#(oops he’s been caught for high treason)

[ash-and-starlight]

yeah sure mugshot redraws are fun but i feel like This is what we really need to discuss

[sweet-barnes]

Snake Eyes - part seven

Pairing: mob!Bucky x reader

Word Count: 2.3K

Summary: ‘Snake eyes’ meaning the worst possible result; a complete lack of success. Getting caught up between two of the biggest mobs in the city was never how you expected your night to go, and falling for a mob boss can only end in disaster.

Warning: abduction/kidnapping

A/N: a lil fluff for you guys to make up for the drama at the end oops lmao feedback is loved and appreciated always☺️

Snake Eyes Masterlist

Part 6

From that day on, your mornings would always start with a ‘good morning’ text from Bucky. They always arrived at least an hour before you woke, a plain and simple ‘good morning’ to start, a kiss at the end of it. But soon, after days of talking, pet names were added onto the end, making your heart flutter every single time.

It had been a month since you were left in that club for Bucky to find you. Strangely, you hadn't heard from Rumlow in any way, shape or form. At the beginning, you were constantly on edge, expecting him to come bursting through the doors and take on the Howling Commandos in Bucky's home but that never happened.

Of course, that wasn’t realistic. But a month ago being taken by a mob was also unrealistic. Things change.

Nothing happened. It was like you were placed in this new life and expected to live it out from now on with no input from your former one, not even from the person who tore you from it.

It felt like a waiting game. Waiting for something to happen, for Rumlow to tear you away from this place, or to tear Bucky away from you. Waiting for the curtain to be ripped away, for everything to be exposed in the light and for nothing to be the same for anyone following it.

After receiving your morning text from Bucky, and replying with your own, you got yourself ready for the day. 

You made your way down to Bucky’s office, saying hello some of the Commandos on the way. As you opened the office door, the smell of breakfast hit you, making you realise how hungry you were.

Your eyes landed on a small table set up in the middle of the room, two plates set on either side with juice in the middle and Bucky sitting in one of the chairs. It looked completely out of place but it warmed your heart.

His head snapped up towards you as you entered and Bucky registered the shocked look on your face, some confusion also settling into your features. He stood up, in the calm manner he always exuded. He sent a small smile in your direction before walking over to you.

"I thought we could have breakfast together before we started our day?" You still hadn't said anything since entering the room and Bucky was starting to worry this was too much, that he had pushed it too far. "If all this is alright?" His subdued tone brought you out of your shocked state, and you looked up at him with a smile forming on your face. "This is wonderful." Bucky let out a breath he'd been holding in before leading you over to the table, pulling the chair out for you to sit and then retreating to his own chair.

You both started eating in silence, stealing looks at each other across the table and when both of your eyes met you shared a small smile, sometimes even a giggle. You felt calm and peaceful, even with no words said between you.

"You can have the day off today, Y/N," Bucky broke the silence. "I have the day off from my meetings and all that, so I'll go through the reports today, you deserve a break." You felt your heart sink a little, wanting to spend your time working with Bucky if he was going to be in his office all day. 

Ever since you had started messaging each other, he had spent more and more time out of the office. Away with meetings and gatherings that he had to attend, yet he always told you he hated this part of the job, it just had to be done.

That was all the information you received about that side of his life. It was like he was trying to keep you as far away from it as possible, even though you were more involved than you would have liked to have been. 

"Are you sure?" You countered, "I can stay and help if you need me to." You were hoping he would take you up on your offer but you could tell Bucky was a stubborn man. "I insist, doll," the pet name made butterflies erupt in your stomach, it had been a long time since you'd heard him say it to your face.

"I've had a credit card made for you, you can go out into town today with Nat and do some shopping, treat yourself to something from me," a smirk was making its way onto Bucky's face and it made heat rise up to your cheeks. You looked down at your empty plate, not wanting him to notice. The look on his face made you feel some type of way, you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. "You're too kind, Bucky," you noticed him shift from across the table and you looked up to meet his eyes again. "Anything for you."

--

The breakfast didn't last long after that, Steve had come in with an urgent phone call that Bucky had to attend to, which he looked annoyed about. He was apologising to you on his way out, letting you know he wanted to see you later to show him what you bought for yourself. 

This would be the first time leaving the grounds of Bucky's house since this whole thing started. 

You had never asked to leave and Bucky had never insisted. You believed this was only happening now because you had both grown closer over the past couple of weeks and he had started to somewhat trust you. 

Or maybe you were reading the situation wrong. He may just be kind and caring towards the people that worked for him, that’s why he was being this way with you. You couldn’t get your hopes up too much. There was no way a man like Bucky would go for a regular girl like yourself.

You arrived at your room, Natasha already sitting on your bed waiting for you with a smirk plastered on her face as she looked you up and down. "So, how was breakfast?" She raised her eyebrows a little and you shook your head at her. 

Ever since Bucky had introduced you two, she had become one of the closest people to you in this place. She felt like a piece of home that you never thought you needed. She had turned into your best friend, so to speak, within this crazy world.

She would talk to you about anything you wanted, even calming you on the occasions you felt overwhelmed by the place you were in. In those moments, you felt the urge to tell her everything. 

About Rumlow forcing you into the situation, about him wanting Bucky for some unknown reason, but you could never bring yourself to do it. Afraid that maybe Rumlow had someone listening in somewhere and it would be reported back to him. He would take you away again and punish you for ruining his plan. So you kept quite, fighting the urge every time it arrived.

"I brought you some casual clothes to wear, seen as though every thing you own seems to be work clothes,” you noticed her little eye roll, “I swear those boys are useless when it comes to clothes shopping," you giggled at her, looking through the clothes that were laid out on the bed. 

Most of the clothes were dark, as were your work clothes, it must be a thing round here within the mob.

You chose out some black mom jeans with a matching black body suit that hugged your figure in all the right places with a leather jacket to match. You applied some light makeup before noticing the card that was placed on the set of drawers near the doorway.

"Bucky left it for you when he was on the phone," Natasha explained as she say you looking at it. There was a little note placed underneath which read, "enjoy yourself today, I can't wait to see what you bring home x." 

You couldn't help the smile on your face, the word home making your heart ache a little. You folded the note and placed it in your back pocket.

"Let's go!" Natasha exclaimed, both of you giggling as you made your way to a much needed day out.

--

You didn't realise how much you missed the town. All the shops, the people rushing around or strolling, carrying loads of bags with treats they had bought themselves or others. 

The driver hadn't taken you into the town you had lived in, the one where you were taken. Instead taking you both to the next town over. 

Apparently Bucky had told him to do this, he didn't want you going back to the place where you had been trapped in the club, he didn't want to bring back those bad memories. 

If only he knew.

You had been wandering around for an hour, and you still hadn't found anything that you wanted to buy. You had always limited yourself when you went shopping, not wanting to overspend and waste your money on things you didn't need. Your mother had taught you how to be responsible with your money and you had carried that advice all throughout life, and that behaviour was showing once again.

"Seen anything you like?" Natasha asked, walking back over to you after picking up some knee high boots that she had taken a liking to. You sighed, "I've seen loads of stuff, I just don't know what to get." Natasha frowned, "why not get it all?" She suggested, and you looked at her like she had just suggested treason. "I can't spend all that money, that's too much."

"Bucky put more than enough on that card for you, not just a couple of hundred, a couple of thousand," you took in a breath as she explained. You didn't think you would be trusted with that kind of money from a mob boss. 

"Are you being serious?" You whispered, looking around to see if anyone had overheard Nat. She just laughed, moving on to a different shelf full of clothing, "treat yourself!"

The rest of the trip was spent buying at least five items from every store you entered. From casual clothes, to shoes, to homely ornaments and real plants to make your bedroom feel more like yours. You didn't know how long you were going to be staying there so might as well make it comfy while you were there. 

After every couple of shops, you loaded the car up with your items before going back out to look for more. You and Natasha entering a shop together before dispersing and looking at your own things, and then meeting back at the entrance once you were done. 

"Okay, one last shop because I think I'm burnt out from today," you nodded your head at Nat's statement. Your arms were starting to hurt from carrying around so many bags throughout the day. "There's this guy I go to for weapons, you can come along if you want or I can just meet you back at the car?" 

You felt your heart beat pick up with anxiety as Natasha mentioned weapons. You had rarely seen any of them with anything that looked dangerous, only when the raid happened on the club. Not to forget the gun you noticed on Bucky's belt a couple of times. "I'll go look in one last shop," you tried to respond as nonchalantly as possible but Natasha noticed the edge in your voice. 

