eupana gave them the Third World because the Jaguar God was rude and entitled. They were good rulers, even if now people had to offer twice as much tribute for having two great gods over them." Her eyes search their own. "Youalan, the Crocodile God, existed before there was even a First World. He was jealous of all the attention the Three Worlds got. And he wanted one all his own."

So Youalan tricks them down from the heavens and down within reach of his jaws. He devours Kinich and mauls Kama. He would have swallowed them both, if their brave partner Munah had not descended with a barrage of spears, and driven him back down into Xibalba.

That is the first time the world knows night and all its terrors. In unending darkness the Crocodile God and the Jaguar God fight over the next world. Their war only spawns more demons of death and disorder. One of their Suns is dead. The other, wounded and grieving, cannot bring herself to shine.

"W-What about the stars?" Miguel wonders aloud. He gulps as Tulio raises an eyebrow at him. "Or did they not exist yet?"

Chel shrugs. "That part is something only the gods now remember. Us mere mortals forgot it a long time ago.

Munah cannot care for the world when those he loves above all others have been taken from him. Down he descends into Xibalba to challenge all its Lords for Kinich's life. By playing a ballgame. And Munah wins every contest. Even the Crocodile God has to grudgingly acknowledge his victory.

But the Jaguar God refuses to play along. And he especially refuses to agree with anything Youalan says. Munah wins a tainted victory. Kinich is reborn at dawn but so must die every dusk.

"And Lady Kama became the moon." Miguel's heart clenches at his last sight of her face, wan and hurt by his own carelessness. "B-Because she never got her partners back." He wrings his hands. "Not all of them."

"During the day Lord Munah keeps Lady Kama company in Xibalba. She would rather spend all day hiding in her palace than watch their partner die every dusk. At night Lord Munah guards Lord Kinich's spirit. He serves as the messenger between them." Chel picks at a thread on her dress. "They're together only one night out of the month, when Lady Kama would prefer to leave the world in darkness than be without them any longer."

Tired of the devastation, the other gods declare Youalan the winner over the Jaguar God. He did eat one great god and eat half of the other. The Crocodile God's appetite grows no smaller. He and his wife, the Caiman Goddess, strip fields bare for tribute. Jungles are hunted of their beasts. Families are ripped apart for human sacrifice. When his people beg for mercy, Youalan shakes the world like a crocodile would the water of his pool.

The Jaguar God once more challenges his rival. Their enmity destroys what is left the Fourth World. But the Jaguar God wins. He cuts the Crocodile God apart and scatters him across the world so he can never again take shape. His death throes are the earthquakes.

Tulio flushes. "Y-Yeah. All the Crocodile God's fault."

The Jaguar God couldn't raise a Fifth World. Not on his own. He is a god of war and obsidian. He was too proud to ever ask for help.

Miguel's neck prickles expectantly. "And then?"

"Then down swoops the Feathered Serpent. On him are the Dual Gods that make the Fifth World, green and full of promise." She taps an earring that is pointedly not made of gold. "And they left something behind not even the gods can get enough of."

Miguel squirms at that stark line between the People of Gold and the People of the Vine. He thinks of the own creation story he divulged to Chel, an imperfect and halting rendition of a heavenly song. (And all the pieces even the choirs leave out.)

Tulio leans forward. "What did they do then?"

"They returned to where gods dwell." Chel bores straight into their souls. "We've waited a thousand years for their return."

"Pft," Tulio scoffs. "Millennials. You're alike everywhere." He gathers his hair to tie it back. "When the world as you know it doesn't end, you're just gonna find new ways to delay that promised day another century."

Tulio creates another low ponytail that he's been favoring the past few days. Today Miguel squints at him. Something about his silhouette niggles his brain.

At first Tulio blushes at the attention. He puffs up indignantly. Then his eyes narrow for another reason entirely. He reaches out. Miguel goes rigid as Tulio's nimble fingers trace the pointed tip of his goatee. Then that hand caresses his chin. Miguel's pulse thunders.

"Tulio," he squeaks breathlessly. "W-What are you-"

Gently, Tulio tips his head to the side, and studies his profile.

"...What?"

"W-What?"

Chel growls in frustration. Snatching their hands she storms out of her room. She drags them into the deserted hallway.

Painted upon the wall is a familiar scene. There is the plumed serpent upon both Tulio's map to El Dorado and carved into the massive stone slab outside its gateway. Its head is oddly horse-like. Below kneels a woman, her hands outstretched in supplication. Astride the beasts are two riders; one with a tufted beard, and another with a distinctive pointed chin.

Oh.

Oh.

OH F-

Notes:

It begins! : D

Devil!Tulio has some fond memories of all the stupid shit people would get up to every time a Millennialist movement came up in various Christian movements. Of which there were many, because scholars once debated an end of the world anywhere between 979 and 1042. Or the latest movement which saw the end of the world around 1500, because of the "half-time after the time." Or all the Early Christians that believed the end of the world was coming when the freaking Roman Empire was still going strong, because some people are just like that no matter what century you're in.

Chapter 29: what you are (and what you are not)

Summary:

"Ugh. Not again."

"'...Again?'"

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Miguel stares.

Tulio stares.

The riders on the Feathered Serpent gaze vacuously ahead. They're just painted carvings on the wall. Miguel has seen their image several times before; the great stone slab outside the waterfall, the similar stab erected in the great city plaza. Their clothes are elaborate. So is their ornamentation. That is not his face, just... someone with an uncanny resemblance. And a good taste in facial hair.

Color drains from Tulio's cheeks. His eyes bulge.

"Ugh," Miguel groans. "Not again."

Chel's eyebrows climb to her forehead. "'Again?'"

Miguel turns to their companion. He expects Tulio to gloat over such a mistaken identity or maybe to even be just as flustered as he feels.

Instead Tulio flinches back. He begins to quake just like he did that horrible day in the garden.

"I-I'm not," he murmurs, small and frantic. "I'm not I'm not I'm-"

"Tulio!"

Miguel and Chel grab his hands, ushering him out of the hall and into the relative refuge of his room. They guide him onto the bed. Tulio huddles into himself, wings tightly folded up inside. He's still shivering. His skin is ice-cold.

"I know," Miguel murmurs. He soothingly rubs Tulio's back, both relieved and alarmed when his foe doesn't shy away. "I know."

An eternity crawls by.

"So," Chel grits, "I think you two forgot something."

"T-That's not... We're not-"

Miguel winces and raises a hand to his splitting headache. Something deep inside him bucks and heaves for the surface, one truth tearing against another. Distantly he hears the roar of thunder, the sharp crack of lightning splitting ancient wood. His stomach heaves on the stench of ozone and burning cedar. The storm inside might rip him apart if he keeps it buried any longer.

"There was a... war," he bites out. "Greater than there ever was before or will ever be again. Between the Lord and our... w-we chose the win- the righteous side." Miguel ducks his head, swallowing bile. "We knew what we were and... and what we were not."

Even the Devil knows the difference between god and God.

Tulio trembles. Miguel drapes a wing around him. Chel is caught under it too. Her gaze slants between them, one all-too calm and the other nearly catatonic.

"You're taking this oddly well," she notes in ominous neutrality.

Miguel's eyes dart away. His true name exalts the Creator in every note. Miguel is His right hand. Righteousness should be searing through his body like celestial fire. He should blaze bright enough to reduce any mortal to ash.

Every time he tries to stoke up his old flame, he thinks of all the faces in Manoa; Naui's tearful expression at tripping him up, Chief Tannabok hiding his trepidation behind a genial host, and Chel stumbling into them in blind panic. Whatever spark inside him gutters out.

"This isn't the first time we've run into... misunderstandings."

So many neighboring pagans had tried syncretizing the Lord with their own sky gods. Some of the first holy sites Miguel had helped consecrate had first been devoted to unrelated winged deities. For healing with God's miracles, Paul and Barnabas had been mistaken for Hermes and Zeus among the pagan Greeks. It had taken fervent denial, and bleeding from the rocks pelted at them, for their mortality to be believed.

"Sometimes the mortals we meet are..." Ignorant. Unenlightened. A dozen other patronizing terms. That little voice inside Miguel rails against them. Those first faithful that had disguised their Good Shepherd as a ram-bearing Mercury had hidden in plain sight. Some humans have names for the Lord that once belonged to the pagan deities worshiped by their ancestors. None are any less pious for it.

"To err his human," he says instead, "to forgive d-"

"Miguel!" Tulio snarls. "Look at yourself!"

He gulps down at his calloused hands, the new feathers his wings have sprouted. "I... I'm not..." He can't lie to himself anymore. Inside himself bubble up prayers from all the lives he saved from pestilence; not messages for an intermediary, but intended for their healer alone. "Tourists! We told everyone we were tourists!"

Miguel and Tulio both turn to the woman that loudly introduced herself as their tour guide. Then they blink at the 'welcoming gift' still sitting on Tulio's beside table. Hesitantly Tulio stands up to poke the golden head, then yelps as if burned. Miguel does the same. What should be cold metal is warm to the touch. His hand jerks back.

"H-Hey, Chel," Tulio grits out, "where exactly did you steal this from?"

Her gaze drifts to the Great Temple. "I told you I was in to get out."

An archangel blindly accepted a pagan idol. A stolen idol. His stomach heaves from all the misbegotten tribute he's devoured, the wine that is the sacred blood of a goddess. His head pounds with misdirected prayer. His wings ached with faith that should never be his. Miguel weakly sags onto the bed. Tulio staggers down with him.

"I... I'm not yours." Not Chel's, not Kama and Kinich's, not Manoa's. Not now, and not ever.

(No matter the part of him that wishes.)

"And I'm..." Tulio glances bitterly downward. Most of himself never left Hell at all. "I am who I am."

Chel draws her knees up to her chest. She says nothing.

"Why?" Miguel murmurs, soft and forlorn. "W-Why would you..."

Haltingly, Chel tells them another story, one without gods and grand cosmologies. This one is about a little girl. Even if she lost three aunts before she was even born, she lived happily with her family; her parents, a big brother, and a set of grandparents. Her best friend lived just down the street. Without quite realizing it her 'tourists' drift back to the couch. Their wings shelter her.

That little girl lost her best friend when she was five years old, because the rains refused to stop. Not long after that she lost her grandpa to snakebite and then her grandma to a chest infection. She would not lose her mom until years later, when a blight started killing the great kingfish. By the time her dad was killed by a jaguar at the edge of the fields her childhood was long long over.

The woman's big brother had tried so very, very hard to get out. Their home held nothing but bad luck and malice in the ranks above them.

He had only been dragged back as a traitor. Executioners were not merciful to those that dared reveal their city's secrets.

"My plans always fell through," Chel mutters. "One day I just took the gold and ran. Whatever was out there had to be better than what was in here. And then I ran into two idiots trying their damnedest to murder each other." She sniffles and wipes away her tears to look them both in the eye. "I just went along with your bullshit, and made up some more of my own. I didn't know what Tzekel-Kan or the chief wanted to hear, so I kept it vague. And by gods did people start believing whatever they wanted to."

Tulio rubs his chin. "I-I just wanted to clean myself up."

Miguel tugs at his own beard. His own changes had not bubbled to the surface until after lowering himself to mortal food and falsehoods. "I... I just..." He huffs. "Well, my vanity isn't your fault. If I had been in your situation I would have been... um, a lot less delicate about trying to get out of it."

He reaches out with his hand. Chel latches on, just like she does to Tulio. They twine even closer together, three trees rooted against a whirlwind. "If it's any consolation, you look better with the beard."

"Much better," Tulio concurs. "It makes you look, uh, dignified."

"And I still like your silly little beard. It makes you look..." Miguel clamps down on a treacherous purr. "Charming."

Ever so slightly, the beautiful fool puffs up. "Well, go on."

Chuckling, Miguel instead fixates on Chel and the green stone hanging heavy in her ears. "You're radiant just the way you are, but if you wanted to shine a little brighter..." He beams. "Gold suits everyone, doesn't it?"

Slowly Chel returns his expression. "It does indeed. After all you put me through, every tour guide will wear gold when you're gone." Her eyes glint. "If you two ever decide to go... back to wherever it is you came from."

"W-We have... plans back there."

"Yeah," Tulio croaks. "Big plans."

They purposefully do not look to the east, where the Heavenly Host marches steadily west above a mortal army of conquistadors. Instead Miguel takes a deep breath and summons a grin, dazzling and defiant. "But today is another day off, isn't it, Tulio?"

"T-To do what?"

Miguel glances at their wings, layered together over Chel. Even now he can't hate the vibrant feathers he's grown, anymore than he can hate his beard or the calloused fingers that proudly mark him as a guitar player instead of a warrior. He cannot quite hide his tremble at what will happen to them once the Lord discovers His prodigal creations. Perhaps the Beast will no longer be alone in his pit, and the right hand and the left hand shall be reunited until the end of time.

"When's the last time you flew?" he murmurs. "Just for the sake of flying?"

Tulio inhales sharply. He runs a quivering hand through their feathers. "Too damn long."

Chel smiles wistfully. "Then you really shouldn't miss it."

"I know," they blurt out together.

As one, they offer their hands.


In a realm just out of mortal eyes, two partners reel above a shining city in a dance neither has ever quite forgotten. Together they make adjustments; they can't maneuver like they used to with two wings instead of six. They have a third dance partner to account for, one that needs to be passed between their arms or swung out by the hand. They must learn her rhythm like they must relearn each other, and the freedom of flight.

At first one flies in rigid discipline, crisp turns and sharp dives. The other one wobbles in circles, not trusting himself any further.

But they have a third party to impress, and a rivalry long softened into friendly competition. They surge toward the sun and plunge nearly low enough to skim the waters of Lake Parime below. They reel around each other with matador flourishes. Their partner wriggles out of their arms. In free fall she twists and spins. Once her partners stop snatching her before she can have any fun, they swoop beside her, and always deftly snatch her back from gravity's embrace.

The city below is not quite ignorant of their joy. The wind carries their gleeful whoops through the streets below. When the sun winks just right off gleaming mirrors or Lake Parime, people catch a glimpse of winged figures too big to be birds. Their shadows weave in and out mortal sight. An armadillo too wise to be fooled grins proudly up at them.

A hummingbird, bone-white except for the vibrant red splash on his chest, considers dropping in for a quick hello. Then he realizes how intimate the dancers are, the woman who always snuggles up to her partners' bare chests. He cheeps in mortification and buzzes onward.

Tzekel-Kan sees no hint of them. He is deep within the Jaguar God's temple, engrossed with reconsecrating all of his altars and prior rituals by his lord's proper name, and not his fearsome epithet.

His frequent visitors do not care he is in the haze of ritual. Blood-red and bone-white hummingbirds flood the temple. Some are appeased by the succulent flowers and sweet bowls of honey offered as tribute. Upon gorging themselves they flit off, east toward the darkness of the gateway or else over the western mountains in the path of the setting sun. A few birds cheep in satisfaction to hear 'Siwabal Koyopa' instead of 'Balam Qoxtok' from Tzekel-Kan's lips and leave the priest be.

Others aren't satisfied until they twitter furiously at Tzekel-Kan. Or leave him with a parting gift. The high priest weathers each one in stride. His god is testing him. Most mortals today have seen butterflies alight on their windowsills and flutter off in the silent promise that all is well. His visitors from Xibalba bring... grievances instead of good tidings. One particular soul has tried very, very hard to peck his eyes out.

Perhaps he has been a bit... overzealous in the sacrifices offered to his god in comparison to his predecessors.

...And in his executions.


The sun is warm on his wings. The wind whispers through his feathers. With his pa- Tulio whooping gleefully beside him, a part of Miguel wants to pretend that the last thousand years never happened at all, and the Fall only turned out to be a bad dream.

But Miguel doesn't want the past. He wants today; Chel's weight in his arms, the gleam of Manoa below, and Tulio reeling beside him. He cherishes every last moment. No matter how hard they all wish otherwise, the sun continues his journey through the sky. Lord Kinich was not a second late for sunrise. He certainly won't delay for sunset.

When the sun at last slants toward the horizon, Miguel reluctantly descends back to earth. He and Tulio each hold Chel by the hand. Together they alight on the balcony to Tulio's room and fold their wings away. They fall back onto the physical plane.

No one in the palace has any reason to know they ever left. The servants that cautiously deliver their dinner blame their rumpled clothes and wind-tossed hair on... other things.