"I'll be about ten, fifteen minutes," Nat replied as she walked off towards a side street between the shops. You stood there for a moment watching her leave, before looking around and spotting a candle shop slightly down the street. You set off towards it, realising you hadn't grabbed one for your room. 

The sweet mixture of smells from the candles hit you as you walked in, and a staff member greeted you kindly as you passed. You walked around, occasionally picking up candles and smelling them, trying to decide on the best one to take home. 

You looked down at your watch, noticing ten minutes had already passed. Choosing one more candle, you were making your way to pay when you felt a presence behind you. 

"Don't you dare make a scene, you're going to come with me calmly or your pretty little face won't be so pretty anymore." 

You felt a shiver down your spine as Rumlow's voice spoke quietly into your ear. You recognised it instatnly, there was no way you werer going to forget it any time soon. He took the candles from your hand and placed them down before gripping your elbow and leading you out of the back door. 

As soon as you were outside in the back alley, you turned your head to look at him. "What have I done?" Your voice only come out as a whisper, cursing yourself internally for sounding so weak. "Shut up," he hissed back at you.

You were shoved into the back of a jet black car that was parked around the corner, the same one that had captured you in the first place and the door was slammed in your face. Rumlow appeared in the passenger seat and instructed the driver on where to go, too quiet for you to hear. He didn’t bother to look back at you as they set off.

You sat as still as you could, panic seeping into every inch of your body. You had been waiting for this day since you had arrived at Bucky’s and as soon as you let your guard down, he appeared.

You felt a jab in your back as you were driven over a bump in the road. You realised your phone was still in your pocket and a little bit of hope settled into your mind.

As slowly as you could, you pulled it out, adjusting how you were sitting to cover the sound of it sliding out of your pocket, and you placed it beneath your legs. 

Waiting a couple of minutes, you reached down to unlock your phone. Not wanting to waste time explaining your situation, you sent a simple message to Natasha.

"Help me."

Part 8

[notapaladin]

burn your kingdom down

me: i wrote something with teomitl losing his shit when acatl was killed, let’s have it the other way around this time!

me, 10k words later: oops

tl;dr: Dealing with Tezcatlipoca a second time (see Obsidian Shards) is bad enough, but then...oh, then the Smoking Mirror decides to pay back His personal grudge, and Acatl gets to show him why you don’t ever mess with a High Priest for the Dead. And why you especially don’t do that by threatening Teomitl’s life in front of him. There’s some gore in this!

Also on AO3!

-

Acatl probably should have remained on his guard, but the Empire had finally seemed to be stabilizing itself. Of course he could still feel the boundaries straining around Tizoc’s existence, and of course there was still the terrible fallout of the plague to deal with—nobody in his order had been getting enough sleep, and Ichtaca had outright threatened to hand him over to Mihmatini if he didn’t take better care of himself—but aside from that, there had been no outstanding supernatural cases for him to concern himself with in months. He’d even had time for semi-regular meals at Neutemoc’s house.

And then, naturally, the first bodies started turning up outside the palace, and it all started going downhill from there.

One dead man was bad enough. Two was a pattern. By the time Acatl was summoned to examine the corpse of the third one, still without anything he was comfortable calling a lead, he was starting to get annoyed. In all three the circumstances had been the same—there would be a disused alley or an empty courtyard, clear one moment and hosting a fresh corpse the next. Each one had been left closer and closer to the palace walls, an obvious warning. No—an obvious threat.

At least nobody had disturbed this one yet. The setting sun bathed the courtyard in long shadows, forcing him to work by torchlight, but the magical traces were clear.

“Same as the rest?”

Teomitl stood in the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He’d found the first body and hadn’t stopped scowling since. It only softened slightly when their eyes met, which was something Acatl was not going to think about. Not with murders to solve, at any rate.

He’d long since dropped to both knees for a better look at the latest victim; now he stretched, rolling his shoulders back and wincing at the crack of cartilage. Maybe Teomitl’s on to something with the training regime. Or maybe I’m getting old. “Mm. Strangled, and the heart carved out. And the magic surrounding the corpse isn’t from the underworld.” Still, it felt horribly familiar, and he frowned down at the exposed chest cavity. The knife that had been used to open it had left a shard behind smaller than his littlest fingernail; as he plucked it out, a greasy shimmer caught the light. Not Mictlan’s green, but close.

Teomitl nodded, grimacing. “Tizoc is getting impatient.”

The mental image of Tizoc’s impatience pulled an instinctive growl from his throat as he rolled to his feet, gingerly holding the obsidian shard. While he and Acamapichtli still weren’t what he’d call friends—lately the man had taken to asking after Teomitl’s health in a distinctly insinuating way that made him want to hit something—he remembered Tlaloc’s slain clergy whenever they met, and every time it sent a hot spike of treasonous anger through him. “Hrmph.”

Judging by the look on his face, Teomitl was thinking along the same lines. “And we still don’t know enough to satisfy him. I’ll try to delay him as much as I can, but he’ll want answers.” Then he sighed, eyeing the dead man. “I think I would have preferred a beast of shadows. At least you could track those.”

“I’m not eager to fight another one of those things.” The memories of the last time were entirely too clear for comfort. “Bring that torch closer?”

Teomitl obligingly held the torch closer, frowning over Acatl’s shoulder as he prodded at the knife shard with his priest-senses. Definitely not underworld magic, but I’ve felt this before. I know I have. But where—

He fumbled it, and Teomitl slid a hand under his to catch it before it hit the ground. The reaction as it struck the web of Huitzilopochtli’s protection layered over his skin was immediate; Teomitl hissed through gritted teeth at the flareup of light, and Acatl snatched it back hastily. It had left a red mark behind.

All at once, Acatl remembered where he’d felt this particular magic before. No. Duality preserve us, not again. But Teomitl’s fingers were shaking, and that demanded his attention first. “Are you alright?”

Teomitl glared viciously at his own hand as though it had betrayed him. “I’m fine. What is that thing?”

“A knife shard.” Memories painted themselves across his mind—a bloodstained courtyard in Colhuacan, Ceyaxochitl nearly dying in front of him, striking down a god with the Wind of Knives at his back. “Covered in Tezcatlipoca’s magic.”

For a moment, Teomitl was silent. Acatl wondered what he was thinking; he’d told him and Mihmatini about that particular case once over dinner, but where Mihmatini had been upset at how close he’d come to death, Teomitl had just gone quiet. It was the same sort of quiet he saw in his face now. Then he took a slow breath and squared his shoulders, and Acatl watched as the youth he’d once mentored—the youth he’d once feared would be reckless and uncontrollable and a perfect mirror of Tizoc—became the Master of the House of Darts. “Right. You have our permission,”—he used the royal we, that marker of his status as the keeper of Tenochtitlan’s armory—”to do whatever you have to in order to catch the dog’s son who’s been doing this. I’ll see that you have every resource at our disposal. But you’re not to go off after him alone, understand?”

Acatl blinked, taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Teomitl studied the mark on his hand as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Good. I just...I don’t want you to forget you’re not just a simple priest anymore, Acatl. You shouldn’t be charging into things on your own.”

He’d heard Teomitl speak with that tone of angry concern before, but never with so much softness mixed in. And never while saying his name like that. His face burned, and he had to look away. “I won’t. I’ll—I’ll call for you before I make a move, alright?”

“See that you do.”

Acatl was spared from answering by the arrival of his clergy ready to take in the body for further examination, and by the time he looked up again Teomitl was gone.

Things moved very quickly after that.

Yes, the knife shard was definitely impregnated with Tezcatlipoca’s power. No, His priests had no idea where it could have come from and were downright insulted by the notion that it could have been one of them, suggesting it was a rogue sorcerer—which didn’t narrow it down in the slightest. No, nobody knew the dead man; like the others, he’d been a recent arrival to Tenochtitlan, a porter with no connections in the city or anyone who could have wished him harm. The merchant who’d most recently hired him barely even remembered his name.

Acatl did, though. He made sure of it. Quiahuitl, age around thirty-five, born in Tlacopan. No living relatives aside from an elderly aunt, also in Tlacopan, who would probably never know of her nephew’s murder. When he heard that, he thought of his own nieces and nephews and had to take a moment to breathe. I’ll give you justice. I swear. Calling up his soul for answers only gave them a vague direction within the city—south—and no further leads.

But Teomitl was as good as his word, and that helped immensely. In the days following his discovery of the shard, Acatl grew used to at least one seasoned warrior hovering around the gates of his temple; evidently Teomitl had ordered them to put themselves at his disposal, and though he was leery of pushing their loyalty too far he had to admit it was wonderful having extra sets of legs with which to cover ground. Teomitl himself showed up two days into their investigation to see how they were progressing.

...And also, apparently, to ensure Acatl remembered to eat food and catch more than three hours of sleep, which he snapped out in a huff and followed up with “Mihmatini worries about you.” It didn’t in any way detract from the way he was blushing. Acatl ate the meal he’d brought over and tried very, very hard not to think about that.

Mostly he succeeded. There was work to do, after all. Still, he had to sleep, and while his body was exhausted his mind began to race as soon as he laid down. Teomitl was fitting into his role as though it was made for him, arrogance polishing itself into steady authority and his usual impatience visibly kept in check. The more Acatl watched him with his warriors, the more he could hardly believe he’d had a hand in shaping him into the man he’d become. There’d been a moment, backlit by the sun, where he’d looked at him and nearly been bowled over by the depth of his pride.

But it wasn’t pride that kept him awake. He stared up at the dark ceiling without seeing it, because his mind’s eye was full of the long line of Teomitl’s spine, the rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders, the radiance of his smile. His fingers twitched with the remembrance of how badly he’d wanted to take Teomitl’s hand in his. Ah. I still love him.

Looking back, he couldn’t tell when it had begun; it seemed he’d simply woken up one day with the knowledge sitting in his heart like a hot cinder. The sky was blue. Water was wet. He, High Priest for the Dead, was in love with Teomitl. As much as he intended to go on ignoring it—Teomitl was not his to want for so many different reasons, not to mention that there was surely no way under the heavens the man would want him in return—it had a terrible tendency to resurface at the worst moments.

He closed his eyes. It didn’t help. We have a sorcerer to catch. I have murders to stop. This...I cannot be distracted by my feelings. It’s not as though I can ever tell him—gods, he’d probably never speak to me again. I have to forget about this.

Eventually, mind still full, he drifted off to sleep.

&

Of all people, it was Ezamahual who followed the traces of magic to a merchant’s warehouse in Zoquipan. The trail was old—whatever spells had been wrought there had begun to fade—but there was enough for a connection, and after a long night of questioning the people living around it, preparations begun. Its neighbors were all ordinary people with no magical training, but they were entirely forthcoming with what little they’d noticed. There had been tendrils of dark smoke in the air, a chill breeze coming from odd angles, men in plain cloaks slipping into the building in the dead of night when they all knew that the merchant who owned it had been away on business for nearly a year.

Acatl had made a promise to Teomitl, and he didn’t intend to break it. He sent word to the palace.

“We’re ready.”

Since you’re so determined to worry over me, he didn’t say. More and more, he was starting to wonder if the stories he’d shared of his cases before becoming High Priest had actually upset the man. It didn’t seem possible. Teomitl was a seasoned warrior who took enough risks with his own life; surely the idea of Acatl wading into danger wouldn’t affect him so.

He didn’t have much time to ponder it, though, because Teomitl arrived at the head of a small group of warriors barely an hour later. He looked just as resplendent in an ordinary warrior’s padded cotton tunic as he did in the full regalia of the Frightful Specter, and Acatl had a hard time tearing his eyes away. It was worse when he looked over Acatl’s assembled priests and flashed a thin blade of a smile. “Let’s go.”

They went.

Boats might have been faster, but the risk of alerting their quarry wasn’t one Acatl was willing to take. They strode through the city at a measured pace, and he found his gaze lingering on Teomitl’s back. The last time he’d been in Zoquipan…

“He’s mine. Aren’t you, Acatl-tzin?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering at that memory. He’d forgiven Teomitl, but it was impossible for him to ever forget the sick anger and the fear that had nearly choked him that day. He sent a brief prayer of thanks to the Duality that Chalchiuhnenetl had been effectively banished; Teomitl had informed him in a carefully neutral tone that she was living in Coyoacan now, about as far as you could get from anything and still be technically within city limits. She wouldn’t be breathing any more poison into Teomitl’s ear, and Teomitl had grown past any urges to listen to it. That, at least, would no longer be a problem.

But it was still a distraction, one he didn’t need. He grit his teeth and banished it from his mind. No. I have to focus. The warehouse should be around here.

The buildings grew smaller and more densely packed as they walked, their frescoes less and less elaborate until they finally started to fade out entirely. There was something unsettling about all that blank white adobe, bare of even the shadow of paint. He tried not to let his gaze linger on it for too long. The people, too, seemed faded—not precisely shabby, for this wasn’t a poor part of town, but worn-out and too careful. Old, beaten dogs, he thought. He wondered what else their quarry might have done.

“Hm.” Teomitl had fallen back to walk next to him, and was eyeing the area critically. He’d accepted a sword crafted of proper magical obsidian for this mission; now he rested a hand on its hilt as though contemplating when to lift it. “Does this place feel odd to you?”

Since he’d been trying to get his shoulders to unhunch themselves from up around his ears for the past quarter-hour—despite knowing that he’d dealt with Tezcatlipoca’s creatures before, his body was having other ideas and seemed determined to ring the alarum bells—he grimaced at the question. “It does. What are you thinking?”

“...That this area shouldn’t be this…” He waved a frustrated hand. “Dark. It feels dark. I don’t like it.”

He nodded. “How does your magic feel?”

Teomitl closed his eyes on a slow exhale. When he opened them again, jade reflections swam in his pupils for an instant before vanishing. “It doesn’t feel as though there’s been a curse or anything cast recently, but…”

Just to be sure, Acatl cut his own earlobes and whispered the words of a spell. Nothing. They were still walking down the same quiet street with warriors and priests surrounding them in a tight formation, Teomitl all jade-green brilliance by his side. “I don’t see anything. Stay on your guard.”

Teomitl snorted. “As though I’ve been off it since we got here?”

“You’re not the only one who worries,” he snapped without thinking. He regretted it almost immediately; an argument at this stage would be the farthest thing from helpful, and there was little Teomitl hated more than being an object of concern.

But Teomitl—for once—wasn’t arguing. He turned his face away, but not before Acatl caught the faint tinge of red in his cheeks. “Hrmph.”

He pinched his ears to stop the flow of blood. It was that or give into the sudden, absurd desire to swipe a thumb across one of those high cheekbones and see just how hard that made Teomitl blush. Sternly, he banished the thoughts from his mind. He’d probably take my hand off for the insolence, and I’d deserve it. I don’t have the right.

After a long moment, Teomitl spoke again. “...It wasn’t like this before. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh?”

Teomitl’s gaze slid over the entrances of houses and his warriors’ faces with the same coldness. He didn’t look in Acatl’s direction. “Chalchiuhnenetl wouldn’t have tolerated a thing like this in her domain. Her departure must have created a space for these bastards to flourish.”

He took a breath. “...Do you regret—“

“No.” It came out in a near-snarl. “I only wish I could have removed her from the Fifth World altogether.”

Then he did turn his face back towards Acatl, and Acatl’s breath caught at the look in his eye. He’d seen Teomitl furious, of course, but not like this. Not accompanied by so much self-recriminating guilt, as though by failing his own high standards he’d failed Acatl too. It made something twinge hard in his chest. “...Teomitl…”

Teomitl stiffened, shaking his head. “Never mind. We need to keep moving. You said it’s not far?” At Acatl’s nod, he switched to his usual impatient stride.

Acatl kept pace, unable to stop himself from glancing at Teomitl out of the corner of his eye. Teomitl’s spine was rigid and his muscles tense; he wanted, desperately, to take his hand. He settled for brushing against his arm as they walked, resolutely closing his mind to all acknowledgment of the way Teomitl shivered at the touch. It meant nothing. For his own sanity, he had to believe it meant nothing.

Then another two warriors slipped out of a side street with a nod at Teomitl, falling into step with them as they turned a corner. He knew they were close. As they continued, a ripple of alertness ran through his priests; he felt his own blood turn to ice as a yawning cavern opened in his gut.

“Acatl-tzin?” One of his newer priests drew close, biting his lip.

He set his hands on his knives, feeling the staccato beat of wrong wrong wrong pulse through him. Even his previous encounter with Tezcatlipoca hadn’t made him feel quite this ill, and he willed himself not to retch. The raw emptiness of Mictlan didn’t help much. “We move in. Quietly.” Gods, I hope we’re not too late. The previous murders had all been roughly two weeks apart, but it wasn’t impossible that the perpetrator had decided to speed things up, especially if they felt threatened. And it had taken only four deaths last time for Tezcatlipoca to be summoned into the world.