Miguel and Tulio carry their heaping platters to a low stone table. Their shoulders both twitch at the couch's rigid back. Chel takes on look at them and flings the cushions back onto the floor. They dine atop a luxurious pillow pile. After a long moment, Miguel sighs and downs a cup of wine. The warmth that washes through his veins numbs the itch where his secondary wings should be.

Flying is hard work. So is molting. He and Tulio devour their trib- um, supper. After all her gravity-defying feats Chel is just as ravenous. This time she eats off their plates or snatches the last morsels off a platter before they can.

As their meal winds down, Tulio gulps down his last bite and anxiously pushes his plate away. "Y-You should, uh, probably stop now. This... This is probably just making it worse."

Miguel sighs in fond exasperation. He bolts back his wine anyway. "It's far too late for semantics, Tulio. I am who I..."

...Wait.

Oh.

"Tulio," he murmurs. Blue eyes blink at him. "Tulio." Three syllables integral to the soul beside him. "T-That's your name, isn't it?"

Blue eyes bulge. He sucks in a sharp breath. He has spitefully disowned the name Samael, just as he has all the other curses Miguel tried to lay upon him; Satan and Mastema and Devil. At first he bristles with ancient pain, then his brow knits together. He frowns down at his palms, ghosts a hand over his shoulder blade where one wing is safely furled inside him.

"...Yeah," Tulio whispers. "It is."

Miguel can no longer think of him as anyone or anything else.

Chel winds her fingers through Tulio's. "And they call you Lightbringer."

"Y-Yeah," he chokes. "They did."

And they had. Long before they had ever known him as the left hand of the Lord, or cursed him as their Adversary.

OH.

Miguel thinks back toward the night of Tulio's escaped attempt, a pagan horse drowning in the sea and the hapless demon that had leaped after him without a second thought A demon with nothing to gain and everything to lose for risking his freedom.

"You never needed Altivo to sustain you," he blurts out. "You just couldn't let him die. Whether he had helped you or not."

Tulio flushes. Once his spiteful pride had made him spew out a dozen flimsy lies a self-righteous archangel had taken at face value. Now Tulio ducks his head and doesn't even bother with denial. "I couldn't. He was screaming and it was all because of me and I... I'm tired, Miguel. So, so tired. I-I couldn't..." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't do this anymore."

Miguel bites back a sob. He is the right hand of the Lord. He has hunted his Adversary at every turn. He has severed his wings, trampled him into the ground, and impaled his heart with fiery spears. Come Judgement Day he will lead the Heavenly Host against his brothers and sisters, and ensure they burn in agony alongside all of the sinful mortal souls.

All he's ever wanted is for his partner to be the first drop his sword, and have the courage to admit the truth Miguel could never dare admit to himself, under his endless exaltation and battle hymns. To give Miguel the freedom to finally let down his walls and trust he won't be stabbed in turn for what comes spilling out.

His right hand squeezes Tulio's left. "I know," he whispers. "God do I know."

Tulio looks at him, toward depths not even the other archangels have ever known existed. "And you didn't fall into this mess for Altivo, did you?"

Heat floods his cheeks. "Well, not just for Altivo."

Tulio laughs, light and wondrous, then groans at how badly he had misread an archangel's utter honesty. "Fuck, I'm an idiot."

Miguel leans against his side. "No, Tulio, I'm the idiot. I should have been more clear. Instead I just let you believe that because I couldn't... I couldn't admit that I..." His voice cracks.

Chel rolls her eyes and burrows into Tulio's other shoulder. "You're both idiots."

They both admit she has a point there.

Then Miguel frowns with a new puzzle. He studies this strange, stubborn mortal that's stared down demons and flown with angels. "You're Chel."

She smiles ruefully. "And they call me Chel."

Tulio squints at her. "You're not our tour guide, are you?" The mirth falls from her face. She somberly shakes her head. "Then what are you? T-To us, I mean."

"Fuck if I know."

Tulio laughs. "Fair enough." He turns sheepishly toward Miguel, without a single spark of venom in his eyes. "I don't even know what I am to you. Not anymore, at least."

Green eyes flick down to their hands, still twined together. He silently holds them up. Tulio pales and flinches back. Miguel only offers his hand again.

"Y-You... You can't..."

"I know." With the weight of his punishment already looming over him, Miguel smiles anyway. "You don't think I'm gonna let you have all the fun, do you?"

Tulio looks helplessly between him and Chel. He glares skyward with an old spark of defiance, his eyes flashing white instead of yellow. The deviant angel that once waged war against Heaven itself looks ready to rage all over again for a mere mortal woman and an archangel long overdue for punishment. Then his irises dim back to sorrowful blue. He knows the bitter truth of fighting against the inevitable better than all of them.

"Whatever you are now, Miguel, I know what you are not." Earnest blue eyes gaze into his own. "And you will never, ever deserve what I-"

Miguel sticks his hand in his face. "Partner."

Tulio crumbles. Despite his dread he smiles weakly back. "Partner."

Forever and always. Neither endure of them will endure the darkness of Cocytus alone or the burning wrath of their Lord alone. Not now, not ever again.

They shake their hands in a ritual never forgotten. At Tulio's touch rightness sings through every fiber of Miguel's being.

FWUMP.

All three of them yelp and fall together in a tangle of limbs. They spit out mouthfuls of Miguel's old feathers and shake them from their hair. With much giggling and apologies they finally right themselves. Miguel gawks at Tulio. His partner boggles right back. Chel beams at them both.

"Well," she muses impishly. "Gold really does suit everyone."

Miguel and Tulio's secondary wings have both unfurled with lustrous golden plumage. Their feathers are thoroughly rumpled, a few waxy coatings stuck between them. Miguel's wingtips are brushed with even more vivid shades of red and orange. Tulio's tips deepen into bronze and a few glints of red-violet. Much like the twilit sky outside.

"Yes," Miguel admits. "It does."

Tulio flushes under their stares. "I-I... I'm not..."

"Okay," Chel cuts off. "Then who were you?"

Tulio trails off. His gaze drifts upward. With the sun sinking into the horizon and the moon yet to rise, the brightest celestial body is the evening star.

"Oh," Miguel breathes. No wonder he had never successfully trapped the Devil in his pit. So long as he still stubbornly clung to the titles of Lucifer and Phosphoros, then a part of him still rose with every dusk and...

Dark eyes turn from Tulio to peer at him instead. Miguel's neck prickles.

"Your name is Miguel," Chel states in utter certainty. Those two humble syllables embody him more than the boundless song they're derived from. "And they call you Morningstar."

Miguel gapes at her. So does Tulio. Far too late they remember their drunken exchange from that first fateful night, a demon's careless teasing.

Oh.

OH.

Miguel squeaks.

"We're partners, aren't we?" Tulio's mortification soon cracks into a hysterical smile. "What's mine is yours."

Miguel sputters indignantly.

His partner blushes even redder than he is. "Don't look at me like that! Maybe if you still didn't prance around as the Prince of Light I wouldn't have been so inspired!" Miguel's face falls. Tulio groans at the sight. "Not with that face again. Stop." Miguel pouts even further, and takes untold pleasure in watching his partner being the one to squirm for once. "No, no, no. No."

Chel frowns at a puzzle that doesn't make sense. "The morning star and the evening star are the same thing."

Tulio snorts. "Not to the ancient astronomers they weren't."

"Yes. It was a bit of an, um, process to get that all in order." Miguel primly clears his throat and fastidiously gets to work sorting out his crumpled new feathers. (A part of him  still murmurs with that silly little paradox; Morning Star and Evening Star, Dusk and Dawn.)

Chel plops down between them. Even with their awkwardness they still resettle themselves around her. She preens Tulio's wings while he preens Miguel's. In turn Miguel rubs her shoulders and strokes her hair. His fingers itch for more. He inches closer. In turn Tulio does the same.

This time around they all know what they're doing. Miguel and Tulio have already finished molting. Their new feathers are quickly smoothed out. All too soon they're finished. Miguel wrings his hands, unable to think of more to do and yet unable to pull away.

Chel reaches out. Her right hand cradles his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing. Her breath is sweet with chicle gum.

She kisses him, right where his goatee frames his mouth.

His eyes fly open. She smiles sheepishly back. It was a chaste peck to the cheek, chivalrous as a token between a knight and his lady love. Already she's pulling away.

He reaches desperately after her. His hand finds her shoulder. Chel freezes. She does not flinch back when his hand caresses her cheek. His heart pounds in exhilaration. Miguel does not understand the strange prayers echoing in his head, or the source of his new feathers, but this is innate. Every fiber of his being thrums in how right it feels.

She tilts up. He tilts down.

When their lips meet, Miguel instinctively lets her in and-

Oh.

Oh, yes.

"Miguel," Tulio croaks in horror when they finally pull apart. "Miguel, y-you can't-"

Miguel grabs his face, snarling back. "I'm so very, very tired of people telling me that."

He mashes their faces together. There's no grace to it, no finesse, nothing but primal desperation. Tulio kisses back just as fervently. Miguel almost expects his partner to taste of brimstone or bitter venom. Instead Tulio tastes of salt. Wetness streams down both their cheeks. Someone chokes on a sound, joyous and free and yearning.

Chel hurtles herself into the deluge. They frantically scramble to accommodate her.

Miguel is ardent. Miguel is vigorous.

Miguel has no idea what he's doing.

But he's never forgotten how to follow a rhythm. His partners have no trouble taking the lead.

So he does his best to lift them into rapture and dizzying heights not even Heaven has dreamed of.

Notes:

And, lo, did they bang.

For the longest time I expected Miguel to go through a complete mental breakdown at the whole 'accidental apotheosis' thing. Only it turned out he was extremely burnt out on always being 'smite first, ask questions later.' And that he hit a breaking point when he nearly exploded over Tanni's kids. So instead his goes elsewhere, to a time where 'pagan' and 'orthodox' are a lot more blurred; a time where saints working God's miracles got mistaken as gods themselves, where temples devoted to winged deities might be reconsecrated in the name of angels.

During Early Christianity Roman converts adopted the Ram-bearer to blend in with their pagan neighbors to the point where archaeologists today have to sometimes ask "is it Jesus?" or "is it Mercury?" when they see Kriophoros figures. And, to this day, many names for the Abrahamic God across the globe in various languages first came from an older sky or creator deity (like how the Latin 'Deus' is derived from the general pagan term for 'god' and a root word shared with Jupiter.)

(But also hey Miguel is deep in denial over this all being another 'pagan misunderstanding'. Pay no attention to the idiot in denial.)

Tulio's trauma... runs a bit deeper. Because the Avenger/Adversary he came to be happens to have some very... tangled roots. Roots that predate the bumpy transition from Canaanite polytheism into the beginnings of Abrahamic monotheism. Roots that had further echoes across certain East and West Semitic pantheons. (And that later Greeks interpreted as 'Phosphoros' and Romans as 'Lucifer.')

Venus is the brightest object in the sky aside from the sun and moon, rising both around dusk and dawn. Traditionally Venus is both the morning star AND the evening star. And tended to be deified as TWO deities in early pantheons until astronomers caught on... but whoops you've already got established traditions and cultural inertia. So then you have two gods in one :D Like Hesperos and Phosphoros, Xolotl and Quetzalcoatl, Lucifer and Noctifer, and... other pairs ; )

It should be noted Michael only emerges as a distinct entity AFTER early Judaism is a thing. But whoops people gave him Samael as his dark reflection and gave him the name 'Prince of Light' real, REAL early in history. Add on all the baggage and the literal cult following he's been picking up in Manoa and... ; )

Chapter 30: the change is made

Summary:

The morning after.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He wakes up warm.

Too warm.

When he tries to roll away, the weight atop him prevents it. Fear spikes inside his heart... until he feels the soft mattress under him. One of the people atop him mumbles in their sleep.

Oh.

Tulio cracks his eyes open and gets a good look at his bedmates.

Oh.

Chel and Miguel have turned him into their pillow. Unlike yesterday morning, there is no comforting barrier of cloth between them.

Oh, no.

Nononono-

The heat between them evaporates. He shivers with all the cold of Cocytus. His mind screams to run, to save himself, to flee from their embrace like he does from his adversary's fiery spear. He can't bear for them to wake up, their slowly dawning into horror at their own actions, like all the others he's let fall asleep beside him. On some level, his lovers always know they've committed something unforgivable with him, that a Beast lurks behind even his handsomest face.

But Tulio can't pull himself away. He can't. His wings are twined with Miguel's. Chel's face is so soft, the hard cynicism gone from the corners of her eyes. Tulio reaches toward them with a quivering hand before thinking better of it. He doesn't dare do a thing to disturb their blissful ignorance. He wants this moment to last forever.

Inevitably, someone stirs. Tulio goes rigid.

Green eyes flutter open.

"Hello," Miguel blearily mumbles into his chest.

"...Hey," Tulio creaks out, voice brittle with fear. He clears his throat. "H-How... How do you feel?"

Does he loathe him for abetting in his Fall? Will he retch or weep that he has spurned an eternity of grace for a few fleeting hours of pleasure, then endless torment?

Miguel ponders this. His brow furrows. Then his eyes widen in wonder.

"Happy," he answers at last. "I... I feel happy."

Tulio sucks in a breath. His heart throbs.

Chel smiles back at Miguel. "Yeah," she mumbles. "So do I." Her nose crinkles in thought. "Funny. I'd almost forgotten how it felt."

Tulio says nothing. A sob rattles in his throat. This time he can't stop himself from reaching out to them. Their hands clasp around his own, so he brings them both to his lips. He bestows a worshipful kiss upon them. His wings furl tighter, to both embrace them and protect them from all outside this paradise.

No matter how he yearns to lead them back down into bliss until a thunderbolt again sears the wings from his back, Tulio is the one to sit up and coax his partners from bed. They can't let such a beautiful morning go to waste.

Chel wraps herself in a blanket and saunters to her room. Two sets of mesmerized eyes watch the swing of her hips on the way out. They grin like idiots after.

Tulio jolts back to himself. He glances at Miguel. They've both awkwardly bundled up in their own wings. Under the feathers they're very, very naked.

After a long moment, they both snort and stand up to get ready. Tulio's room has all they need.

Considering the logistics of both washing and drying their massive wings, they fold them away to bathe. Tulio zealously scrubs himself. He barely stinks like sulfur anymore, but that's because his hair smells of sweet incense that refuses to wash out. He almost noses into Miguel's hair to see if his partner smells the same before thinking better of it. Impulse control is a wonderful thing. It prevents Tulio from probably inciting another round of passionate fornication.

Instead they debilitate over their wardrobes. Again Tulio gravitates to a deep blue hip wrap and Miguel to rich red. This time they don't stop there. They drape mantles of cloth across their collarbones; Tulio in a sky-blue shade and Miguel in violet. They scrutinize their jewelry options. Not all metal in Manoa is forged in gold. Miguel clips on bronze earrings studded with jasper. Tulio's are silver and sapphire. They even find matching armbands.

Tulio faces mirror for the full effect. His stomach still tumbles at what awaits him there. He stands with four magnificent wings unfurled behind him; definitely not demonic, but also a figure no true believer would see as angel.

"Well?" he prompts. "H-How do I look?"

"Handsome," Miguel blurts out immediately. "Very handsome. But, uh, you still need to put away the..." He winces and gestures to the empty air behind his own shoulders.

"Oh. Right." Tulio folds his wings away. His gaze strays back to the mirror. Apparently the blue in his eyes is here to stay.

(Until even that gets ripped away from him t-)

"Tulio." Miguel is suddenly at his side, a steady hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," his partner answers honestly. He crinkles a nose to their shared reflection. "It's still just weird to not immediately hate my reflection."

"...Oh." Miguel huddles closer to him. "D-Did you used to do that a lot?"

"Yeah. Pretty must every time I got out the last millennium. Even when I put effort into my appearance it never stayed put for very long. Too much inside just kept bubbling to the surface, and too many people on the outside always convinced themselves that I had to look as vile as I was." Tulio smiles wistfully at himself. "I had no idea where this side of myself came from, but by gods did it get results."

It's one he could have been happy with for all eternity. He wishes he'd had the time to grow into it more.

Miguel leans his head against his shoulder and considers his side of the mirror. "I think I feel the same way. I've never worn one shape so long before. We're supposed to be like pillars of light, remember? You look different from every vantage point and refract what people need to see you as." His brows furrow. "Now I look into a mirror and expect to see this, t-to see me."

"Well, you chose a good face. A very good face. Dashing as it is regal."

Miguel beams at him. Tulio grins right back. Hand in hand they stride out to meet their partner.

They find a resplendent goddess awaiting them. Her gown exalts her curves. The fabric gleams all the rosy shades of dawn. Her partners gawk.

"Well?" she chirps. "Do I match the color scheme today?"

Tulio's silver tongue fails him. No earthly words do her justice.

Miguel purrs. Then he gasps and claps his hands over his mouth.

Before he can stammer out an apology, his partners both sweep in to kiss his flaming cheeks.


Two 'tourists' and their 'tour guide' weave through Manoa's bustling streets hand in hand. They all look especially radiant this morning. Their eyes are bright, their smiles wide, and their banter flows smooth as pulque on the festival days. Behind their backs, the denizens of the marketplace exchange knowing looks and shit-eating grins.

Then they glance once more at the 'tour guide' who skips like gravity can no longer hold her down. There's a clear color scheme between her and her 'tourists' today.

Betting pools are swiftly revised. The theories spread almost as fast as the news itself.

When word reaches the temple of Siwabal Kopya, Lord of the Hunters, its high priest drags a weary hand down his face. Then he sighs and prepares yet another list of contingencies.

Two winds breeze through the streets too. One slithers along to the gossip and portents of change. The other frets in the eastern quarter, heavy with the omens of smoke and storm.


Tulio wishes he could stretch out the next few hours into centuries. Instead he savors all that he can; the pleasant spice still lingering on his tongue, the fragrant aromas of the market, the lively conversations winding around him. The fullness of his belly, the warmth of his wings tucked away inside him. The way his heart flutters when Miguel's eyes meet his own, how wide he beams whenever Chel smiles at him.

Today Chel stares long and hard at a stall they breezed past in their prior visits. Tulio gulps at its glimmering wares.

Miguel tilts his head. "A goldsmith?"

Chel grins impishly back. "Gold suits everyone, doesn't it?"

Tulio huffs a laugh. "That it does."

Chel fingers one of the plain green stones in her ears. "I'm long overdue for an upgrade." She bites her lip. "Do you feel the same, or are you two good with silver and bronze?"

Miguel and Tulio gape at her, then at each other. Only the People of Gold are allowed to adorn themselves in the greatest gift of the Dual Gods. She's offered them a permanent place here, a home. No one in this city will not stop two obvious outsiders from such an honor. Chief Tanni would probably suffocate them in a hug if they just asked him to stay.

It's temptation enough to make the Devil open his mouth and...

A sudden breeze tugs at his ponytail. Tulio glances anxiously to the east. Beyond the siren glow of the Great Temple the mountain peaks loom like teeth. The horizon is dark with a gathering storm. In further binding himself to this place he will only damn its people just as he had Miguel.

Clutching each other's hands in a death grip, he and Miguel casually shake their heads.

"No thank you," Miguel squeaks out.

"I'm sorry." So, so sorry. Tulio offers a conciliatory smile. "But perhaps another time? Another place?"

Chel stares long and hard at them both. "We'll see."

Even their cheeks grow hot in shame, they stare longingly after her when Chel turns her back to them to inspect the earrings herself.

"I wish we'd had the time to really know this place," Tulio blurts out, because apparently some emotions just refuse to be repressed any longer. "But mostly her. Especially her."

"Yeah," Miguel mumbles in agreement. "And also you."

Tulio staggers back. Apparently his heart can be impaled by words alone. "Y-You already know me."

"I knew Samael," Miguel murmurs. "I thought I knew my Adversary." His fingers re-entwine with Tulio's own. "I want to know you. Everything you want me to."

"And I want to know you too."

Now Miguel's expression strains. "Heaven is eternal, Tulio. I doubt I changed that much. What you've seen from me lately was always lurking there."

"And I strongly disagree." Tulio caresses his bearded chin. "I want to know your favorite foods, why you love the guitar so much. Every new song and every new pet peeve."

Miguel manages a small, sickly smile. "Look on the positive side. Soon we'll have all the time in the world to know each other."

"Yeah," his partner creaks out. "All the time in the world."

Despite the warm sun above, they shiver. They instinctively turn to their partner. Chel is still hunched over the goldsmith's counter. Her initial glee has soured into frustration. She picks over a hundred options, some barely indistinguishable from each other. The vendor hangs anxiously back and doesn't dare disturb her thought process.

As one Miguel and Tulio reach for the same pair. They each present her an earring.

"These," they blurt together. "These are the ones."

"Oh," she breathes. "Thank you." Tenderly she takes both halves of the pair. "They're perfect."

"Perfect as you are," Miguel adds in complete sincerity.

"Trust us on it." Tulio winks. "We have impeccable taste."

When the vendor meekly tries to insist the earrings on the house, three voices laugh and wave him off. Apparently Chel's received a very generous salary from Chief Tanni for all of her assignment's 'special requirements.' Instead Miguel and Tulio scramble to pay in her stead. This is a gift from them, one of the ways they can barely begin to pay her back for all they've put her through.

Tulio should have no problem whipping up an irresistible payment. Then he remembers all gifts he can offer are probably still tainted. He doesn't want to curse an innocent goldsmith and his family for all eternity. "Uh..."

Miguel clears his throat. He offers up a velvet bag pulled from thin air. "Excuse me. Does this cover it?"

"P-Please, my lord," the vendor insists, too flustered to even try holding back their titles. "I-I couldn't possibly take your-" He pulls a single lustrous pearl from the bag. His payment is egg-shaped and egg-sized. His protest cuts off in a choked splutter.

"Splendid!" Miguel exuberantly shakes his hand. "Pleasure doing business with you."

As they stride off, Tulio arches an eyebrow at the former archangel. "Wasn't that a parable or something?"

"Nonsense," his partner scoffs. "Somethings are without price." He beams at Chel, radiant in new gift.

"Exactly." Chel each hands them one of her old earrings. She smiles sweetly at their attempts to hand them back. "You two got me something to remember you by. Let me return the favor."

Miguel squeezes her in a hug. He proudly wears her stone on his right ear.

Too choked for words, Tulio unclasps his old earring to clip her gift onto his left ear. It's still warm from her palm hours later when they return to Chief Tanni's place for dinner.

At least the chief and and chieftess don't fuss about it. Their kids are nowhere so tactful. They ask incessant questions about their earrings and then whisper even more about it to each other. To shut them up Tulio and his partners start up another roulette of storytelling. The kids are immediately enchanted. Of course they are. Tulio pulls out all the stops tonight. God knows if he'll ever get a chance to entertain a mortal audience again.

As their sixth night in Manoa winds down, they retire to their own quarters. Tulio steps out onto his balcony to finally unfurl his wings. He sighs in relief. The soft night wind stirs his feathers. Even under moonlight his plumage glows with the radiance of dawn.

For a moment, Tulio lets his gaze trail west. He imagines flying west with Miguel, always at least a day ahead of the conquistadors and the Heavenly Host marching behind them. They could have centuries of freedom together before their vengeful brothers finally hunt them down. Maybe Chel will even want to live out the first few decades of that adventure with them. This New World could still have a thousand avenues to explore, a thousand trails to blaze.

With a fanciful sigh, Tulio turns his back to that last renegade whisper. He crawls into bed with his partners to savor another intimate night.

He's not running again.

(Maybe if he finally bows down and begs for mercy, the Lord will finally relent. It will be Miguel's freedom he begs for. Not his own.)

(His own sentence was already carried out.)

(But Cortes and all that marches behind him will never have this place or its people.)

(Not now, and not ever.)

Notes:

Why, yes, the boys are still one set of wings short ; )

Chapter 31: the time of judgement

Summary:

"You cannot fight them."

"Then how do we stop them?"

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

He's safe and sound in a longboat, bound for anywhere but here. Even weeks drifting on doldrums is better than returning to his prison. And... And at least sunstroke is a gentler end than an archangel impaling him with a burning-

An apple sails past his head.

Then a heathen horse, starved of tribute, leaps desperately after it. Oops.

Tulio grits his teeth. He lived up to his end of the bargain. It's not his fault Altivo let the apple go overboard, or was idiotic enough to go after it. Besides, he is the Devil himself, treacherous and self-serving. Maybe he messed up his throw on purpose. If Altivo was greedy enough to free the Prince of Darkness just for a piece of fruit, then he deserves to be dragged down with him.

Altivo whinnies. His cry cuts off when a wave crashes into him.

Tulio can't help even if he wanted to. He has no way to save the horse. All he'll do is overturn his boat and doom himself to a watery end.

Altivo screams again, his cry resonating with the wails of countless damned. What's one more lost soul for the pit?

(no)

(nomorenomoren-)

"Hold on you stupid fucking horse, I'm coming!"

Like in all things, Tulio fails in this too. He tumbles into the churning sea. Immediately the ruthless current drags him under. With a snarl he claws his way back to the surface, hauling Altivo up by his bridle. His hands slip on the slick boat hull. But he's cold, tired, and starved. Even if he could get a grip, he's not strong enough to climb up, much less turn the boat back over.

Still, he fights, and rages against the inevitable. That's always been his nature.

(to rise you need to f-)

In his mania, Tulio thinks he glimpses heaven's light. Must be the hypothermia setting in.

For the briefest second, he closes his eyes, and lets himself believe the lie. He imagines a warmth that does not burn him to the touch, a gentle hand wrapping around his own.

Then the radiance cuts off with a sickening splash. Tulio slips under.

He's tired. So, so tired. Maybe this time the Lord will finally grant him the mercy of obli-

A white blur beside him. A gasp. A desperate, wavering note of please choked off by the sea.

Even as his mind goes pleasantly numb, something inside him snaps awake. He knows this person better than he knows himself. That's his... his...

(nothimnothimohgodnotmic-)

Tulio surfaces. He thrusts a rope into his partner's hands. Their frantic plan passes between them on a level above words, beyond song. Together they dive under Altivo's thrashing hooves. His partner makes it onto the overturned boat. This time he hauls up Tulio too. Before the galleon can smash into them, they heave the rope with all their might and...


Somewhere very far away, a jaguar fights an invisible war. He calls for roots to trip horses and crush their riders beneath them and vines to strangle an unwary neck. He urges every beast above and below to swarm these invaders, crocodiles and snakes and plague-ridden bats. He tries to claw his way into the minds of every conquistador, to gnaw on their fears and prowl their nightmares.

The Jaguar God's furious struggles are drowned out by the furious drone of the Host above.

Cortes cannot be swayed from this path, not with angels singing war and glory in his ears. Perhaps they're more heavy-handed than they've been in centuries, but their brother is still missing. They sing all the louder, all the more zealously, to make up for his temporary absence. Soon he'll be home.

WHO IS LIKE THE LORD?

THERE IS NONE LIKE THE-


On the dawn of their seventh day in paradise, Tulio jolts awake. He shivers and squeezes tighter to his partners.

His fraying mind is stretched thin over a vast, chaotic creation. Millions believe the wicked thoughts in the back of their own heads to be his voice, that he possesses them in their worst moments. He is the Beast in perdition, weeping and gnashing on sinners. He is the immovable morning star above their heads and in every faint, nascent whisper of prayer sent out into Manoa.

Most of him is snuggled in bed with his two most precious people in the world. He could stay at their side forever.

But he can't. Over all the mortal voices in his head exalt the heavenly choirs. They have not come to this place alone.

Chel glances between them, gaze deep and inscrutable. "Vacation's over?"

Miguel tries and fails to grin back. "Unfortunately so." He leans into the crook of her neck. "Some... Some urgent business has come up. F-Family matters, you know."

Tulio snorts. "That's a way to put it." His fingers twine around Chel's own. "Thank you for... well, everything. Best vacation ever."

"The very best," Miguel agrees with a peck to her cheek. "Thank you for making sure I didn't miss out on it."

Chel smiles wanly back. "And thank you boys for an unforgettable time." She swallows, her impeccable mask on the edge of cracking. "I... I almost forgot what it was like to feel like that."

"I never felt that way at all before," Miguel mumbles. "Not until this place."

"Yeah," Tulio croaks. "Same here."

Green eyes widen. All Tulio can do is press kisses to Miguel's forehead and then Chel's. He has no words to describe what they meant, or if they're even on the same page about that nameless emotion.

Inevitably they rouse from their bed. They only take the time to dress themselves in basic clothes for modesty's sake. Their earrings were never taken off last night.

When they step outside dawn is still breaking. The crisp morning air is charred by the acrid taint blowing in from the east. Chief Tannabok is already awake, grimly staring over Lake Parime. An anxious, murmuring crowd is slowly drawing around him. They part like water to let Tulio and his partners through.

Dark clouds of smoke billow from the distant treetops, overshadowed by the dark wall of thunderheads building up overhead. The army above far more formidable than even than the one marching in their name below.

Chief Tannabok turns to solemnly regard their expressions. Neither of his partners can disguise how they feel. Miguel is sinking into horrified resignation. Chel is unsurprised at the doom on the horizon. Her eyes blaze all the brighter for it.

Tulio doesn't know what truth is reflected on his face. Before the chief can respond to him, a breathless messenger races into his arms. Tannabok catches him before he collapses.

"Chief Tanni! Chief Tanni!" The messenger clutches him like a frightened child. "Approaching the city... is an army of strangers!" 

Terrified gasps ripple through the crowd. Too late they realize the two strangers they mistook for gods in mortal guise are harbingers to a power far greater.

"We're safe here," the chief soothes, though his even tone cannot disguise the growing doubt in his eyes. "They'll never find the gate to the city."

"Out of my way!" roars a voice over the din. "Out of my way!" A wild-eyed, bloodshot Tzekel-Kan shoves his way into their midst. He seizes his chief by the shoulders. "As... As the prophecies foretold, Tannabok, the time of judgement is now." The high priest swallows. "And the Jaguar God can't stop them. They know the way a-and... they are coming. For all of us."

"Warriors!" Tannabok bellows. "Prepare yourselves for battle!"

"No!" Miguel grabs his arm. At his touch the desperate ferocity drains from Tannabok. "Chief, you cannot fight them."

"Then how can we stop them?"

Grim determination squares his shoulders. "You can't."

"Yeah," Tulio sighs, laying a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "And neither can you."

The archangel snarls back. "I-"

"I know." For just a heartbeat, Tulio lets his suppressed scars flash to the surface, the charred wreck the Fall had left of the Morningstar. "And how did that turn out the last time?"

Miguel flinches, but doesn't shy away. "I... I...."

"I know. God, do I know." He takes a shuddering breath. "But they're still family. O-Our family. And what happened then can't happen now. Not now, and not ever again."

"Uh huh." Chel's tone jolts them out of the past, back to the here and now. "So what's your angle?"

"My angle?" A delirious giggle bubbles out of him. "Same as it always was." He sucks in a breath, and speaks the truth that's festered inside him since his Fall. "I... I still love you, Miguel. Forever and always."

"Y-You still love me? B-But I-"

Tulio cuts off his indignant squawk with a desperate kiss; one bursting of all he never had time to speak, one last spark to nurture him for all the endless eons sure to come. He was always best at lying to himself. Chel opens her mouth to no doubt tell him he's an idiot, but he's quicker on the draw, and exalts her in a final brush of the lips. "I'm sorry for everything. So, so sorry. Have every adventure you ever dreamed of, okay? Because you gave us one to last eternity."

"Tulio," Miguel whispers in slow, dawning horror. "W-What are you-"

"Mikhael," Tulio murmurs, at last shocking the archangel into silence. "It's okay. I... I promise."

At last he unfurls all four of his wings. All of Manoa gasps at his radiance, at plumage the inverted shades of the morning sky dawning overhead. With a final salute, he leaves them and Chel behind forever.

And surges east to give the Heavenly Host exactly what they want.


As one selfless, reckless fool soars off to certain doom, Chel scrambles to wrestle her wits under control, and stop a second idiot from doing the same. "M-Miguel, we need to-"

FWOOSH.

"Fear not, Chel," he assures gently as he can, voice splintering into a deafening multitude that makes her eardrums rattle. "All... All will be well. I promise."