It’s not the same. He breathed out slowly, seeking calm. All the victims last time had obsidian mirror shards in their hearts, and it looked from the outside as though their hearts had simply given out. These men were strangled, their hearts torn out—it’s not an overreaching god trying to meddle in the Fifth World. No, these deaths were by mortal hands, and mortal hands will avenge them.

They made it within sight of the building—small and nondescript, no windows, exactly the same as every other building on the street—when he felt the tension in the air snap.

He reeled. Around him he was vaguely aware of his priests crying out, heard the confused mutters of Teomitl’s warriors, but he couldn’t respond. All within him was a howling abyss, a screaming tempest that filled his nose with the stench of a thousand funeral pyres and scorched his lungs when he tried to breathe. He dropped to his knees and felt pain radiate up his legs from the impact with the packed earth, but the choked-off scream that gurgled out of his throat had nothing to do with any bodily injury.  

Chaos. This is— He blinked frantically, but his eyes refused to focus. Black spots danced at the edges of his blurry vision, and for a terrible moment he thought he was going to faint.

“Acatl?!”

Teomitl, frantic. He dimly registered strong, calloused hands on his shoulders, but he couldn’t make his own hands work long enough to do anything about them.

“Something’s happened,” he gasped.

Teomitl’s hands left him. He didn’t shout, but the clear authority in his voice must have gotten everyone’s attention anyway, because the noise around them abated. “Stop.”

“Acatl-tzin, are you—“

He forced himself upright on shaky legs, breathing hard. Slowly his vision cleared, and he became aware that his priests, though shaken, hadn’t been affected nearly as badly as he had. There was the occasional magical downside to being a High Priest. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

Teomitl hadn’t gone far, and now he studied him thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and turned to address his warriors. “You heard Acatl-tzin. Be ready for anything.”

They advanced as a loose unit. Acatl saw hands resting on sword hilts, noticed the way a few of the other priests were nervously hefting their knives.

As they drew closer to the building, he could taste the magic; it hung thick and acrid on his tongue. Pyres. The smoke of an erupting volcano. The blood of jaguars. Obsidian, heated until it melts and then reshaped into—into—gods, no—

He broke into a run.

Of course, the warriors all outpaced him immediately, but he and his priests formed a tight knot hard on their heels. They burst into the warehouse nearly at the same time; he almost ran right into Teomitl’s back when the man stopped suddenly, staring into the dark room beyond. “Southern Hummingbird blind me.”

Then he stepped aside so the rest of them could enter, and Acatl was hard-pressed not to echo him. We’re too late. Duality strike me down for a fool, we’re too late.

The warehouse itself was empty; whatever had been stored there had long since been moved out. In its place, someone had traced a quincunx and glyphs that covered nearly the entire floor, fresh blood covering the old ones until Acatl couldn’t tell what they’d been originally. Sloppy, mused the analytical part of his brain. Or else each ritual was only intended for a single use. He couldn’t tell immediately if all the blood used had been human; if so, it represented far more than the three dead men they’d found.

No, he corrected himself. The four dead men they’d found.

The last one was on the opposite end of the room outside of the array; he had been laid on a curved stone, the better to pull out his heart. Acatl skirted the edges of the room carefully to take a closer look, aware all the time of Teomitl behind him.

The dead man’s blood was still steaming. He knew what he would feel when he touched the skin, but he did it anyway. He needed only a brief moment to confirm his suspicions. “He’s still warm. This happened a few minutes ago, at most.”

One of the priests tilted his head back to glare up at the opening in the roof as though it would provide answers. “Nobody’s here. Surely we should have seen it if they’d climbed out?”

A burly warrior swore and snarled, “We’ve been watching the area all day; nobody’s left!”

Teomitl raised his voice. “Search everywhere—“

Something covered the skylight, and they were plunged into darkness so absolute that Acatl couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face.

No. Oh, no.

He didn’t dare move. From the noises around him, the rest of their forces weren’t following suit; he heard thuds and curses and a distinct grumble of “That was my foot, Chimalli!” He wondered how they were even finding the words to complain. His own tongue seemed to have been frozen to the roof of his mouth, and he could no more have spoken than he could have sprouted wings.

The air stung his eyes. He blinked, breathed in, and tasted smoke again. Slowly, he regained control of his tongue. “Move towards the entrance. Whatever’s coming, we don’t want to be trapped in here with i—“

A frigid tide of magic knocked him off his feet and sent him crashing hard, back-first, into a rough adobe wall. He curled instinctively to protect his head, but it still rattled him; when he could think again, he registered the burn of scraped skin and a distinct throbbing ache that would no doubt be a spectacular bruise tomorrow. Teomitl. He was next to me. Where…?

He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The dead man was sitting up. The smoke and darkness that had filled the room had been wrapped around his limbs; Acatl saw the shadows of a jaguar headdress, the crumbling remains of a shinbone and foot wrapped in something like the ghost of obsidian, and felt his insides turn to ice. Around him, the warriors and priests they’d gathered had been flattened to the ground in groaning agony; those who had been furthest from the epicenter were staggering painfully to their feet. None of them had been able to reach their weapons yet. Teomitl had been flung into the opposite wall, and from the way he was favoring one hand Acatl prayed he hadn’t injured something.

It seemed to take an eternity for him to stand and draw his knives. By the time he managed it, Tezcatlipoca had swung His legs down off the sacrifice stone and was looking over the assembled warriors with the air of a nobleman inspecting a merchant’s stall and finding only shoddy goods. “So this is how I am greeted?”

“No.” It was too soft, and he lifted his voice. He couldn’t draw enough breath to scream. “No.”

The god turned slowly, head tilted. The empty space where His heart had been shone green and horrible. “Oh,” Tezcatlipoca said with a rictus grin. “Little Acatl. I remember you.”

It hurt to breathe. He sucked in air anyway. “Then you remember what happened last time, my lord. Let the man go, and return to your place in the heavens.”

“...Hmmm.” Tezcatlipoca’s grin didn’t budge. “I don’t think so. This world deserves a new order.”

Then he opened his arms, and the array flared to life.

The surge of magic brought Acatl to his knees, but that probably saved his life; when the first ashen jaguar leapt from the quincunx, its spots black voids, he was able to dodge its first swipe and slice sideways at its paw, pinning it to the ground and buying himself just enough time to scramble out of range.

Some of his priests weren’t so lucky. He heard screaming, felt the bursts of magical protections activating and living blood hitting the edges of obsidian knives, but he didn’t have time to look. The jaguar still had a second front paw and a set of enormous fangs, and it was doing its best to rip itself free for another try at him.

An arm landed nearly at his feet. One of the screaming voices cut off with a horribly final gurgle. He dropped to one knee again, discovered to his considerable relief that Tezcatlipoca’s jaguars did die when they were stabbed in the throat with magical obsidian, and risked the briefest of glances to see how the battle was going.

It was chaos.

All around him men were fighting for their lives; the jaguars outnumbered them two to one, and though they died like any animal they seemed to get stronger as more blood was spilled. With a spike of horror, he saw one flow around a sword-strike, rippling like water, and savage the warrior holding it. The last time any of his priests had been in battle like this had been when Tlaloc had made his bid for the Fifth World, but the same tactics that had served them well against Tlaloc’s creatures weren’t working nearly as well here. The air was full of a choking miasma that weighed on the limbs, making it hard even for Acatl to breathe; he wasn’t sure how the rest of them were managing.

Teomitl, at least, had had the presence of mind to summon his ahuizotls. He fought surrounded by them, jade-carved and glorious, adding algae and deep water to the stench in the air, and for a moment Acatl had hope. It lasted until a jaguar bit one of his ahuizotl’s heads off, and the magical backlash dropped Teomitl to a knee just in time to grapple with it.

I have to fight. I have to… But there wasn’t enough clear space anywhere for a quincunx, and some effect of Tezcatlipoca’s incarnation seemed to be slowing his thoughts. The god himself was lounging on His sacrificial stone as though it were a throne, watching the battle with undisguised glee, and Acatl hated Him. With effort, he rose and took a step forward.

The wind blowing through his soul rose to a mourning wail, and he gasped at the chill that seized his bones—but when a lament sounded in his mind, he could have wept in relief.

Acatl. I am coming.

He didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to hear the Wind of Knives. We took Him down once. We can do it again.