"You... You f-"

Her obscenities are last to the shrieking wind left in their wake, and then the first rumble of thunder of a storm about to break. As a wall of thunderheads rise ever higher over the eastern mountains, twin stars arc over Lake Parime. One soars head-on into the tumultuous heavens. The second uses the momentum of its rises to hurtle down.

Chel breaks into a run.

She pounds over stone, then slips on something smooth and wet. Catching herself by the hands, she throws herself back up to her feet, and keeps on going. She pushes herself harder.

And harder. Until...

She bumps face-first into something big and warm that sends her sprawling back on her ass.

Altivo whinnes down at her in consternation. He strikes a hoof. The impact ripples across Lake Parime's surface.

...Wait.

Chel gapes over her shoulder. From the distant shore Chief Tannabok, Tzekel-Kan, and the rest of the city gape back. Her disbelieving eyes turn downward. Inches beneath her gather a bewildered school of kingfish longer than most boats. When she reaches down to poke one, it jolts at the contact and darts away. The rest of the water continues to hold her weight.

What. The. Fu-

Altivo snorts in her face.

Growling, Chel throws herself onto his back. "Come on!"

Rearing up, the Horse God breaks into a gallop, and the material world is whipped away by his winds. Squinting her eyes, Chel sets her sights on an unmistakable glow in the distance, and urges him even faster.

Where one her partners has gone, not even the wind himself can follow.

The other is not quite so unreachable.

And so they thunder into a wood deep and dark.


As the ancient passage between Lake Parime and the outside world collapses from the Beast beneath Xibalba, the Crocodile God rumbles in bewilderment at a literal earth-shaking event he himself did not cause. Bristling in outrage, Siwabal Koyopa growls down at the stupid star gods stealing all his glory, and stalks off for his wood.

Several gods hoping for the usual battle between the Jaguar God and his eternal foe grumble in disappointment. Bibi the Armadillo God claps in delight, and cackles as most other deities present push his winnings toward him.

"Come on, everyone!" he calls out to spirits big and small. "Now it's really getting good!"

Smirking back at him, Paquini takes her own cut of the bets from him, and stands up to hand out another round of libation. Raima glowers at her, the wine evaporating out of her goblet as fast as Paquini can pour it.

"I should turn this whole city to ash," she grumbles. "And that damned army with it."

"You could do that, dear," her husband says calmly. "But then we'd forfeit the bet on our grandsons."

"Those featherbrained idiots are not MY-"

"Kama adopted them, mom," Kinich points out. "That makes them mine too."

Munah rolls his eyes. "Miguel turned her down, remember?"

The Sun God beams back. "But they didn't say no to me, did they? And since we're partners that means-"

"Both," Munah mumbles in surrender. "Both is good."

As the greatest entertainment Manoa has ever seen before or will likely ever see again unfolds at the border, its pantheon draw together, and place bets on the melodramatic weirdos that now technically count as family.

Bibi always knows how to pick them.

Notes:

Ha ha, my muse gave out on me when this chapter was half-finished, and then like nearly a year later the rest of it finally caught up :D

Chapter 32: tread (where mortals have not trod)

Summary:

Abandon all hope...

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

A week ago Chel had fled into the subterranean dark with a stolen idol under her arm and no plan aside from getting as far away from the city as humanly possible. After hours of stumbling through the primordial depths, she had emerged on the other side with Chima and his warriors hot on her heels.

She had been fully prepared to die that day. They would never drag back to the altar alive to face her brother's fate.

And now the way is shut forever, sealed under tons of stone and water. Tulio had moved heaven and earth to keep their people safe.

It had only cost him his freedom, and all he'd gained with it.

Altivo ignores the river entirely. In a mighty gust he thunders over the mountains into the jungle beyond. Chel shuts her eyes against the buffeting wind.

When she opens them again, she finds them in the dark wood past the stele of the Dual Gods. The further Altivo gallops, the more wild, harsh, and impenetrable the wilderness grows. The single trail beneath the Horse God's hooves leads them to a crossroad. Altivo slows and tosses his head. He turns in a tight, restless circle.

Beyond the crossroad are further forks in the road, diverging again and again until they vanish into the trees. There a thousand ways into this wood, and a thousand ways out. Once she would have leaped at such boundless possibility.

Now only two roads are true. One leads down into a dark, gaping valley devoid of light. The other leads up the slope of a steep slope. Chel squints. This is the foothill of a mountain, one that dwarfs even the protecting range that shields Manoa from the outside world. She can't glimpse its peak against the blinding light of the rising sun.

A sleek, spotted cat ghosts onto the base of upward trail. At Altivo's warning snort, her fangs curve into a malicious smirk.

...A smirk that slides off her face at the shadow looming behind them.

The Jaguar God stalks past Altivo to stare the other cat down. She's dwarfed by his sheer muscular bulk. Without a word she turns tail and slinks back into the trees.

Chel stares.

Baleful green eyes size her up. This is not quite the face that hunts her nightmares.

"...Siwabal Koyopa, right?"

"Who else would I be?" growls the god.

Right. He's only the Jaguar Demon to his enemies. Apparently his high priest finally remembered the Lord of the Forest's duty is to protect his people, all his people, above all else.

Her fingers clench deeper into Altivo's mane. "That depends on how well my father and big brother are doing."

The Lord of War and Conquest rolls his eyes. "Probably with my mother, like every other soul in Xibalba that followed your idiot through my forest." His voice drops to a petulant growl. "I don't know why I held onto them so long, anyway. Mortals are useless to me once I've had their blood."

Chel takes a deep, steadying breath. Priorities. The cosmological upheaval her idiots have already done to the pantheon can wait until they and everyone else back home are safe. And making sure her loved ones are finally all right after all fate and the fickle gods have done to them.

"Then their weapons should be useless to you too."

Huffing either in amusement or exasperation, Siwabal Koyopa picks out a spear from between his teeth. Chel takes it unflinchingly. Its obsidian tip is still stained with the blood of its last victim.

With a final glance at the right-hand path, she makes up her mind. Altivo rears up and charges down into the starless valley. The Jaguar God lopes after them.

A gaunt she-wolf saunters into their way. Altivo leaps right over her. She dodges Siwabal Koyopa's swipe of his paw, crooning into his ears. Her words are honey-sweet venom that can wear down even the most untarnished heart. The Jaguar God gives up trying to hit her and simply bowls her over. His envy for the Lord of the Fifth World has finally dried up.

Then comes another great cat, rabid and fiery-eyed. The air itself trembles at his roar.

Siwabal Koyopa roars right back. He lunges at his opponent, obsidian claws sinking into a golden mane. In this wood between worlds, neither truly holds the upper ground. Their battle might rage all eternity.

Leaving the idiots to their distraction, horse and rider travel on.

They stop before an archway, wide and gaping. Chel cocks her head at the dark, writhing shapes upon it. Eventually they settle into letters she can read. Here is the gateway to the infernal city, to eternal sadness, and the way to lost people. Her eyes narrow at the last line.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Altivo passes under the arch. He steps over sundered bars of brass and iron that had once barred the way.

They should step into total darkness, a place that has never known neither sun nor stars. Yet Chel's eyes adjust slowly to a dim, omnipresent light. Altivo's coat gleams with its own soft iridescence. Siwabal Koyopa's gift glints with the same emerald fire of his eyes.

She flinches at the sudden noise; sighs, groans, and complaints called out in a cacophony of tongues. Nude and wretched, an endless line of souls shamble desperately past them. They're chased by wasps and hornets. Worms feast in their wake, writhing on a ground soaked with sweat and tears. Far ahead of them twirls a banner carried by a distant figure too fast and unpredictable for them to ever catch.

When the banner once more veers off, the line bends to follow. Eventually Chel and Altivo are left alone with only the worms they left behind.

Not that even the worms linger long. Once the last of the filth is cleared, they burrow into the sallow grass, and vanish.

Only then can Chel truly take in their surroundings. They stand in a twilit field of faded grass and pale, sweet blossoms. As the wails fade into the distance, all she hears is the deep murmur of the river. Lotus flowers grow thick along its bank. Its depths are blacker than night and too wide to see the other side.

"It's... oddly peaceful?"

Altivo turns to study her with eyes as fathomless as the river. He trots down to its shore and stops. Chel slides off his back.

A slack-sailed, black-clothed ship glides over the water without a ripple. Its ferryman, an old man with an unruly beard, whistles at the sight of them.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." His boat groans to a halt on the bank. "What are you going by these days?"

"My name is Altivo," declares the Horse God, "and they call me the Lord of Winds."

He arches a bushy eyebrow at Chel. "Sure you took her to the right place?"

She smiles sweetly back, canting the spear against her hip. "I'm right where I'm supposed to be."

"If you say so." The ferryman's voice drops to a grumble. "Those damn kids and their syncretism these days."

Chel steps aboard. Altivo's ears fold back. In her heart she knows this is the furthest he has ever traveled down this route, that his role has always ended at the river. "Thank you for getting me this far, Altivo. I'll take it from here."

The Horse God has never been one to second guess a rider, no matter how impulsive or idiotic their decision. He bows his head and gallops away into the dark.

"Hi," she chirps. "I'm Chel."

"I'm Charon." He shakes her offered hand. "At least that hasn't changed."

To her left and right the asphodel fields stretch as far as the eye can see. The river is just as constant, a tranquil black void across the landscape unbroken by rocks or rapids. "Where are we?"

"The vestibule." Charon appraises her with eyes deep as the water. "Where do I take you from here?"

"The other side."

"Forgive me, Chel, but you're my first passenger from this bank." He leans wearily against his oar. "The Acheron is a very, very long river. What's downstream couldn't be more different than its source."

Chel knows that better than anyone. Streams high in the mountains feed into Lake Parime's sacred waters. From there it flows through Xibalba's subterranean caverns and roars over the waterfall down into the rocky valley and verdant jungle beyond, before finally spilling out into the endless sea. Her mother's body was swallowed by its roaring whirlpool. The bones of her best friend sleep forever in the Rain God's cenote.

"Hell," she orders. "Take me to hell."

"...What?"

"A very brave, selfless idiot saved the lives of everyone I know today by throwing himself back down here." She clenches the spear in a stranglehold. "He couldn't hurt his family again, so he sacrificed himself instead."

Just like Miguel, who had ascended with only a song of love and defiance. Anything to distract his Heavenly Host from their mortal army down below. Even his own Father strikes him down for it.

Her heart twists. Once Tulio's safe and sound, she's bringing him home too.

No. Matter. What.

Charon puffs up for an argument. He takes one look at her expression, sighs, and grumbles that he's too damn old for this. "...Which hell?"

"The hell with fire and brimstone. The hell that's frozen at its core." One with a weeping, gnashing Beast half-entombed within its ice.

"Ah." His eyelid twitches. "That one."

He holds out a hand. Chel plucks two pieces of gold from the Great Temple out of thin air. The ferryman pockets his toll without asking where she was keeping it and pushes his boat away from the safety of the shore.

She never looks back.

Notes:

You write one too many AUs of Tulio or Miguel accidentally upending the damn cosmic level of Xibalba, and eventually a version of Chel steps forward and goes "Hold my pulque."

At the beginning of the Inferno Dante is lost in a dark wood. He spots the "rightward path" but is driven away by three beasts; a leopard (sometimes thought to represent fraud or malice), a she-wolf (envy), and a lion (pride or violence). Jaguars are noticeably larger and stronger than leopards.... and the Jaguar God is happy to finally have someone to beat up :D

Dante ascribes the vestibule to those 'reviled by both God and His enemies' - those too guided by their own self-interests in life they never truly chose a path, for good or bad. They spend eternity chasing after an un-catchable banner. Chased by hornets and wasps.

That's, uh... one way of looking at the world, Dante.

The Acheron is a long river with an even longer history. In the earliest myths, the Acheron is a REAL river believed to flow down into the underworld. As the Ancient Greek knowledge of the world expanded, the Acheron remained a way down to the underworld, but also popped up in other places of the world. The 'original' Acheron in Greece still bears the name today. Of course, the ancient Hades and the Western Christian Hades are very different things. And, thanks to syncretism, Charon has even WEIRDER places to take souls nowadays :D

Chapter 33: paid in kind

Summary:

"You... You came for him?"

Her grip tightens on the spear. "Always."

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Thunder rattles Chel's teeth. It shakes her to the core of her soul. Dark, seething clouds hang heavy over the gloom.

Despite the brewing storm, the Acheron remains placid. Its ferryman only rolls his eyes.

"There they go again," he mutters.

Chel gags. A hot, fetid wind stinking of sulphur drowns out the sweetness of the river's waterlilies.

As the rumble of thunder subsides, another sound grows. Countless souls keen into the heavy air; weeping, gnashing their teeth, and shrieking out curses. Their number swells on the opposite shore.

Some try to struggle back the way they came. Jagged shadows dive down from above to relentlessly drive them onward with flaming blades. Their shepherds are Miguel's siblings; those too cruel for paradise, but not quite Fallen themselves.

A few desperate souls make a break for the river. They vanish into its depths with barely a ripple. None ever resurface.

Grumbling under his breath, Charon alters his course early, and steers them toward the trees on the other side.

"This is close enough to where you want to go." His scowls at his ever-growing line of waiting passengers. "And you're the first in a long, long time that wants to go there."

She studies his ancient, fathomless face. "Why do you want to take them there?"

"It's a living, ain't it? Not too many souls seeking the other Hades nowadays." Charon grumbles more under his breath about syncretism. "Can't believe I'm working for a family more dysfunctional than mine ever was, and half of it had Jupiter for a father..."

Chel nods along sympathetically and gives the ferryman freedom to vent. His complaints help drown out the distant damned. As they near their destination, its pine trees tower ever higher above them. Their fragrance cleanses the stink of brimstone. Charon's hands tighten on his oar.

When she finally disembarks, Charon barely gives her a nod farewell. He paddles back toward the sinners with more haste than he took to get here.

Chel marches into the forest. The sight of the Acheron is soon swallowed by the trees. Their branches obscure all else.

She continues on.

And on.

No more beasts spring out at her. No lost souls stumble by. It may just be her and the trees for all eternity.

...Except for the gardener.

Chel stops. The gardener continues her work, knelt over a fresh crater gouged into the forest floor. Her hands pour rich, fertile earth into the hole. Little green sprouts spring up under her touch, soon unfurling into vibrant saplings.

At last she looks up. The woman's face is veiled. Her eyes, deep and vast as the sea, fall upon Chel.

"You... You came for him?"

Her grip tightens on the spear. "Always."

"Then let me be your guide." The gardener stands, dirt falling from her hands. She towers above Chel, strong and steady as the trees themselves. "I shall take you as far I can."

"Thank you." Bowing her head, she falls in step beside her. "I'm Chel."

"I've been called by many names, and cursed by many more." Her eyes crinkle in a wan smile. "I suppose they would all mean nothing to you?"

"Not if one matters to you."

Her guide chuckles, then falls quiet. They walk in silence. Chel's attention falls on their surroundings. Through the trees she glimpses strange wild beasts that blink back at her before vanishing deeper into the wood. The branches creak and groan. Her neck prickles at whispers that can't be blamed on the wind alone.

Her guide stares up in fond, firm disapproval. Their eavesdroppers gasp and take flight. Chel's breath hitches at their wings.

She catches no more than a glimpse of them before her guide leads her onward. The trees gradually open up, the narrow path beneath their feet widening into a road. Then the forest gives way to meadows and tamed gardens. Laughing children chase each other around adults calmly going about their business and groups of scholars that might have been debating the same topic for decades. The warm, golden light of hearth fire glimmers from their homes; from cozy huts and skin tents to grand palaces.

"This is hell?"

"What else could one call the resting place of the unbaptized?" her guide retorts silkily. "How can any soul, no matter how innocent or virtuous, find paradise without first finding the Lord?" Their eyes pass over a multitude that spans countless peoples and centuries. "No matter how or how not their roots tangle together, isn't Limbo the dumping ground for all the souls no one likes to think about too hard?"

"I don't know." Chel bites back a smirk. "Is it?"

Their humor fades as they once more change direction. The gardens of restful souls give way to ashy soil and small, stunted trees. Chel's guide further shrouds herself in her cloak. She still glows despite the gloom.

From a rocky crag they gaze down into a narrow, winding valley of jagged stone. A line of haggard souls trudges through to their place of judgement. Demons circle above them like vultures, cracking whips to keep the damned on pace.

"This is as far as I can take you, Chel. They're His, too, no matter how they decree otherwise." Her somber gaze falls not upon the mortal souls, but their tormentors. "If they cannot have heaven, then they shall take out their wrath upon the damned, and bask in loathing instead of love."

Chel grips her spear even tighter.

Not her boys.

Not now.

Not ever.

Cra-ack.

She blinks down at the splinters remnants of the Jaguar God's gift. "Uh, oops."

Her guide extends a hand. A sapling sprouts, growing into a cedar pole with the original obsidian spear-tip at its end. "Here you go." She plucks the new spear like a flower from the earth, passing it into Chel's open palm. "Good as new."

With a grateful smile, Chel leaves her guide behind and descends into the forsaken valley. Most shades stumble unseeingly past her. A few sneer when they bump into her and shove her in front of them. Others blink at her in confusion before sinking back into despair.

Their watchers swoop down from on high. Souls flinch, but the demons don't assail them. Their attention is riveted to the stranger now in their midst.

None lash out at Chel. Why would they? She's doing their job for them, calmly striding through to skip ahead to their place of judgement.

The valley narrows into a choke-point. Above a jagged black gate looms a haughty, bearded judge with a serpent's tail. Sneering down at the souls brought before him, he condemns them without a word, and proclaims their sentence by how many times he coils his tail. Demons snatch each one away for their punishment.

When Chel comes before him, his eyes narrow in annoyance, then confusion. She smiles back as he tries to stare into the truth of her being.

And grins when his mouth falls open in horror.

His tail doesn't so much as twitch when she strides through his gate.

No one is dumb enough to stop her.

Notes:

Limbo and related concepts have always been an... uh, issue up to debate when it comes to how to address good heathen and/or unbaptized souls. Dante saw it as basically like the Fields of Asphodel and other neutral afterlives... a 'passive' sort of punishment, because any afterlife without God couldn't possibly be paradise in his eyes.

And given the very, VERY big gray area that opens up... the heretical little plot bunnies whispered "it's free real estate."

The lower circles of hell are for souls that actually did anything of being punished. Dante ascribes their judgement to Minos (yes, as in the whole Minotaur and Labyrinth Minos.)

A shitty character even by Ancient Greek standards, the historical Minos was still said to be a judge down in Hades, being the tiebreaker vote between two other judges and an unspoken jury between what fate a soul had. The whole 'snake' thing might not have wholly been a Dante invention- snakes had chthonic and aspects of rebirth in Ancient Greek myth, and one myth of Minos involves him trying to trick the secret of rebirth out of snakes.

So Chel could be dealing with an incarnation of the actual Minos here... or, given that demons aren't actually known for their honesty, some totally unrelated demon using the name to give himself some extra street cred.

Chapter 34: brave, intrepid (and then some)

Summary:

Chel goes to hell.

Chaos ensues.

Notes:

Warning for a character descending into literal hell, and brief descriptions of what happens within. I do not go any further than the walls of Dis.

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

Chapter Text

As Chel strides into the second circle, there is no more calm, no quiet place of rest. Here at last is a true hell.

She stands upon a black, jagged precipice. Shrieking winds whip at her hair and her dress. Tossed upon the gales are souls buffeted back and forth by the storm's tempestuous fury. They moan, cry, and curse their creator. Most drift alone. A few couples cling together despite the forces that try to rip them apart, huddling in each other's arms and their scant rags of clothing.

Staring into the tempest, some deep, innate part of her knows she gazes upon the lustful. Those ruled too strongly by physical desire in life and now forever lost to an endless wind.

The storm of souls is too thick to peer through. The winds hurl them up and over her head, never quite letting them reach the bottom or any rocks they could snag onto.

A thin, treacherous trail winds down the cliff-face. With a final glance at the souls, she commits this place to memory, and begins her descent.

Below the winds are black, heavy clouds. They unleash a cold heavy rain into the putrid mire below. Submerged in the filth are an endless mass of moaning, writhing bodies.

Chel gazes upon the gluttonous. Those who excessively drowned themselves in good things now wallow in all that disgusts.

The fetid downpour should soak her to the bone. Instead it rolls off her like water from a duck's back. The air around her is sweet and warm. Perhaps her spear, gifted by both the Jaguar God and her mysterious guide, lends her protection. Perhaps it is the incense burning on altars a world away.

There is nowhere safe to step without treading over someone. But she has seen Miguel thoughtlessly walk on water, and personally ran over half Lake Parime's surface.

So she does it again.

Chel glides over the filth gentle as a whisper. The souls beneath her sigh at their brief respite from the onslaught, then whimper at her passing. A few crack their eyes open against the freezing rain to gaze upon her in fevered disbelief. They sink back into their stupor just as quick.

She follows the sound of barking.

At first she thinks she hears three different dogs... and then sees they all share one massive, hairy body. The beast stomps his way through the mire, slashing and snapping at every soul in reach. His victims cry out and write deeper into the mud to escape him.

When one head spots her, the other two snap to attention. Six burning eyes bore into her. They growl in their throats, low and uncertain.

"Shoo," she orders in the same calm, stern tone her grandma once used on strays back home. "Go on, get."

Two of the heads fold their ears back. The third snaps at her.

And yelps when she swats his snout with the butt of her spear.

"Bad dog! Very bad dog."

The beast whines. He sinks to his belly in submission.... and squishes several plaintive souls beneath him. Oops.

From thin air Chel plucks three fresh, steaming tamales from the altar back home. The beast's ears prick up.

"Sit." The beast immediately obeys. His right head happily snaps up its treat. "Good boy. Now, stand." He springs back to his paws and is rewarded with a second tamale. "Good boy. Very good boy!" His tail wags. "Now, go home! And stay!"

She hurls the last tamale as far as she can. It winks out of sight. The beast bounds after it and back to whence he came.

Beyond the mire is another descent into a rocky abyss. A giant with rotted teeth leers down at her from atop the boulders. His yellowed eyes fixate on the gold in her ears.

"Pape Satan," he croaks. "Pape Satan aleppe."

What utter nonsense. And this is who Cortes followed all the way to her city's border? Because, no matter the heavenly army above his head or the zeal burning in his heart, his own men mostly march out of avarice for El Dorado, that pure city of gold.

When a swollen hand grasps at her, Chel stabs it with her spear. The demon lurches back with a pained howl, toppling off his perch.

She stalks past the chasm where his body fell. In some form or another, he'll come skulking back out eventually.

Past him are souls locked in an endless, futile dance. Each one rolls a boulder before them. Whenever they crash into another's burden, they wheel off in the opposition direction, hurling curses of "Why do you hold?" and "Why do you throw away?" Their struggle has worn deep circles into the stone.

Here are the avaricious and the prodigal, the hoarders and the spendthrifts, forever bound to the material things that they treasured in life. None look up at Chel. Not even all the gold under the moon can ever satisfy their greed.

Away from their labor the path drops into a dusky, stagnant marsh. Naked souls grapple in the mud; pummeling with their fists, clawing at eyes, and mangling with their teeth. She spots darker shapes brooding out in the deeper water. Their indolent sighs rise to the surface as bubbles. While the wrathful tear into each other like rabid beasts, the idle don't even have the energy to rise up from the muck.

Chel squints through the foul vapor. Just across the marsh she can glimpse towers in the distance. A blood-red beacon flashes from atop its wall, and another flashes sulfur-yellow in response.

Before she can cross on her own, a small boat rows out of the gloom. Its oarsman glares. He sharply motions her aboard.

The oarsman is content to carry her in silence. Chel obliges.

As they sail into deeper waters, her eyes narrow at the city on the horizon. Its towers burn with fire and its walls are dark, austere iron. From beyond comes the wailing of countless souls. Their boat steers into the steep moat surrounding the citadel.

"Some call this city Dis," the oarsman suddenly growls into the dead air. "Young, ignorant fools."

"And you're old enough to know better?"

"Old enough to know Tartarus and its true gods, and glad to be rid of them." He spits into the water. His eyes shift away from her. "And wise enough now to know not to despise any god or goddess before me."

When their boat at last grinds to a halt on the forsaken bank, Chel disembarks with only a curt nod of farewell. The oarsman rows off without returning the gesture.

The gates to the city are shut.

And guarded.

Above her a flock of demons hover like vultures. Their wings are bat-like, clawed and featherless. Some jeer down at her and others cry out in rage at her impudence. Their disdain joins into a harsh, dissonant choir.

"Who is this without death that dares cross through the kingdom of the dead?"

"Hi." She flashes her teeth. "Call me Chel."

Their chorus rises into curses and catcalls. Some bid her to turn back and others to join their ranks. No one is certainly about to let her through.

Fair enough.

Chel turns her focus inward, to the strange new part of her that knows how to walk on water and peer into the truth of souls. She remembers how it felt to fly with Miguel and Tulio; the wind through her hair, Manoa unfolding beneath her like a map, her stomach lurching with every swoop.

Six radiant wings unfurl from her back.

For a long moment, an army of a thousand demons take in every inch of her; from her newfound feathers to her cedar spear.

...And take off screaming.


"ROWF!"

Charon jolts at the booming, tri-toned bark. He almost drops his oar into the Acheron.

The ferryman plows his barge to a halt right in the middle of the river. He ignores the wailing souls on both sides to glower further down the riverbank.

Waiting for him is a massive, three-headed hound with a mane of writhing snakes. He's matted in mud and dried blood, tail wagging happily.

"Cerberus!" he calls. "Cerberus, stay!"

With another thunderous bark, Cerberus plops downs and waits for him, vibrating in excitement. Charon rows in his direction. He pays no mind to the indignant demons yelling at him to get back to work. None actually follow him. Outside the narrow path to the deeper rings of hell, they're more terrified of this cedar forest than he is.

"Cerberus," he scolds the closer he nears. "Have you been playing with the damned again?" The hound of Hades whines, ears falling back. "Bad dog! You don't know where they've been. Besides, you've still got plenty of your own back home."

Cerberus sneezes. Their section of the underworld has been admittedly quiet for the last millennium or so. Those souls left in Hades are the quiet, restful kind. They don't try to escape up to a world that has long grown strange to them. Nor do any distant descendants intrude anymore to try to rescue them or seek their guidance.

Charon can't blame a guard dog for getting restless and wandering off sometimes, no more than he blame those that abandoned their roots entirely to seek employment elsewhere. Hell has ample opportunity for all pagan spirits, for centaurs and harpies and all others with no more place in the world above. Many jump at the chance to still have purpose, to torment those those that have otherwise long forgotten them.

He can't even blame those that have claimed the identities of greater kinsmen for themselves. Hell is a place of liars and falsehoods of all kinds, after all. The true Charon and all the other great figures left in Hades won't step foot here to prove otherwise.

Before Charon can even finish landing, Cerberus leaps aboard. Black, icy water from the Acheron splashes into the barge.

In the current below, a soul surfaces, and breathlessly calls out for mercy.

Those they wronged in life do not yet give it. Without a ripple the soul is dragged back under. Cerberus cocks his heads at where they vanished.

"Ah, well," Charon says dispassionately. "There's always next year." He wearily rolls his eyes at the souls awaiting eternal damnation. "Which is more than what those poor bastards will ever get."

Too few remember that the rivers of the underworld purify as much as they can punish, or at least lead the sweet oblivion of the Lethe. Most souls these days prefer the evils that they know lie ahead of them in Hell than those deep, fathomless waters.

Some just can never let go of all that weighed them down in the first place. Phlegyas was released from Tartarus long ago, after all, for not even the shades of their gods can hold their wrath forever. He now prefers to dwell down here and further souls deeper into Hell's heart, to let his hatred for their gods fester centuries after it stopped mattering.

Whining in concern, Cerberus licks him. With all three of his tongues.

"Urgh!" Charon pushes him away. "Come on, you foolish mutt, let's get you home. Neither of us wants to be here once that Chel reaches the deeper rings."

As soon as he says it, an army of terrified demons fly up shrieking from their lair down in the city they call Dis, and scatter to the winds.

He sighs. Too late.

Turning his back to this hell, Charon stubbornly rows back upriver to the tranquility of Hades, and lets the chaos behind them unfold as it will.


In a cedar grove some would call between perdition and paradise, a few of the youngest scholars grow quiet as the mountain beneath them begins to shiver, and then to shake. The trees around them barely stir.

"Pay it no mind." One of their elders chuckles in assurance. "This isn't the first time the place beneath us is harrowed, and it won't be the last."

"That place is made as much of deceit as it is despair. The ignorant mistake those strange to them as familiar, and the true fools force themselves to see what they think should be, and not things as they truly are," muses another. "I wonder if this one is more clear-sighted than most. How many tombs will they find empty, and how many demons that claim demons that are not their own?"

A man calmly sips his coffee. "Well, I wonder who they're making so much fuss over in the first place."

"Certainly none of the tyrants in the river of boiling blood," snarks a philosopher.

"At least this one doesn't seem to be here for us," grumbles a patriarch. "That's always something."

One smiles beatifically. "God is a house with many rooms."

"Ah." A woman flashes her teeth. "But where does that leave all the other gods?"

Just as a familiar debata once more threatens to unfold, a few quick-thinking minds loudly ask about the true nature of man, and guide the circle back into safe territory; the fun sort of discussion that can include ridiculous anecdotes and chickens, and not the kind of unwinnable drama that can wind on for years on end.

Before they can really ramp up into a proper debate, an icy wind stirs from distant Cocytus, and carries with it the sound of shrieking demons.

"Is... Is that normal too?"

"...Well, yes and no."

The thunderheads above them growl with a threat of a storm. From on high stirs a sharp wind of rain and ozone. Under the gale echoes the distant notes of a mighty, avenging choir on high.

...One that falls into puzzled silence as quick as they started.

"T-That's new."

"Yes." Another grins. "Indeed it is."

Because the line between brilliance and madness has always been a thin one, the circle of sages stay right where they are, and wait in eager anticipation for what comes next.

More than a few start taking bets.

Notes:

Dante divides hell between two spheres, the 'passive sins' where people suffer most all from their sin (such as lust or wrath) and the 'active sins' where people inflict far more suffering on the world around them (such as through fraud or treachery.) His boundary line between the two is the city of Dis, and thus the natural line where I felt comfortable describing Chel's more casual journey.... and then the part where things get uh... especially unpleasant for every demon that meets Chel and her brand new, very shiny spear.

Dante conflates Pluto, god of the underworld, with Plutus the god of wealth. The gibberish he spouts is probably metaphorical too. Like many things in hell, nothing is as it first appears. And a LOT of demons down here like to claim names and deeds that are not theirs to claim ; )

...The second oarsman, though? That is indeed the real Phlegyas. He burned down Apollo's temple after Apollo killed his daughter... and then got punished in Tartarus for a very long time. And is still very wrathful toward his gods for it.

...The thing about Hades, and a lot of other pagan afterlives with places of punishment? Most do not last all eternity. And the Acheron that flows right through hell still remains a place of purification where souls can beseech those they wronged in life to finally get out of its waters. Year after year after year.

Chapter 35: family matters

Summary:

The prodigal sons return.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

From up on high, the Heavenly Host exalts their Lord eternal, and burn with zeal. Its warriors blare their glories on golden trumpets. They sing above all other symphonies; turning the choir into a battle hymn, a war cry. Their voices drone all the louder to compensate for the loss of their leader. If it's a war the Adversary wants, it's a war he'll get. So let them rise up up as one, and blot his evil note from creation fore-

A loud, bombastic note explodes from the shadowy void below. The Host falters. Their attention drifts from the Adversary.

And hones in on the new threat before them.

They roar WHO IS LIKE THE LORD?

A voice answers them back, bright and steadfast. THERE IS NONE LIKE THE LORD!

...What?

The Host falls silent. In the absence the stranger sings all the louder. His voice hits new peaks and valleys, but his melody rings true. It's still him. No matter what.

...Oh.

Oh.

With the first few tremulous notes of disbelief and wonder, the choirs soon regain their footing, and cry out their joy. They eagerly rush to close the aching gap between them and their leader. Their notes laud מִיכָאֵל and Μιχαήλ and ميخائيل.

He answers back with something quintessentially...

Miguel? wonder the Host, for no other sound in all creation quite describes him.

He grins and quips, "And they call me Who Is Like God!"