He flung himself into the fray. All else faded but the need to keep moving, to keep his allies safe. Lord Death’s protection flowed over him like a veil—meager in the face of so many jaguars, but the cold pit of despair under his ribs kept him alert and went some way towards clearing his mind of Tezcatlipoca’s smoke. It, and his knives, would have to be enough to hold them until the Wind of Knives arrived from His cenote. He slit the throat of one jaguar, narrowly dodged the grasping claws of another, and nearly collided with a priest clutching the stump of his arm as the life faded from his eyes.

We’re losing ground. A coil of intestines wrapped around his ankle, and he nearly stumbled before catching himself and turning it into a swipe along the ribcage of a jaguar trying to maul one of Teomitl’s warriors. The man barely had a moment to catch his breath before he was screaming, choked and awful, as another one latched its jaws around his neck.

Another scream cut off behind him. He whirled to meet a jaguar, its jaws bloody, only to recoil as an ahuizotl literally dragged it backwards and went for its eyes. Thank you, Teomitl. But there was another to replace it, and as he fought for his life he heard—felt—a warrior die. A priest was next. Another warrior, this one collapsing in front of him with his face gone.

He sucked in a breath and clamped it behind his teeth before it could escape in a scream of pure rage. No.

He forced himself towards Tezcatlipoca, shutting his ears to the sounds of men dying around him. If I kill him, this ends. He could feel the Wind of Knives drawing ever closer, and when He arrived the tables would turn. They could hold out until then. He was sure of it. He lost a knife in a jaguar’s ribs, picked up a sword from a fallen warrior’s hands and swung blindly, savagely, at anything in his way until it splintered—and he didn’t look behind him or around him, because if he let himself be distracted then all was lost. He just had to get into position for when the Wind of Knives arrived...

It was growing horribly silent. The god was watching the carnage avidly, giggling to Himself as blood splattered the floor—but then His gaze fell on Acatl, and He frowned thoughtfully.

“Hmm...I think not.”

A jaguar bore him to the ground, and he screamed as its claws raked his back. Pinned on his stomach, he couldn’t even twist out of its hold. This is it. He couldn’t breathe. He knew, with distant clarity, that a rib had been broken. Cold, stinging smoke blew over the back of his neck. This is where I die.

“Acatl!”

Jade Skirt’s magic like a flood washing over him. A crunch—the jaguar went limp, heavy dead weight for a moment before dissipating into smoke—and then, before he could even rise, a scream. Teomitl’s scream, raw with pain. A wet thud.

He was on his feet before he even realized he was moving, utterly blind to the searing agony radiating from his ribs through every limb. All the men they’d brought with them were dead or dying, and Teomitl was crumpled on the ground with a jaguar’s bloody claws in his chest. His tunic had been ripped apart, loose fabric dyed crimson with his blood; Acatl couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

“Teomitl.” It came out in a flayed whisper.

Teomitl made a sound. It was more of a gurgle than anything else, but it meant he was alive. Barely. Acatl could see the dull gleam of exposed bone and knew that they were out of time. That they wouldn’t be able to stall until the Wind of Knives arrived, because unless Teomitl saw a healer—and gods, he was trying to move, he’d only bleed out faster—he was going to die. That he’d cared for him in a thousand small ways, had made a home for himself in his heart, had just saved his life, and he was bleeding out in front of Acatl’s eyes.

Red rage descended over him, and he lunged for Tezcatlipoca.

The likelihood of his own death, any possible strategy—it all vanished from his mind. All he could think about, all that mattered, was sending Tezcatlipoca back to His place in the heavens as swiftly and as violently as possible. You hurt him. You dared—you dared lay your hands upon—

The raw scream that burst from his throat was cut short when Tezcatlipoca grabbed his arm, His touch like being flayed with dull knives, and tossed him aside like a ragdoll. Acatl hit the ground and rolled, landing hard on his side; all he could do was lay there, stunned, and watch as Tezcatlipoca strolled over to where Teomitl had fallen. “...No...”

Negligently, the god waved his jaguar away. “Oh, stupid mortal. This isn’t like the last time.” His voice was a thing of unholy glee.

Acatl couldn’t move. Everything hurt, and he was sure his arm was broken. Each breath scorched his lungs and sent a nauseous spike of agony through his chest. He could barely even feel his fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife. If he’d had enough breath, he was sure he’d be weeping.

And the god was still talking. “You see, this time, little Acatl...I don’t have a heart for you to stab.” He knelt over Teomitl’s prone form and grabbed his jaw, cruelly forcing his head up so Acatl could see his face. “So I’m going to take the man who holds yours. I think that’s a fair trade.”

No.

No.

It beat in his head like a heartbeat, and he couldn’t think past the enormity of it. “You can’t.” Somehow he got his feet under him and pushed himself up with his good arm. He nearly slipped in a puddle of blood; though he caught himself on one knee, it winded him, and he had to take a moment to breathe. “I—will not—allow it.”

Tezcatlipoca laughed, high and cruel. “You can’t stop me.”

Acatl closed his eyes. He didn’t have time for a long ritual; he could barely focus on the words of even the simplest spells. The Wind of Knives would never arrive in time. All he had was a single knife and raw determination.

And he was High Priest for the Dead facing an inhabited corpse, a transgressor of the boundaries he kept, in a room full of men whose living blood was still dripping from the walls to soak into the floor.

Yes. I can.

His fingers tightened on his knife hilt, feeling the ridges of the leather cord wrapping for an instant before he opened himself up to the power stored within the underworld obsidian, that direct connection to Mictlan he’d only ever called on once before. It didn’t get easier the second time. The bottom dropped out of his stomach, rage draining out in favor of a deep, hollow emptiness. He felt dry dust under his fingers, felt the way his bones ached and shifted under his skin. In his mind rose the lament of lost souls carried on a chilling, biting wind. We go down into the dust, into the darkness. We go down, Lord of the Place of Death, to stand before Your throne.

There was a ritual he’d been taught when he ascended to his place as High Priest, one that had almost never been used in the history of the Empire. There was fresh, wet blood on his hands.

His eyes snapped open. The skin of his hands was smoke and translucent obsidian, gray dust like clouds where the fibers of muscle should be. He could make out his own bones underneath it all, glowing like distant torches or the last shimmers of moonlight at the bottom of the lake. The faintest breeze in the air brought the dying whispers of a ghostly lament to his ears, stirring the loose ends of his hair.

Tezcatlipoca was still smirking, gently amused. “Good, you’ve decided to watch while I kill him. I knew you were no coward.”

The blood splattering the floor pulsed like a heartbeat. In, out. In, out. The blood of a dozen men slain in battle, their souls not yet delivered to the Sun’s Heaven. One living High Priest with a blade of underworld obsidian to direct the flow of magic.

“O Lord,” he breathed, “I deliver this transgressor to You.”

He saw the exact moment Tezcatlipoca realized what he was going to do; the god’s eyes widened, and then He was flowing towards him like a jaguar Himself, all smoke and teeth and fury. In a moment He’d be on him, and then they would stand no chance.

Acatl slashed open the back of his hand, tracing a quincunx in his own blood, and slammed it down onto the nearest dead man’s face.

The man’s spirit erupted from his cooling skin. His comrades’ souls joined his, flowing out of open mouths and open wounds like smoke. Those who had lost limbs were limbless now; those whose heads had been torn off were headless. Gaping wounds bled gray, powdery dust into the air. They formed a wall around Acatl, but he could still see through them—could see Tezcatlipoca stop midstride, could see Him slowly and instinctively take a step backwards as though freezing in place would protect Him.

The ghosts descended, and the god screamed.

There were words in that scream—something about how he was going to reign, how they had no right to stop him—but Acatl was past caring about it. All he could do was hold onto the magic running through him, the underworld flowing in a torrent through his veins. While he focused, the ghosts would maintain their forms and their connection to the Fifth World, and he couldn’t let them go until it ended. Until the sliver of Smoking Mirror’s power was fully severed from the body He’d borrowed, banished back to the Heavens.

His lungs burned. His heart beat slow and sluggish in his chest. He rose and took a step forward, and it felt like he was moving through tar.

He spoke, and the syllables lay on his tongue like the finality of the grave. “Your time is not yet come.”

He felt it when Tezcatlipoca’s presence in the Fifth World vanished; the smoke and ash in the air dissipated, and the heavy mist that had hung over his mind began to clear. When he breathed, he smelled only blood and fresh death. As the body dropped—now only so much meat—he took another breath, filling his lungs, and ran the flat of his knife over his bloody hand until his connection to the underworld was severed.

The ghosts left gratefully, voices like the rustling of dry leaves. Thank you. Thank you, priest.

He wobbled on his feet, drained down to the marrow of his bones. He felt halfway to being a ghost himself; for an instant it was hard to remember who he was or what still had to be done.

Then it came back to him in a flash and he ran, stumbling through gore and fatigue, to Teomitl’s side.

Teomitl was still laying where he’d fallen, one hand pressed to the ruin of his torso. Up close, the extent of his injuries took Acatl’s breath away. He’d been mauled; a drawing swipe of razor-sharp claws had opened his chest to the bone and continued all the way to his stomach, deep enough to slice through the muscles of his abdomen. As Acatl approached, he turned and blinked blindly in his direction. “Ah...Acatl…”

Acatl dropped to his knees next to him, tearing off his cloak with shaking hands. His abused arm screamed, but he ignored the pain. He had to stop the bleeding before he could do anything else—but Duality, there was so much blood. “Don’t try to talk.”

He pressed the cloth directly on his wounds, and Teomitl didn’t even flinch. He’d lost a lot of blood already; the heartbeat under Acatl’s fingers was distressingly weak. “Mm.” He tried to raise his head, but flopped bonelessly down a moment later. His voice was so soft that Acatl almost missed it. “I love you.”

He loves me. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible that he was hearing this now, of all times, with the man dying in his arms. He was, for a moment, absolutely sure that no air was making it to his lungs. “Teomitl.” It came out in a rasp. “By all the gods, shut up.”

Teomitl’s smile was red and horrible, blood staining his teeth. Acatl could have wept. “Wanted...to make sure you knew.”

“I love you too—“ Teomitl coughed wetly, and Acatl felt his pulse stutter. Before he knew it, he was grabbing his hand and squeezing it like a lifeline, eyes burning with unshed tears. “Teomitl, Teomitl, I love you so much but you have to stay with me, please!”

There was a strangled, awful attempt at a laugh. “I know what a mortal wound looks like, Acatl.”

No. No, gods, no. “It’s not mortal—it’s not, you’ll be fine, you just have to lay still! Help is coming, I promise, just—“ He cut himself off with a sob. I can’t lose you. Not you.

A shaking, bloodstained hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb gently stroking away his tears. “...Should have told you sooner.”

The hand fell.

Grief and terror surged through his veins with a ferocity that nearly sickened him, and for a moment all he could do was curl around Teomitl and fight back tears. He wanted to weep. He wanted to break something. He wanted to carry Teomitl in his arms and run to safety, but his arm was broken and Teomitl’s injuries were so severe that moving him unwisely would only deal further damage. Duality—gods, please. Please don’t take him from me.

He felt the Wind of Knives’ arrival, but didn’t bother turning around. Keeping pressure on Teomitl’s wounds was more important. His pulse was fluttering like a trapped bird, and Acatl really didn’t like the way he was breathing. Gods, let him not have punctured a lung too.

The minor god’s voice echoing through his mind at this distance was enough to send a chill down his spine. I see you didn’t need my help. He sounded almost amused. If the circumstances had been different, Acatl would have punched Him.

“Teomitl does.” His voice cracked on the words. “Find someone—”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, the knife-points of the obsidian shards barely even tickling. Rest. Do not weep. You have been a valiant comrade, Acatl, and for that I will grant you this favor.

The Wind of Knives swept out the door, and he took a slow, shuddering breath. Another. Another.

By the time a half-dozen civilians burst into the room with the announcement that the High Priest of Patecatl had been sent for, he’d stopped crying. Teomitl’s heartbeat had remained steady under his hand, and he drew strength from that.

He’ll be alright, he thought. He has to be.

&

It still took entirely too long for Acatl’s liking. The black-robed High Priest of Patecatl was an older man, hard-eyed and serious and not at all appreciative of being dragged halfway across the city with his entourage, but he took one look at Teomitl’s injuries and sucked in his breath before swearing softly and ordering Acatl to leave.

“But—“ he began.

“This is a very delicate process, Acatl. Move.” Judging by his narrowed eyes and the set of his shoulders, he was prepared to shove Acatl out of the room himself if he was too slow.

Acatl moved. That this meant he could have his injuries looked at by one of the other priests was immaterial; even the grinding, nauseating pain of having a definitely-broken bone wedged into place and splinted before they began casting spells to speed its healing wasn’t enough to distract him from the increasingly frantic chanting going on inside. Heavens, do not take him. Not yet. Please.

When Ichtaca arrived to relieve him of the task of dealing with their slain comrades, he had to take a moment to remember that he was, indeed, still the High Priest for the Dead. His tongue didn’t seem to want to work properly. His mind didn’t seem to want to work properly. Teomitl said he loves me. “It was...Tezcatlipoca was summoned into the Fifth World. I banished Him, but...“

“Acatl-tzin.” His second was looking at him in something like pity. “You can tell us what happened later. Get some rest.”

“Our priests...the warriors...“

“We will handle their bodies.” He’d brought Palli and Ezamahual with him, and both men were eyeing Acatl as though they expected him to collapse any minute.

The priests of Patecatl were carrying Teomitl out on a stretcher, and his eyes followed the motion helplessly. From this distance, he could just make out the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Ichtaca didn’t smile, but his demeanor softened. “Rest, Acatl-tzin.”

He started walking. He could rest at the Duality House, once he was sure Teomitl was safe.

The sun was low in the sky, tinting the light gold, and the realization took him aback. Gods, was it really only this morning that we set out? It felt like it had been an eternity ago that he and his priests and Teomitl’s warriors had left his temple; his bones ached as though he’d been awake for years. He still couldn’t believe that he was alone, that Tezcatlipoca’s creatures had cut through the trained fighters he’d brought with him like a knife through wet paper. He drew a long, slow breath. I only lived because He was toying with me. Because—Tlaloc’s lightning strike me, because He holds grudges. I’ll have to be very careful around Him from now on.

Fatigue made his head swim, but he forced himself onwards. Patecatl’s priests moved in a seamless knot, eating up the ground in a similar purposeful stride to the one he’d come to associate with Teomitl—but where Teomitl’s pace seemed to suggest he held some sort of grudge against the ground, the healing priests’ antipathy extended to everyone in their way. He had absolutely no chance of catching up to them, but he could settle for keeping them in sight.

After Teomitl’s words, he refused to do anything else. He loves me. He loves me, and he might yet die. He lost so much blood, and the Duality only knows what effects the Smoking Mirror’s touch might have had on him…

By the time he staggered into the Duality House, it resembled nothing so much as a freshly-disturbed anthill. Priests of the Duality were clustered with Patecatl’s healers, and the courtyards seemed to host far more confused and dismayed warriors than they normally did—the normal number, after how Mihmatini had reacted to Teomitl’s attempt at a coup, being zero. He couldn’t see his sister in the crowds.

Just as he determined he should ask around, she strode out of a small receiving room with a face like thunder. The thread of magic that connected her to Teomitl was a line of fire around one ankle, and by the shaking of her hands she’d already been well informed of her husband’s state. Her husband. Acatl felt briefly sick. Things between them may not be as they were, but he told me—gods. It will break her heart if she finds out.

Mihmatini took one look at him and her expression of barely-contained fury twisted; for a moment he was sure she was going to scream at him, but then she took a long breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was steady. “I heard it was the Smoking Mirror. Come in; the healers are still with Teomitl.”

He followed her in. The room held only a fresco of flowering trees for decoration, but there was a table and two mats, and he collapsed onto one with relief. His legs felt like jelly. The next room had to hold Teomitl and the healers; though the entrance curtain was drawn, he could make out quiet chanting and the grassy smell of Patecatl’s magic. A slave must have been waiting for his arrival, because he was served water and a dish of frogs with tomatoes nearly as soon as he’d sat down.

She waited until he’d drank before addressing him. “So.”

“So,” he repeated. The food smelled wonderful, but he wasn’t tempted. He wasn’t sure he could keep anything down.

When she met his gaze, her eyes were hard as flint. “Tezcatlipoca.”

He took a deep breath and told her everything starting from the moment they’d reached the warehouse. By the end his hands were shaking, and he had to clench them into fists in a futile effort to keep his composure. We thought we were going off to face a simple sorcerer. A dozen men are dead because we were wrong.

She covered his hand with her own. For a long while, they didn’t speak.

The first healing priest exiting the sickroom broke their strained silence. His voice was rough and low, as though he’d worn himself out chanting. “Teomitl-tzin will live. You can see him now.”

Mihmatini nearly rushed past him, all dignity as the Guardian forgotten. Acatl waited until all the healers had left, ignoring their sidelong glances, before testing whether his legs would even still support his weight. They did, but barely; he had to catch his breath, leaning on the table, before he could rise fully. The noble thing, the right thing, would be to give Mihmatini space with her husband. As damaged as their relationship had been after the attempted coup, he was sure her love for him hadn’t disappeared. He’d just be an interloper. Unwanted. Intruding.