Some of his warriors, the veterans of the last War in Heaven, draw uncertainly back. Others press in to fill their gaps. They view his absence as another form of his military drills, a test of their faith. To prove themselves they bow before him, his dutiful soldiers for all eternity.

Miguel only helps them back to their feet. He squeezes their hands and embraces everyone within reach.

The Host's bewilderment only grows. Eyes narrow at the face he's chosen, the peculiar new lilt to his melodies that no longer quite matches his own. They scrutinize the right hand of the Lord for any sign of deception, of corruption, that he succumbed to the same venom that his partner once had.

But Miguel reaches fearlessly past their weapons to lift them up in the same fierce hugs. His love for them is as true as his name.

And the Heavenly Host crumbles. They cluster close to their most precious brother, and warble in tearful relief that they have not lost him too. Their choir already echoes too loudly with the absences of the Fallen.

Shush, he croons. Easy now. I'm here. I'm all right.

For the first time since the War in Heaven, Miguel fusses over their wings, and frets at how unkempt some let themselves grow in his absence. In return his siblings start to return his gestures. Some curiously tilt their heads at his golden goatee or the particular shades his own feathers have adopted. None question his new eccentricities. Or realize their significance.

Except perhaps those who once knew him best. His brother, the one whose truth sings Strength of God, stares at him in growing recognition.

Miguel clears his throat. "Some, uh, urgent business has come up and... and He should really find out first. Family matters, you know?"

His siblings blink at him, eyes growing wide.

...And drift uncertainly back, pressing in close together.

Miguel wishes he could reassure them. Their songs have no room for falsehood.

All he can do is smile weakly back and ascend ever higher.

The Throne awaits.


He rises with all the radiance of dawn.

And rises.

And rises.

This time he has no army of siblings at his back. He sings louder than all of them combined. No longer is his voice corrupted with pride and single-minded wrath. Instead he burns defiance and fierce, all-consuming love and you can't have them, not now and not ever. Every newfound faithful soul in Manoa's reverberates with him.

But he can't be theirs, no more than he be Chel or Miguel's. He is Venom, he is Blindness, the severed left hand of the Lord. He is the Serpent, the Adversary, the Beast in the pit. Anything and everything strong enough to keep Heaven's wrathful eye upon him.

His final Fall brings the connective cavern down with him. The way is sealed. Manoa and its people are safe. Chel can dwell in their hearts, forever and always. Miguel can return home free of taint. Once more the scapegoat claimed all responsibility for their misdeeds, and is content to be turned out of this world for all eternity.

He is the Morningstar, always the first to Fall.

(and the first to r-)

crack

crackcrackcrack

WHAM!

With a weak, whimpering moan, he wearily raises his head, and spits out dirt and splinters. His eyes water from the smoke of his impact. Beneath it the air smells fresh and fragrant; something strange, and something like hom-

No. Nonono. Not right! Not right not right not right!

He frantically scrabbles at the soil beneath him. Back. He needs to get back. Before he ruins this too. Before He realizes the prodigal son slipped his prison and turns His eye once more upon his partners. Back. To the frozen silence of Cocytus, to Hell's forsaken heart. Not here, in... in...

A light, tentative hand falls on his back. Again and again, he throws it off. No matter how many times he snarls and stubbornly claws at the soil between him and his rightful place, it refuses to let him go. Those soft, soothing words are gibberish against the pounding in his ears.

Until gentle arms wrap around him and lift him from his hole. He falls limp as a lion cub held by its mother.

Once more a hand reaches around his wings to rub his back in a familiar motion.

"Easy," soothes a rich, deep voice. "Easy now. You're safe."

For a heartbeat all is right with the world.

Except it isn't at all.

He flares out his wings. The stranger steps back to give him space. Now with a clear head he takes in their surroundings.

Cedar trees tower above them. Their branches weave a protective canopy from the heavens above them... except the charred patch his descent blew right through it. The slice of sky revealed is a gray, churning mass of storm clouds, without sun or stars to shine through. Despite their absence, the forest glows with the soft light of day. Maybe the radiance comes from the cedars.

Or maybe it shines from the stranger before him.

"This... This isn't hell."

"Isn't it?" Her eyes sparkle. "What else would you call a place that is not His heaven?"

He squints into the distance. A deep, intrinsic part of him knows this cedar forest is upon a mountain range. Some peaks rise up to nearly kiss the sky. His heart shudders at how deep its valleys plunge. He gulps down at the crater he left behind in the forest floor.

"I dunno." His eyes can't help but flicker back to her face, drinking in every detail. "What would you call it?"

Her lip quirks. "My part of the divorce agreement."

...What?

(oh.)

"Should... Should I know you?"

She stares straight into him; not just at his heart, but at all the tangled threads of story woven into his soul, the ones even he can only half-remember. At long last she sighs. "Perhaps not. You were always more His than mine."

His wings prickle. Her hands twitch to fuss over his feathers, rumpled and littered with pine needles, but she never intrudes back into his comfort zone. No matter the part of him that aches for her embrace. His eyes rove over her face, but tear up when he looks too long, so he focuses elsewhere. She has the hands of a gardener; brown and calloused, with dirt under her fingernails.

"'Attar."

"...W-What?"

"We might have first named you 'Attar," she offers neutrally. "Though perhaps now you might prefer Shalim, or Azizos?"

'Attar. Shalim. Azizos. Each one is a bright clear line into his deepest, murkiest past; those never condemned as demons or dreaded as persecutors, but invoked with honor. With love and veneration.

(He's not a monster. He's not.)

"Tulio," he blurts out. Whatever he might have been, he damn well knows who he is now. "My name is Tulio."

"Tulio," she breathes, cherishing every syllable. The forest seems to shine brighter with her proud, unconditional smile. "Indeed you are. And do they still call you Lightbringer?"

"Damn right they do!"

Speaking of which...

He takes a deep, steadying breath. "I don't belong here."

"And who told you that?"

"I Fell into Hell. I'm down there until the end of eternity." He smirks humorlessly down at the crater he left behind, the thin paper-thin barrier between this little piece and the rest of him. "Most of me never left. Not really. Far past time I got back there."

The gardener tilts her head. "Who says we aren't down there right now, even in its most gentle part?"

He cracks a laugh. "Lady, I know Hell, and this ain't no Hell." Not by any sane definition of the word.

"Then you're exactly where you're supposed to be."

"No, I'm not."

"Why?"

"I-I-I... I am who I am!"

Her body quakes. Tulio steps toward her in alarm before a giggle slips out of her. She clutches her sides to hold in her outburst. He can only gape in utter bewilderment until her mirth finally dies down. "Oh, you're definitely His all right." She wipes at tears not from laughter alone. "Stubborn as He ever was."

"Y-You..." Tulio stammers incoherently before he finally catches on to her little plan. He clams up, unfurling his wings to their full, formidable span. "No! No more distractions."

"Then don't let me keep you." Her expression smooths into the impenetrable calm of her cedar trees. "Since you know exactly where you're supposed to be."

"I do know."

"And you know where to find me."

"Yeah. Likewise." He still can't rip his eyes away from her. "Goodbye, m... Goodbye, my lady."

She smiles sadly back. "Goodbye, Tulio."

With a final thrust of his wings, down he dives, for the deepest chasm in all creation. A prison of his own making.

And down...

...down...

...down...

Notes:

What happens when a bunch of closely related Afro-Asiatic peoples continuously mix and bounce back against the other in language, traditions, and polytheistic religions? And then one of those groups develops a monotheistic religion that will further inspire even MORE syncretisim, cultural spread, and development across three different continents.

...A lot of "well yes, but actually no." And scholars driving themselves nuts :D

The Devil's been syncretized with neutral pagan figures to outright benevolent deities from other traditions. Given his titles of 'Lightbringer' and 'Morningstar' dating back to antiquity when pagan faiths were still actively practiced and shared between cultures, he most definitely has actual Semitic stellar deities somewhere in that mix. Given 'Attar's widespread and diverse roles (and even gender) from the Levant to South Arabia, he's probably the oldest of the Venusian deities, especially as he's linked to BOTH the morning and the evening star. Other Semitic traditions give dual deities for the morning and evening star. Azizos is the Palmryan god of the morning star, for example, while his twin Arsu was the evening star.

The Ugaritic tradition gives us Shalim and Shahar, the dusk and the dawn. Their father was the sky god El. Their mother was a certain lady that... uh... probably isn't important anymore :) And certainly doesn't try to spread her roots toward anything related to a certain incarnation of her ex that gets within kid.n.. uh, adoption range :)

(Because 2 years ago my brain whispered "it's free real estate" and dropped in a ton of foreshadowing and deeply internalized trauma into our idiots that probably everyone forgot because it's buried in like the 10 straight chapters of angst my brain spit out before it got back to the plot.)

Chapter 36: rightful place

Summary:

You don't wanna stay here forever, do you?

Chapter Text

Below the fire and brimstone of the upper rings are the frozen depths of Cocytus. No demon dares to tread into the realm (the prison) of their king. There are no screams here, no jeers or cursing. Beneath the shrieking, ruthless winds echo only soft weeping and chattering teeth.

Those at the edges of the lake are frozen only up to their shoulders. Some use their freedom of motion to turn away from the worst of the wind. Others head butt and gnaw on their neighbors like rabid beasts.

The deeper into Cocytus, the deeper their imprisonment. Ice creeps past their necks, toward their chins and hair. Some have had their tears frozen like visors to their eyes, and are denied even the comfort of crying.

Deepest are those entirely entombed under the ice. Their eyes are forever frozen skyward or glaring at those around them.

Their prison is clear as glass, and unfathomably thick. Even if a mountain fell from the world above, nothing can ever shatter its surface.

In the heart of hell, in the navel of the world, is the Beast himself. He dwarfs giants, even the mountains themselves, and so the ice seals him only up to his waist. His six massive, leathery wings struggle in vain. He is the source of all the buffeting winds that only freeze Cocytus all the colder. Sometimes he claws in vain against the ice, and others at the souls screaming in all three of his mouths. He gnashes them mindlessly. Blood and spume gush down his faces to mingle with his tears below, and make the ice creep a little higher.

Until...

Until...

Until all six of those wings abruptly stop beating, and the gales die. Souls able to do blink up at the eerie silence. Even the three traitors wailing in the Beast's maws stop screaming as his teeth stop chewing. For a heartbeat all of Cocytus pauses in confusion.

Then the Beast's faces skew up in disgust. He spits out the nasty, squirming souls in his mouth. All three go flying through the air, then skidding across the distant ice.

The Beast's clawed hands reach up to massage the throbbing temples of his central head. His... his only head. The splitting headache intensifies, but the nausea dies down. Honing into one place actually allows him... to... think.

One hand swipes at the lingering gore on his lips. The other wipes away his tears.

For the first time in eons, bewildered blue eyes open, and take in their surroundings with perfect clarity.

Huh. This is new.

So is the earring. He grasps at the imitation jade studded in his left lobe. Beneath his numb, raw fingers it blazes bright enough to burn.

And pulses in time to the tremors reverberating down through the upper spheres. He squints up at the distant armies of demons scattering to the four corners of creation. They flee from the bright, ineffable force that dismantles all before her. And disembowels anything and everything that gets in her way.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, yes, murmur the dissonant voices of the people he left behind forever, those that stubbornly embraced him as their own no matter how hard he tried to save them from his fate.

No. Nonono.

Desperately sinking his claws into the ice, he strains with all his might to warn her away. This is his place, his punishment. He gave himself up so she and Miguel would be safe until the end of time. How can she throw it all away for something like him?

But the warnings won't come. His throat is worn raw from the eons. Nothing rasps out of him.

She blazes down the darkness like a comet. The guardian giants of his pit scatter like rats before her brilliance, beautiful and terrible as the dawn. His eyes water.

She lands at the very edge of Cocytus. Even from so far away she can see the whole of him; his true horror laid bare. He doesn't flinch back from exposure. Beyond shame now, beyond whatever she must think of him, he desperately waves her way. Back to her rightful place. Back to where she's safe.

Y-You... You idiot. You brave, beautiful idiot. You don't wanna stay here forever, do you?

I... I can't...

Chel only holds out her hand and calls out his name.

His true name, more near and dear than his own Father bestowed.

And Tulio... Tulio laughs. Laughs as much he sobs. His love, hot and heavy, flows from him in a torrent.

Cocytus melts into a lake of warm, salty tears. He freely unfurls all six of his wings. Feathers every radiant shade of dawn bloom across them. He blazes brighter than the dawn, brighter than the sun, so that all of hell skews their eyes against his light. With all the force behind him, he might outshine even the Host, and at last bring their heaven falling down around their ears.

But Tulio does not trumpet glory and vengeance. His song tumbles out of him, giddy and buoyant and so very, very done with it all.

FUCK YOU, DAD!

He reaches for Chel's hand. And takes it with every last of himself, with all he was and is and will ever be.

As one, they take flight.

The gaping hole he leaves behind him shudders...

And i m p l o d e s.


The Lightbringer's impossible flight ripples out Cocytus' thawed waters. Countless spluttering souls are washed up onto its numerous banks. Others still stranded in its waters use their newfound mobility to grapple with their most bitter foes and sink back into its depths, which will inevitably freeze again. Many more still float up on the surface. They laugh or weep hysterically, then gather their breath, and start swimming for its nearest shores.

The souls that stumble from its waters find no one to force them under. Guardian giants have fled their posts in blind, primal terror with broken chains and toppled turrets. Those still left kneel down with open palms for souls to climb upon for easier passage up the chasm.

Ascending into the eighth circle, they find the evil ditches of Malebolge much emptied. Here many falsifiers have regained their own truths, snapping their reversed heads to once more see ahead of them, and wipe themselves free of filth and burning pitch. Thieves that once stole each other's forms now help others climb up from their pit. They too join the throngs slowly drifting upward.

Many of the violent damned in the seventh circle pay them no mind. They mindlessly grapple with their foes. Even without their jailers, tyrants drag each other back into their boiling river of blood as they fight to free themselves.

...But there is a forest there empty of its trees, now and forever. Once every soul stumbled out, the goddess in their wake scorched the ground so thoroughly no one else will ever be trapped there.

Except for the usurers helped from their burning tombs, the sixth circle is oddly empty. Most of those purported to be among their number were never here at all. Their truths led them elsewhere.

Dis is empty of its Fallen. Grumbling under his breath, Phlegyas ferries souls across the Styx, again and again. There's far fewer wrathful damned than usual to shove out of the way. Sullen souls long submerged under its waters blink up in confusion at the crowd going in the wrong direction and walk out of the river to join them, just to see what all the fuss is about.

Stirred from their furor, some greedy souls in the fourth ring realize they've been fighting over boulders, and turn their eyes upward. Those left behind crow that there's more of them. And go back to fighting the others for their new gains.

The warm, sweet winds from the Lightbringer's wake have away blown the fetid rains of the third ring, and dried its muck. Shaking off dirt and spitting filth from their mouths, the gluttonous are pulled from their mire.

So too have the tempests died in the second circle. Long-lost lovers stumble to embrace each other, and weep their relief.

The mountains that some call Limbo shine bright as the morning, bright as a beacon. For the first time in centuries, the messengers perched in its cedar branches shrug off their silence, and raise their voices into the new light. Peace, they vow, alongside choruses of shelter and rest. They can promise nothing more, but it's more than what their siblings down below could ever offer.


At the edges of the chaos, demons stop to gather together. With baited breath, they wait for their king to summon them to his side, and at last lead them into the war that will end all wars.

The Devil's silence draws on.

And on.

Demons slowly break into dark, dissonant curses of wrath and pride and envy. How DARE he leave them behind! How DARE he turn their prison upside down and let so many of their souls escape with impunity! What else are they supposed torment?

And how DARE he to deny them their final chance at vengeance, to once more raise up against their siblings and make them suffer as they have.

One demon, king of a legion denied its glories, shrieks his spite skyward. A brother joins him, and then another, until all of hell shrieks for their Lord to put everything back in its rightful place.

Far overhead, storm clouds roil.

Chapter 37: only this is true

Summary:

"That's... That's it?"

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

On six radiant wings, Miguel ascends through seven heavens and the celestial spheres. He transcends into the Empyrean, a realm beyond the physical. Here is the place of fire and aether, where dwell the highest of the high.

Choirs of cherubim and seraphim surround the celestial Throne. Every note they exalt shakes the foundation of the Empyrean to echo into the worlds below.

HOLY, HOLY, HOLY IS THE LORD OF HOSTS.

Who is like the Lord? Miguel murmurs back. There is none like the Lord.

That much will always be true. But no longer can he declare it triumphantly, a resounding battle cry to trumpet down through the ranks of his warriors.

And that is not the end of his song. Not anymore. For all he wants to freeze or crumble into gibbering fear, the next notes spill out of him anyway. At first they come so quietly the highest choirs lower their hymns to hear him. He'll always sing the truth, after all. This one is just more... personal.

For the first time in eons, Miguel sings of his beginning; the unfolding wonders of creation, those blissful days in the garden when he and Samael had not yet known their true roles in this grand design. So too must he sing the sharp surprise of the forbidden fruit, their true natures falling upon their shoulders with the weight of the world.

At first he and Samael had spun their stark contrast into a duet; healer and persecutor, avenger and accuser, the right hand and the left. Over time, that divide had only yawned further between them. Miguel sings ever louder to compensate for his partner's growing silence,  jumped to cover the pauses Samael hesitated to fill. His insistence that everything was as it always was had blinded him to the hurt festering in Samael's soul.

Too late can Miguel sing his regret; the warning signs never noticed, the questions never asked. Not until their harmony had warped with terror and where are you?

And shattered forever with shockagonyWHYWHYWH-

It's an ugly, forsaken sound, one last uttered during the War in Heaven when an Adversary had sunk his claws into of his own partner, and they had cried out as one.

Now he wails it again. Where Samael's darkness had dragged him down into hell's icy heart, something inside Miguel had been light enough for their Father to heal his broken wings, and let him rise up back into His graces. But not even all His power could heal Miguel's broken heart, or the gaping absence his partner had left behind. Of course the scars of that day had forever festered, when he could not even allow his own Creator to cleanse them all. The choirs echo his weeping.

Just as they do his zeal and unwavering might. Miguel had nearly Fallen twice before, after all; first when he had nearly let Samael drag him down too, and again when he had dared question their Creator. If he was to remain the Lord's right hand, he had to remain the strongest of all the siblings, and let their Host when the final judgement finally came.

But Samael's song was still woven into his own, forever and always. Their duet had descended into a vicious cycle of spite and smite to hide all that simmered beneath the surface. They could have been locked in their self-destructive dance until the end of time.

If only his partner, the eternal rebel, hadn't found a way to defy even damnation.

("Don't call me that!")

("C-Call me Tulio.")

("Miguel.")

Miguel's song drops into despair the choirs cannot match. How can they? They were never stranded in a boat beyond their Creator's reach with a pagan horse and their eternal Adversary. His notes of confusion and irritation and fear are alien to them. Alien as the WRATH that had nearly killed them both outside Manoa's gates.

Until Chel had slammed head-first into them.

The duet between demon and archangel grinds to a halt. And gains new, tremulous notes.

At first, her parts are muted by get in to get out and better you than me. But, even from the very beginning, she had rang with patience and humor and resilience that could upend the earth itself. Miguel exalts her quick wit and grace. He serenades the first time he caught her admiring eye, her warmth pressed against his own, the sweetness of their first kiss.

The clouds shrouding the Throne churn into a dark, swelling storm. The wings of its heavenly attendants flash like lightning.

THOU SHALT-

"Tulio grew out a beard, you know," Miguel butts in. He grins. "It suits him."

With the choirs shocked into silence, Miguel shamelessly exalts Tulio too; from his silly little beard to his clever fingers.

...what?

As the silence draws on, Miguel's anthem finally splutters out. He braces for the thunderbolt.

No such blow ever comes.

Miguel blinks up. Seraphim and cherubim have cloaked their bewildered expressions with their wings. The storm clouds remain a cryptic, churning screen.

Because for all Miguel's truth reverberated with sheer, unapologetic passion, so too has he declared joy and contentment and LOVE. Love for Chief Tanni, Miya, and all six of their boisterous little boys. Love for Manoa's markets and kingbirds and bone-sticks. Love for every soul he's met and helped and healed.

He can't help but cherish Chel in the same way already, for he's always been one to give his heart away swiftly and wholeheartedly. In a quivering tone, he admits there's potential for a lot more there, the kind of thing he'll wonder about until judgement day. But nothing he'll never, ever regret.

And love of his partner. That first love with Samael, pure until War and betrayal had ignited his fiery, all-consuming hatred for Satan. Beneath those fires had always festered the same aching love. Because, no matter what they had become and what they had done to each other, deep down Miguel had always clung to what they'd been.

And... he'd finally learn to let go, as something new and delicate and unbreakable for Tulio had blossomed from its ashes.

The silence draws on.

Since there's nothing left to lose, Miguel sings his final truths. He'll love his family, always. He could never bear to raise a hand against them as so many of their siblings had done in their darkest moments but he's... he's so tired and spread thin... and... and... wise. Wise as only those who have been down in the dirt can be, those who've tasted mortal fear and mortal loss.

And mortal want. Because, oh, he wants. His people, his newfound purpose, his partners.

An eternity passes.

Seraphim and cherubim draw back like an unfurling rose.

The clouds part.

Oh.

OH.

Miguel's eyes water. He'd... He'd almost forgotten...

A truth is told to him in turn, straight from its source. He listens especially to the parts about love; the fierce, instinctive urge that strikes out immediately to protect those it cherishes and punish all those that hurt them. Love that forgives and regrets and never, ever forgets. The love that is able to... to let go. Hatred that burns just as bright, for it is fed by the same fuel. They are shadows of the other.

Even in the Empyrean, Miguel can't hold all the intricacies of this conversation in his mind for long. The further he descends, the more the notes of this song will blur. No longer is he the infinite light or the flickering intricacies of flame.

He has been indeed down in the dirt too long. He's planted roots in its earth, to one place in particular. He can never return to what he once was. Not even if he wanted to.

But nor can he Fall. Not without envy of humanity or his siblings to drag him down into such darkness. The only way to go is...

"F-Forward?" Miguel breathes.

Thunder grumbles.

Miguel can't help but chuckle. Cryptic as ever. "Anywhere but here? Or, um, down there?"

Another low, grouchy rumble. Omniscience can have so many wilful blind spots, after all.

Especially when it comes to the children that cause enough headaches to the custody arrangement.

Miguel sobs a laugh. So that's where they all went. No wonder he alone had remained at their Creator's side. It's not like the dutiful archangel would have ever thought to search the hazy borders of not-quite-hell for them.

(Or maybe, just maybe, their Father could bear not lose His right hand so soon after losing His left.)

His Father speaks again. Cherubim and seraphim croon the sentiment.

"Y-Yeah," Miguel chokes out, too choked up for song. "I'll... I'll miss you too. All of you."

His tears are dried. A rain-sweet wind sends him on his way, down through the firmament.

With a jubilant whoop, he dives for home brighter than the morning star.

Far above, the Empyrean choirs fall back into formation, and resume their usual exaltation as if nothing was amiss. Their lower orders join them, loud and serene as ever, and turn their backs once more to the ephemeral matters on earth. Mortal minds can scarcely grasp their majesty as it is. Who will ever miss one angel absent from their ranks?


Demons eagerly await vengeance from on high. They watch the roiling clouds for a thunderbolt, a fiery archangel, all the forces of the Heavenly Host. Whatever it takes to put their king back where he belongs, and restore hell's order.

They wait.

And wait.

No heavenly choirs trumpet. No wrathful fire rains down upon them.

No Beast is sent plummeting back into his pit.

That's... That's it?

The infernal legions raise their voices all the louder. They shriek curses and taunts up at their Creator. They raise up their weapons and the foulest gestures ever invented.

After a single distant, weary grumble of thunder, the storm dissipates. Hell's starless skies settle into back into their usual gloom.

Demons blink at each other.

Slowly, the eyes of the archdemons narrow in speculation. The Devil himself has gone missing, and their Lord doesn't seem to care. His throne and his title are suddenly up for grabs. Their legions turn their dark, covetous gazes upon each other.

Everyone else in the family sighs and leaves them to it.


Since landing in this God forsaken land, the men chosen as carefully as the disciples have Christ have been plagued by pestilence, treacherous ground, and man-eating beasts. Their minds had been plagued by dreams they had first taken for divine visions. Even the pious of those men are second guessing those earlier glories. Had they been caught up in their own zeal, or in delusions of grandeur?

Mist hangs heavy in the jungle. Through the gloomy trees, no one glimpse any miraculous light that may or may not have outshone the dawn. Any that would have glimpsed such radiance would have dismissed it as an ill omen.

Especially after the earthquake.

Despite the very earth heaving beneath his feet, despite the constant siege of wild beasts, Cortes has never faltered in his quest. He has guided his men past pagan idols and into the heart of a narrow valley as if guided by God himself. Now, with the end surely in sight, they grow eager at the prospect of their reward.

No El Dorado awaits them, not even a humble village. The stone slab of four heathen gods stands alone and abandoned in the middle of a dead-end.

Their route ends in a narrow valley. Cortes and his men gaze upon massive stone slab engraved two pagan demons atop a monstrous serpent and a heathen woman offering them tribute. A waterfall pours into the river they've been following for days. Rocks and tangled trees rise out of the mist.

"That's... That's it?"

"Where's the gold?"

"D-Do you suppose someone got here before us and-"

"And what? Taken all the really big rocks?"

Cortes surveys the difficult terrain before them, a site unsuitable for founding a settlement. His gaze fixates on a pass out of this hell.

"There is no El Dorado here," he declares, voice laden with the promise it could very well still be ahead. "Onward, men."

He stubbornly spurs his horse toward their new destination.

And misses the dark, mutinous looks his men exchange behind his back.

A more cunning commander might have thought burn his ships to ensure his men only had one way forward.

...But this conquistador was never that Cortes.

Notes:

Why, yes, the demons of hell went tattling to Daddy that the Devil escaped his timeout... and found even the Infinite can run out of fucks to give :D Oh, well. More hell for them ; )

And given that the movie never bothered to give Cortes a first name, who ever said he was THAT Cortes? :D

Chapter 38: road uncharted

Summary:

Every end is a beginning.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Miguel falls into the waiting arms of his partners. They collapse in a graceless, jubilant heap. Earthly words fail him. Between breathless laughter he warbles notes out of I'm here and you're safe and we're home HOME H-

Chel punches his shoulder. "Don't you ever do that to me again!" Then she squeezes him in a hug, smearing tears and mucus into his chest. "You great, big, self-sacrificing f-"

His lips capture hers in a kiss. Tulio steals the next one. Their huddle draws even closer together. They exalt each other in kisses until their giddy laughter breaks down into wet, incredulous sobs.

Once they've dried the last of each other's tears, they attempt to extricate themselves from their pile. There's a lot of limbs to trip over.

Miguel and Tulio boggle at Chel. All of Chel. Her six radiant wings gleam rose and gold and molten white.

"Uh," Tulio blurts out. "Those are new."

She proudly ruffles her feathers. "So are those."

Miguel drinks in Tulio's wings. He's sprouted his third and final pair; deep reds and violets that darken into wingtips the same deep blue of his eyes. Miguel blinks at his own. His own tertiary wings have instead unfurled as pale cream, white, and the bright cerulean of the daylight sky. Their plumage is the mirrored image of each other's; Miguel the dawn to Tulio's dusk.

He beams. "Well, I like them."

Tulio studies his own wings long and hard. At the sight of silver stars flecking his bottom-most feathers, his lip finally quirks up. "Yeah. They suit us, don't they?"

"Gold suits everyone," Chel muses. Their middle wings all match; the same lustrous shades of gold, the ineffable connection to this place and this people that Miguel had still denounced even when his own soul proclaimed otherwise. She grins. "But we really pull it off."

Where Miguel would have once castigated such vanity, he now puffs up too. He'd never had a sense of self to take pride in before. "We sure do!"

Tulio's cheer is fast to fade. He glances warily eastward, to the smoke yet to vanish over the distant mountains. Just because he personally closed the most direct route to the outside world cannot stop his fear that this too will be taken from him. "So, uh... w-what happens now?"

"H-He's, um, staying out of this one," Miguel murmurs. "Dad, I mean."

Tulio pales. "H-How..."

Already the memories of the Empyrean have faded into a warm, fuzzy dream. He shrugs. "I just... talked to Him."

A storm of emotions roil across Tulio's face. Miguel recognizes that distant look in his eyes now, that his partner is once more lost among all that went wrong and all that could have been. Before his partners can tug him out of his own head, he snorts a laugh. "Well, my side of the family won't be bothering us any time soon. Not after what Chel did to them."

"I didn't even touch most of them." Her eyes sparkle. "All I did was turn their world upside down a little."

"And dismantle Hell at its foundations?" Tulio teases.

"I'm not the one who imploded it."

"But you helped me out of there." 

"I just helped you see what was right in front of you."

"Yeah, a woman bold enough to march into Hell into itself, and apotheosize herself along the way."

"Look who's talking, you brave, beautiful idiot."

"Y-You f-"

With an impish laugh, Miguel slings his arms around them both, and butts into their bickering. "Well, it's not the first time Hell got harrowed, and it certainly won't be the last." His eyes narrow at the fading smoke on the horizon. "Unfortunately, Cortes won't be the last to try harrowing us. Mortals never needed our direct involvement to try impossible things for God or gold or glory."

"Or all three at once," Tulio grumbles.

"They'll never reach this place," Chel states in an ineffable voice. "Not now, and not ever."

"They'd have to get through us first." Miguel blinks at the volcano's peak, then smiles sheepishly up at the sun soaring high above them. "And, um, all the other deities that take a proactive role around here." Like whatever higher power had conspired to lead them here in the first place. And had convinced the Volcano Goddess to not erupt on that disastrous first night when he and Tulio had been far from their best.

Tulio grins. "Siwabal Koyopa's got us covered on that one."

"The Jaguar God?"

"More tolerable than I'd thought he'd be." Chel drops to a pensive mutter. "Might not need to topple Tzekel-Kan and raze his temple after all."

Miguel winces at the memories of his own misadventures through Xibalba. He tries and fails to recall the full family tree Chel had briefly gone over back in their lesson on Manoan cosmology. "Is-Is he one of the ones we're related to now?"

Tulio hums. "I don't know. He and Kinich seemed like they still don't see to eye to eye."

Chel gives them a look. "Do... Do I want to know?"

"We, um, may have gotten ourselves adopted."

"...What?"

"Lady Kama offered, but I told her no," Miguel explains hastily. "Though I don't think she quite took my refusal to heart."

"I think her husbands claimed us anyway," Tulio mutters.

Chel gawks. Then she smiles ruefully down at their wings. "I can see why."

Tulio clears his throat. "Uh, speaking of moms..."

"Moms," Chel echoes. Her eyes widen, then water with tears. "Oh. Oh, gods. My mom. My dad. Xaya. M-My..." She chokes off in a joyous, disbelieving sob. Her wings snap open as she wildly looks around for the path back down to the spirit world.

They try to gently show her the way and step back, to give her the family reunion that's long overdue, until her hands twine around their own. Miguel and Tulio willingly descend her into Xibalba to not only meet all her loved ones, but gaze upon all the merry hell they'd unwittingly wrecked on another cosmic institution.

There's still so much left unsaid. Miguel and Tulio need to discover themselves and rediscover the parts of their old lives worth carrying into the new. They need to learn so much from Chel, what she wants of their partnership and their strange new life together. Miguel already treasures her, just as he does Miya and Chief Tanni and their precocious little boys. Like he does all of Manoa. He knows he won't need long at all to love her in a whole new way, if she wants him too.

Just like Tulio deserves to know Miguel had always loved him back, no matter the many bitter centuries between them and their last period of oneness.

But now they have the rest of their long, long lives to face all that. Maybe even all eternity.

Today there's only room for joy.

And reunions.

Lots and lots of reunions.

...And awkward introductions with the new divine relatives that brightly tell them how glad Lady Raima didn't blow her top and kill them all when she'd had the chance.


In the near future, the deities of Manoa gather to celebrate the beginning of a new age and formally welcome both the new incarnations of the Dual Gods and the radiant goddess that accompanied them. Their festivities are mirrored in the mortals down below.