But Teomitl had told him he loved him, so he followed Mihmatini in.

Teomitl had been laid on a thick mat, his chest and stomach heavily bandaged and his right wrist splinted. His normally-dark skin was distressingly ashen; when Mihmatini clasped his good hand, he didn’t so much as twitch. She made an awful hitching gasp, and Acatl braced himself for her tears—but then she shuddered, inhaled deeply, and looked up at him with glimmering eyes. “Sit down, Acatl.”

Acatl sat, staring at Teomitl’s face. He’d never seen him so still, not even when the plague had struck him down. The bandages were very white against his skin. If he hadn’t been so drained—so empty, after all the events of the day and the magical backlash of using his own body as the rallying standard for a dozen angry ghosts—he thought he might have joined Mihmatini in almost weeping. I was the one who should have told you sooner, Teomitl.

“He’ll be alright,” Mihmatini murmured. She was stroking his hand now, so gently that it broke his heart.

She loves him. She loves him, and I’m a selfish monster for wishing she didn’t. His voice felt like it was coming from very far away. “I know.”

“He’ll wake, and smile like he always does, and he’ll be back to driving me mad with his,“—she made a noise, and it took Acatl a moment to realize it was a twisted snort of amusement—“his awful clinging in his sleep, and all the rolling around he does, and it will be fine. I won’t even want to strangle him over it. Much.”

“...Mm.” He hoped it sounded agreeable, and not as though the mental image was making something clench painfully in his gut. He had no right to be jealous over what he’d never have. When Teomitl woke, he would simply...never mention what the man had told him. Yes. That was a fine idea. His fingers twitched restlessly, and he wished he could wrap them around Teomitl’s hand instead.

She was silent for a long while. When she lifted her head to lock eyes with him, her tone was as matter-of-fact as though she was discussing the weather. “He’s really not that annoying, most of the time. I can see why you’re in love with him.”

Acatl froze, the breath knocked out of him. The yawning pit opening in his stomach had nothing to do with Mictlan. He couldn’t think past the blood roaring in his ears, never mind meet Mihmatini’s gaze—but he couldn’t look away, either, and so he stared blankly through her without seeing her.

Her voice was soft and understanding, and that made it so much worse. “Does he know?”

He thought, briefly and shamefully, of lying. In the next minute he dismissed the idea; he wouldn’t do that to anyone over a matter like this, never mind his own blood. “...I told him. During—I thought he was going to die in my arms.” His throat was so dry and tight he could barely force the words out. “But—Mihmatini—“ I was never going to let it grieve you. I would never step between you two, I know it’s not my place, you’re his lawful wife and my favorite sister and I know how much you still care for him...

She heaved a sigh of pure relief. “Thank the Duality, I was getting sick of him sighing over you.”

“He—I’m sorry, what?!”

His brain seemed to have stopped working. Or perhaps there was something wrong with his ears. There was no way she’d just said what he thought she said. He opened and shut his mouth, but no words came out.

And now the sigh was exasperated, and she was looking at him as though he was the stupidest man alive. While this was hardly unprecedented for her, he couldn’t help feeling it was—for once—undeserved. “You heard me.”

“I...I did, but…” But it didn’t make sense. Gods strike him for a fool, it didn’t make sense. “You knew?”

“I suspected while we were courting, but eventually...he told me himself. After the incident with his sister.” She huffed out a breath, brow furrowing at the memory, and he fought the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s the only reason I didn’t divorce him then and there. I would have, you know, if he’d said anything foolish like that he was trying to kill Tizoc-tzin for insulting me, or that he was only trying to remove a corrupt, useless Revered Speaker. And that was part of it, but do you know what he told me first made him want Tizoc-tzin’s head on a spike?”

He shook his head mutely. He couldn’t imagine it.

She dropped her gaze to Teomitl’s bandaged chest, watching for each steady breath. “It was when he and Quenami tried to have you executed for treason.” There was a wry quirk of a smile. “I couldn’t blame Teomitl for that. Murder is an appropriate response in that case, you know!”

“...Oh.” It was all he could say. The memories of that time hadn’t faded in the least, and Teomitl’s seething anger back then suddenly made a terrible amount of sense. It was for me. It was—because he loves me. He’d even want to...gods.

Mihmatini shrugged as though she wasn’t upending his entire view of how the world worked. “I always knew I’d have to share his heart; I’m just glad it’s with you and not some concubine. I know you’ll treat each other well.”

“I…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat and made himself meet her eyes. “I’ll try.” I don’t know how, but for him—I’ll try.

She reached across Teomitl to squeeze his good arm, and her smile warmed his heart. “Take joy where you find it, and with my blessing.”

He had to close his eyes as her words settled. She knows. She knows, and she approves, and I...Duality, I don’t deserve such a sister. Her husband loves me, and I—I am allowed, encouraged, to love him back. When he wakes...we can figure out where to go from there.

“...So long as I never have to hear details.”

He choked, feeling his face catch fire. “Mihmatini!”

&

It took three days for Teomitl to open his eyes.

Acatl had foolishly thought that he would have the luxury of fretting over him. He quickly discovered he wasn’t so lucky; he barely had time to breathe. Funeral vigils for the slain warriors and his own dead priests had to be arranged, their families notified. The entire plot turned out to have been masterminded by the Smoking Mirror’s host himself, a sorcerer who’d declared himself a member of a group called the Sixth Sun Burning; further questioning of his friends and relations revealed that he was the only member, supposedly making Tizoc froth with impotent rage at not having anyone to execute for it. Acatl was apparently still beneath the Revered Speaker’s notice no matter how many gods he banished, which he couldn’t help but be thankful for. By the time the merchant whose warehouse had been coopted for the scheme arrived, furious in his demand for answers, he was hard-pressed to keep his own temper.

Of course, as soon as he dismissed the merchant, an offering-priest burst into his receiving room. “Acatl-tzin—“ He had to stop and suck in a deep breath before continuing. “Teomitl-tzin has awoken—Mihmatini-tzin said you’d want to be informed—“

He was abruptly no longer tired. He couldn’t remember ever having been tired. “Ichtaca. If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the Duality House.”

Ichtaca exchanged a long-suffering glance with the offering-priest. “Of course, sir.”

He ran.

Mihmatini met him at the gates to the Duality House. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile was soft and radiant. “He’s still weak, but he’s recovering well. He’ll be glad to see you.”

He had to stop and take a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. He knew he was blushing, but that couldn’t be helped. “...Thank you.”

Teomitl had been moved to the chambers he was sharing with Mihmatini at some point, the brilliant murals at odds with the stark furnishings. He looked exhausted, still ashen-faced and fragile around the edges, but he was sitting up with only a faint grimace of pain and picking carefully at a dish of flatbread with roasted peppers. When Acatl pushed the entrance curtain aside, he set his plate down and stared up at him. “Oh. Acatl.”

“Teomitl,” he said helplessly. For a moment he couldn’t make his legs work, and then he took the three steps necessary to bring him to Teomitl’s side and sat down hard.

Teomitl was still staring at him as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight. Acatl saw the way his fists clenched in his lap, the little wrinkle of concern between his brows, and ached to soothe him. “You’re alright.”

Truthfully, he didn’t feel alright. The priests of Patecatl had only been able to do so much with what they’d had on hand, and he’d still had very little sleep. But none of that mattered now, because Teomitl was fidgeting and averting his gaze and he couldn’t forget what he’d came here for. “Look, about earlier—I don’t know how much you remember, but…” I love you. I need to tell you properly.

Teomitl went rigid, gaze fixed on a point somewhere on the opposite wall. His voice lashed out like a whip. “I won’t apologize.”

What. He found himself temporarily speechless before managing to get his tongue back in working order. “Apolo—did you not hear me?”

“I.” Teomitl blinked at him. Acatl watched as he slowly turned red, jaw going slack until he shut it with an audible gulp. “Oh. Fuck. That’s what Mihmatini meant.”

“...You didn’t.”

Teomitl let out an annoyed huff, making an impatient stabbing motion with his hand. “I was bleeding out! You picked a terrible time to confess.”

Well, now, that couldn’t be borne. He sucked in a breath. “Says the man who told me he loved me with a hole in his guts—“ But the sensation of hot blood flowing over his hands was still too fresh, and he had to cut himself off with a shudder.

“I thought I was going to die. I didn’t think I’d be around for you to reject me.”