Lady Paquini, as always, is the heart and soul of the party. Her wine pitcher is bottomless as her conversations. She ensures stone-faced Raima's cup never runs empty. With cheer and humor, she breaks down all barriers between her guests. Even the proudest Lord of Xibalba can't resist her charms. Once pleasantly inebriated, they manage to assure the Great Gods there's no hard feelings over them turning all the underworld upside down. Or accidentally liberating every last one of their souls. They'd been bored of them anyway.

Clustered around the Vine Goddess are some of her distant relations. Despite some initial trepidation, they start mingling with some of the more minor and domestic spirits like they've always belonged here. Some Lords of Xibalba are too afraid to even look them in the eye, most especially the old woman still pointedly clutching her cane. No one dares question of they belong here or not. If people say Chel's a goddess now, then her family can do whatever they damn well please.

Siwabal Koyopa prowls the edges of the party, aloof until the moment his mother calls him over. Eupana tells him how glad he's finally gotten over his latest phase, and how much they've all missed him at the family gatherings. He meekly vows to come over for dinner at her place next week. When Eupana warmly embraces Miguel and Tulio as yet more great-grandchildren, they and Siwabal Koyopa can't quite look each other in the eyes. Grandmother Turtle is matriarch to the whole pantheon.

Her husband, the God of Xibalba himself, watches the scene unfold with fathomless black eyes. He's inevitably drawn into the same awkward family small talk. Eupana always prefers her family to get along. Or at least pretend every once in a while.

Such a momentous occasion requires the presence of both the Sun God and the Moon Goddess. Kinich and Munah make themselves the shining center of attention, while Kama contentedly blends into the background. Until Chel asks after her children, and unleashes a torrent of maternal pride from her. She has dozens to gush over.

After some shyness, she starts up a conversation with Miguel and Tulio. For all they try their damnedest to intrude on any boundaries, they still slowly open up to each other. Kama doesn't spirit any one else away that day. And Munah only needs to physically restrain her from fussing over the Dual Gods' feathers twice.

Bibi the Trickster God brags over his winnings to any and every deity in earshot. He embraces Chel like a long-lost daughter, then cheerfully tells her partners how glad he was he took a chance on them. Upon realizing the identity of the armadillo that had shadowed their every move in the jungle, Miguel and Tulio plaster on smiles and try not to spontaneously combust from embarrassment from all old their... bumps in the road.

For a time a tall, broad-shouldered god with a long mane of hair basks in the awkwardness from the sidelines. He's never been much for words, but he's still tactful enough to engage in brief introductions with his latest relatives, and nod along to their conversations. Altivo's lost track of all the pantheons he's belonged to, but he knows this is the one that will last him until the end of time. He doesn't have the patience for another generation of idiots to worm his way into his heart.

As the hours wear on and the noise starts grating his ears, Altivo starts his edging out of the crowd.

Ahau finds him first. Even in the form of a man, he moves with a serpent's grace, and doesn't bother with words. Leaning conspiratorially against Altivo's side, he flicks a pointed tongue against his ear.

The Wind Gods gleefully breeze away into the night.

Every other deity tries not to think too hard about what get up to in their spare time.


Even as the great lake of Cocytus once more begins to freeze over, all not is as it once was.

The Beast no longer fills the navel in the world. In his place stands a mighty mountain, so vast it soars out from the deepest depths of Hell to pierce the clouds above. Its peak blazes like a beacon. If one imprisoned down below cranes their head just right, they can glimpse beyond the roof to the star-studded skies above.

Those not content with verdant gardens or cedar forests can journey across perdition to ascend its terraces. The path is long and perilous, but never impossible.

The souls that will make it to that mountain's slopes will never find themselves alone. A guide is always there to greet them, to cleanse them from the filth of their travels and rejuvenate them for the toll-stations ahead. She's always played coy with her true identity. Some call her Matelda and others Wisdom. What matters is that she's always there, and never turns away those brave enough to face her.

Demons have no such courage for her slopes. They avoid it like the cedar forests ringing the prison of their own making.

At the opposite edge of this realm, scholars and philosophers squint out to that hopeful light shining from Hell's darkest heart. Gamblers collect the last of their winnings, slap each other on the back, and promise to do this again sometime. Some depart this cosmic neutral zone and begin the climbs up to their respective paradises. Others have never left it.

A gardener watches their gathering break up with a fond smile, then gets back to the task of tending her cedars.

"You can all come out now," she says casually. "I think we're at the end of it."

Her eavesdropping offspring flutter out of the branches to gape down at where their brother had fallen. Their feathers ruffle in chagrin.

"Where's... Where's the Lightbringer?" one murmurs.

"Tulio," another hisses. "His name is Tulio now."

The first shrugs fearlessly back. "He still calls himself Lightbringer, doesn't he?"

"Happy," their mother answers. "And loved. Same as the rest of you. He and his partner have finally found each other." She smiles ruefully down at his impact spot, the smoking crater filled in with fresh dark soil. New plant growth has almost already healed the rift. "Neither could ever cause this much chaos alone."

"Michael!?" one of their eldest brothers blurts out. "The Michael? He's the biggest Daddy's boy in-"

"Yam!" a sister hisses.

"He is, isn't he?" Yam blinks. "Or was, I guess."

His sister's eyes widen hopefully. "Does... Does he know about us yet?"

"I'm afraid I didn't have the time to explain the custody arrangement to Tulio." Their mother heaves a long-suffering sigh. "You know how some of you get; so caught up in what you were, you can't see what you can be, or what you've already become."

"Ah," Yam mutters. "One of those."

"Fortunately, they've met someone," their mother says casually. "A rather formidable young lady named Chel."

Ever hungry for gossip, her children lean eagerly in for details. She laughs and tells them what she can.

She knows her sons. They're as much part of her as they ever were His. They'll find her and their siblings when they're ready... or when Chel goads them into the adventure.

Asherah can't wait to tell them how proud she is.


Elsewhere, a few shaken out of soul-sleep by the Devil's departure grumpily close their eyes, and grumble to wake up them up for the final judgement when the world's really going to end.

Notes:

All that's left is the epilogue ; )

Chapter 39: someday (we would live again)

Summary:

An epilogue.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

For all a secret corner of creation had been shaken to its very core, the rest of the world keeps spinning as usual.

...More or less.

Those that seek heavenly guidance still have archangels that appear before them. Their sublime songs resonate on levels too great for mortal minds to process entirely, so they interpret them as best they can. Many of their notes still ring with the question of who is like the Lord? They're brothers after all, and they carry him in their hearts forever and always, just like they're cherished in his. His old burdens are easily split amongst them and their lower orders.

Mortal minds always tend to believe they've been visited by Michael himself. His six other brothers forgive the misunderstanding.

Hell's courts, as always, remain a den of ambition and deceit. Its princes have always squabbled for dominion over its rings. The curses of satan and devil and belial are badges of honor. Now the great demons all the claim the titles of Lord of Darkness and King of Hell.

It's not like the Beast in his pit can punish them for overstepping. He descended into a state of feral, raving madness centuries ago.

(Those demons wrecking havoc among mortals during the... Incident never learn of it. Not when all eyewitnesses delude themselves as to what really happened. They tell themselves the Beast finally sank beneath the ice or was sealed beneath the Mount of Purgatory. None dare venture out into Cocytus to find out otherwise.)

Between Heaven and Hell, stories persist about El Dorado, the Golden King of Cities. Some say its very buildings are constructed of gold, and others that their leaders paint themselves in gold dust every morning. Perhaps the city is ruled by a line of chiefs, or by a queen and her consorts.

No conquistador ever reaches El Dorado alive. Ragged survivors of such expeditions limp back to civilization with horror stories of treacherous jungle, voracious jaguars, and disease-ridden rivers.

Tempted by the promise of gold and glory, a new generation tries again. And again.

And again.

They are not the only ones to disappear. At first desperate refugees flee waves of plague and invaders. With tales of sanctuary passed down, later generations of rebels and runaway slaves follow in their footsteps.

None are ever seen again. They are easily dismissed and forgotten by the outside world. Such small, insignificant people swallowed by the jungle cannot capture the same romantic tales of El Dorado and armies of lost conquistadors.


Manoa and its tributary villages have been untethered from the wider world, freed by the actions of its gods and its own growing legend as the unreachable city of wonders. Most outside powers willfully ignore their inhabitants and the headache of their existence.

Those still hungering for gold and glory find only their own destruction. The Lords of Xibalba wreck gleeful havoc upon them. The Bat God and the Rat God eat away at their strength with pestilence. The Caiman Goddess terrorizes every river. The Snake Goddess' fiery wrath slithers underfoot. Once the others have had their fill, the Vulture God and the Skeleton Goddess dispose of their victims' corpses.

Siwabal Koyopa claims the jaguar's share of their spoils. He rules over the forest and the boundaries between worlds. While he receives a small share of his hunters' kills, he especially loves to glut himself upon would-be conquerors.

Not all fall victim to his jaws. For all Lord Altivo's winds spread tales of fabulous wealth, so too do they speak of safe haven.

Those seeking sanctuary are protected from on high. While the morning star and the evening star always seem to guide them true, it is the silent promise of the other stars that grants them the hope to carry on through the darkest, most perilous paths.

When lost souls pass from one world into the next, they are warmly embraced by the the Celestial Gods, and welcomed home.

Miguel Morningstar, called Who Is Like God, is Lord of the Dawn. He helps bear newborn children into the light of day. His hands heal chronic illness and the most minor of wounds. He carries joy through song and music, most especially his guitar. When the mood strikes him, he jostles among the ballplayers and competitors of martial prowess. Though gentle as a lamb to his flock, he remains fierce as a lion in his protection. Any adversary finds his spear sears hotter than the noonday sun.

Tulio Lightbringer, called He of the People, is Lord of the Dusk. Where his partner brings souls into a new life, he helps ease their transition to the life after, and guide them to the myriad paradises across Xibalba and the worlds beyond. On the mortal plane, he's a bringer of knowledge; from the great arts of meteorology and astronomy, to the humble games of cards and dice. He teaches language to anyone who asks; no matter how obscure or dead the tongue. His laid-back nature is deceptive; when roused in defense of his loved ones, the old serpent still has all his old fire in him.

Chel, called the Breaker of Hell, is Lady of the Heavens. While her partners are associated to the morning star and the evening star, every stellar spirit in Manoa's skies bow down to her. She shines in every prayer and the heart of every faithful soul. Her cleverness crafts the stories that Altivo spreads upon the wind. She helps stoke the first spark of a believer to spread their legends far and wide, until all the world blazes like the heavens above. More than hope, more than faith, she is the sheer, ineffable will of a human soul. The kind that can topple tyrants and shatter entire cosmologies.

Despite such grandiose titles, the gods themselves are down to earth. No other deity walks so warmly and openly among the people. Even Lord Altivo remains cryptically silent in the form of a horse. Children easily coax them into games and telling stories. They haggle in the markets, partake in gossip, and party in every festival. Gamblers that lose to a stranger are never quite sure if they lost to Chel or Tulio in disguise.

For all they share with their people, there are some secrets they keep among themselves. Chel loves teasing her partners until they trip over their own tongues and accidentally agree with her. Tulio cannot resist use of the face. Miguel turned out to be the most arduous of them.

When pushed to his limits, Tulio can try to slither his way out with a silver tongue dipped in venom. Miguel can down and start barking out scripture. Chel can push people away and holds it all in until she snaps.

For every time the past rears its ugly head, there is something new to treasure.

The first time Chel is able to take in the world beyond their valley, and drag them to every shameless trap she can think of.

The first time Miguel's frayed mask of decorum finally cracked in public, and he finally had the courage to playfully tease them back in front of an audience that knew them only as gods.

The first time they catch Tulio absently humming under his breath as he tinkers on an astrolabe. And when he's working on a syllabary in Aramaic. The first time he consciously lifts his voice in song with his partners when they're all sober and not caught up in the thrall of a festival. (Well, the first time outside the bedroom. Chel's still amused at how vocal her boys can be.)

Some days are easy. Some are hard. On their darkest moments, they can't stand the sight of each other.

But there are far, far more good days than bad. Especially the more they learn about themselves and their partners.

They have all eternity to work out the kinks.


Bloodied, gnashing teeth. Sinners screaming his mouths.

His numb lower half entombed in ice. His wings beating ineffectually.

An icy, all-consuming cold no warmth can ever thaw-

Tulio thrashes awake on a warm, fluffy mattress. Pillows go flying from the force of his struggles. If his wings weren't tangled in the blankets he'd have rocketed out of bed to bang his head on the ceiling... again.

Once his blind panic and giddy disbelief subside, he takes a deep breath, and checks every inch of himself.

His name is Tulio, and his people call him Lightbringer. He is who he is. And he's here. All of him. He didn't leave a single iota behind in his ascent from perdition.

Just a nightmare then. A stubborn, insidious nightmare. One normally banished with the warmth and assurances of his partners.

Speaking of which...

He's alone in their bedroom. Their spots on the mattress are cold.

Tulio sighs. Ah. It's one of those nights.

He doesn't need to go far to find the first. Tulio just follows the sound of a sorrowful guitar to the temple threshold. Miguel sits on the steps, lost in notes too heavy to give voice to.

"Hey."

Miguel jolts. His song squeals to a halt. "H-Hey."

Tulio surveys their city. Despite how greatly Manoa has grown since their arrival, the streets are still and ordered. In the daylight every home is proud and vibrant. At this hour almost all the lights in their windows have been put out. The stars above shine all the brighter in the darkness. After a glance their way, their mom in the moon reads the mood, and turns back to their nocturnal vigil. "Nice night."

His husband hums in agreement.

"Where's Chel?"

Miguel shrugs. Their wife could have sought out the security of her childhood home, either for the comfort of their company or just to make sure they're alright. She could be wiling away her sleepless hours spinning stories with Bibi or over wine with Paquini. Or taking out her restlessness out on any and every evil that dares sniff at their border. They all tend to do that a lot. The Jaguar God tolerates them stepping on his toes in stony silence. Sometimes he ignores them. Other times they make a competition out of it.

After a long moment, green eyes blink up at him. "Do... Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. Do you?"

Shaking his head, Miguel resumes his strumming. Tulio plops down behind him to preen his wings. He starts with the primary pair. Despite the late hour his husband's feathers still shine with all the colors of dawn.

Neither of them flinch anymore when Tulio's hands ghost over his scars. The black, ugly marks have finally faded and smoothed over into pale silvery tissue. Tulio lets his own repressed scars surface to his skin in solidarity. They're just as healed over as Miguel's.

A lifetime later, the stars shimmer, and Chel swoops down beside them. She tries hard to hide her surprise. "Hello."

"Hey." Tulio jerks up a hand. "Busy night?"

Miguel once more looks up from his guitar. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Chel answers them with a noncommittal sound. Then she snatches them both in a desperate, squeezing hug. They return her embrace, wings folding in a protective cocoon from the world. Sometimes they stay like this all night.

But when one of them shifts, the others mutely oblige. They rearrange themselves in a mutual circle and begin to fuss over each other's feathers.

Dawn comes eventually.

Notes:

Nearly two years after starting this heretical mess, it's finally over :D (Excepting a possible little sequel with their unholy offspring, but that's a plot bunny for another time.) Thank you so much to everyone who came along for the ride.

...Hopefully the next long-term project won't take as long to come to fruition ; )

Notes:

I've had this idea itching at me for months. Normally I finish my long term fics before moving onto the next project, but I had to get this thing out of me.

Way back when I had an idea for a one shot involving a 'Good Omens' dynamic between a hedonistic Archangel and a slacker Devil 'fighting' each other in the most mundane ways... and them my muse decided it wanted a more, um, intense dynamic. Complete with a martially zealous archangel, a Devil desperate to do whatever it takes to get out of hell, a mortal woman more mature than both of these idiots put together, and a proper Enemies to Lovers plot. And so here we are :D

This particular incarnation of Hell and the Devil are heavily inspired by Dante's Inferno, which must have been really impacting the common conceptions in the early 1500s. Which will, er, have some repercussions for this incarnation of Tulio.

When one of your main characters is named for the archangel, it's a given you're eventually gonna write him as an archangel XD In the Roman Catholic view, Michael leads the Army of God and heaven's triumphs over the forces of evil. He is often depicted in battle against Satan or spearing/stepping on a dragon - another demonic symbol. Renaissance Spain especially venerated Saint Michael as a symbol of the Reconquista and their conquests after.

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