“Well.” He swallowed hard, suddenly and unaccountably nervous. “I’m not.”

“...You’re not.” Teomitl’s blush was back with a vengeance, and he still wasn’t looking directly at him. But he patted the mat next to him, a clear invitation. “...Come here?”

Oh.

Acatl shifted over to sit next to him. For the span of a few heartbeats they still didn’t touch, and he wondered if he was brave enough to make the first move—but then Teomitl’s hand shot out and latched onto his, and he made an entirely involuntary noise that definitely was not a squeak. His heart was beating so hard it was a wonder it stayed in his chest; from the heat in his face, he knew he had to be at least as red as Teomitl was. When their fingers laced together, he found he had no words to describe it.

After a long moment, Teomitl broke the silence between them. “...I truly do love you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it.”

There was a shy, soft smile on his face, and Acatl had to smile back. “There’s no need for apologies between us.” Not for this. Not ever for this. You have my heart, no matter what.

Teomitl turned towards him, and he went breathless at the look in his eyes. He knew an instant before it happened that he was going to be kissed, and it was the easiest thing in the world to tilt his head and lean in. He’d imagined it before—gods, had he imagined it, in the kind of detail that had left him frankly humiliated by his own lust afterwards—but nothing could compare to the reality of Teomitl’s mouth on his. He hadn’t expected it to be gentle, hadn’t expected the soft noise Teomitl made when he separated their joined hands to turn into an eager moan when Acatl dared to put an arm around him and pull him closer.

Even when they broke apart, Teomitl was smiling. Their noses brushed as he murmured, “I saw you avenging me, you know. You were magnificent.”

He averted his eyes, feeling something twist unpleasantly in his chest. It wasn’t enough. You still nearly died. “Hmph. Shameless flattery.”

“Acatl.” Warm fingers brushed his cheek. “Duality curse you, take the compliment for once.”

When he parted his lips to protest, Teomitl kissed him again. He decided not to argue.

There were better things he could do with his mouth.

[mrs-mikko-rantanen]

So tell us about the regiment! What’s the purpose of it? How do they get new recruits (aside from kidnapping rebel leaders kids)? What’s it take to move up the ranks? How do you leave the regiment? Is it possible to be discharged or would you have to deflect? Dishonorably discharged? What would it take? How might someone go about hiding that they’re ex-regiment? Could they? Could they have been somewhat high ranking, and still able to hide their past? Even from other ex-regiment?

Oh anon. I would just like to say I love you, amd then warn you that this is going to be a very very long answer.

Purpose: they are the governing force of the Galaxy. The closest thing would be the Empire in Star Wars. (Ngl I was heavily inspired by star wars so like...oops.) The Militia is tasked with enforcing the Regiment's laws, keeping citizens in check and quieting revolutions, and just general safety and military proceedings.

Recruitment: Drafting is rare, but does happen. Usually people resist that, so its avoided if possible. Children who are orphaned are frequently taken in by the Regiment, their wounds and illnesses treated; and then offered a choice: join the Militia or go back to fighting to survive. Its decent money, lots of people take the job just because they don't see any other options.

Advancement in ranks: acts of valor, service records, time spent in the Militia. Nyar was made Captain because he was head of his class at the Academy. Followed orders well, smart, had good grades, and demonstrated excellent leadership skills with his little squadron of cadets. He received decorations for injury on the battlefield, as well as a Meritorious Service Medal that he received 6 months after graduation, making him the youngest decorated captain in the Regiment. Other than that, it takes years of hard work to make advances in the militia. Often records are kept meticulously, and that makes an impact on advancements. Nyar hasn't been promoted on more than one occasion simply because of the few, very rare occasions that he's ignored direct orders. (Always to help a member of his crew somehow.)

Leaving: honorable discharge for people who have been wounded in combat beyond recovery, usually accompanied with an offer for a desk job. Dishonorable discharge after 6 offences; ignored orders without valid cause, cases of treason, if its found out that you gave up information during an interrogation you can be discharged for betrayal of the state as well. Often those caught deserting are branded with a symbol and stripped of any service medals. Retirement is an option....if you survive that long.

Hiding that you're ex-regiment: so long as you can hide the brand, most civilians probably wouldn't know. Hiding it from other Regiment though could be tricky. They just see familiar traits and ticks. Checking doors and exits, outlines of hidden weapons, hands twitching to salute officers after years of conditioning, posture....just little things you cant quite let go of.

High rank hiding: much harder to hide, even from civilians. Imagine like celebrities hiding from paparazzi. In a high tech society, they'd be pretty recognizable, familiar faces. If they were dishonorably discharged, there would probably be a public ceremony to strip them of their medals, some form of exile, and announcements with their faces saying what they'd done and who they were. So even if they could hide the little habits, it would be much harder for them to hide.

Deserters: so eventually the Archangels will have to deal with this, but at first theyre actually presumed dead so they have some time. But deserters are often hunted down. If they're known to have caused other offences, then upon capture they may be executed, taken in for questioning and trial, or imprisonment. Depends on their service record some as well. (Soldiers with 'clean slates' are likely to be brought in for interrogation/trial, then are sentenced to prison for varying lengths of time after being branded. Less compliant soldiers often get much less understanding treatment.)

[badsithnocookie]

i guess i’ve come to terms with the defection au being basically canon for eirn (or at least, in the outlander!eirn fork of the appoverse), but i’m going to leave its tag as defection au/general reference name for continuity’s/ease of reference’s sake

but anyway prompted i guess by dani’s musings on ana maite, this is a post about where eirn is, relationship wise (on several levels)

quinn leaving for the empire was what prompted eirn to go to the republic, rather than the other way around. up until that point, she knew that leaving the empire would mean having to find allies who could protect her, but had ruled the republic out because she knew quinn would never, ever be fine with that. his leaving, though, meant it was back on the table as an option (and the one most able to protect her, at that)

obviously losing the relationship with him (losing him) hurt, a lot - not just because he’d left her, but because in doing so, he’d rejected the healing and peace she’d found for herself on odessen and gone straight back to the place that had wounded her so badly to begin with (to say nothing of the way the empire had treated him). it dragged all of her old doubts and insecurities back up to the surface - that she was just weak if she couldn’t stomach life in the empire, that she was barely sith at all, and hardly worthy of being tsis, that if she’d embraced the sith lifestyle properly maybe she wouldn’t have suffered the way she did.

but in leaving the empire she has also lost her relationship with it,and that hurts on some level, too. because she is tsis - she is sith, truly sith. she has sith skin and sith hair and sith blood, she speaks and thinks in the sith language, she has a sith name and a sith lightsaber. and the empire, for a long time, was her home. it was where she grew up, where she has her happy childhood memories, where she fell in love, the place she always fought to protect, even once she knew she could never bring herself to go back. her relationship with the empire was always complicated, but now it’s over, and that's painful on a very intimate, personal level.

so, right now, at the minute, whether we’re talking in the stalled timeline of defection or the vague unwritten one of wherever swtor’s content drops are up to, eirn is... grieving (her relationship with quinn, her relationship with the empire), and lonely, and trying her best to heal and to find herself for, really, the first time in her life. she doesn’t have the inquisition breathing down her neck, doesn’t have to worry about the judgement of other sith (even if she does have to worry about the judgement of republic immigration). sis custody is decidedly less free than odessen was, but that was one reason she agreed to go to ossus; fresh air and open skies and the possibility she might be able to breathe on her own terms.

massive republic and or plot fuckups notwithstanding, she will probably stay in the republic and do her best to slink out of the war and public eye, both. she’ll never have a ‘normal’ life, but she can at the very least have one that’s hers. chances are high she will get dragged into Some level of plot (i’d been musing on her settling on corellia for a while, if only because it’s where her parents went in the factionswap au and i like the symmetry of it, and the final chunk of onslaught story is there so she’d probably end up caught up in that somehow)

(if nothing else, i can give her the closure of actually killing malgus this time)

eventually she would seek out a relationship again, though. eirn has a goopy romantic side, and wants a family and a picket fence and a dog and all the rest of that shite. i don’t have any firm plans or ships for her, though.

canon love interests-wise,

quinn is going to be okay with leaving the empire for the republic approximately never. also he like. recused himself from meeting her because he assumed that she’d go leaping back into the arms of the sith/empire, after she failed to do that then went over a year continuing to let her exist in closure-less misery, when he finally showed up he didn’t make any effort to contact her until after the dust was starting to settle (and he’d been taken prisoner by her faction), ummed and ahhed over whether he was going to join her, and then having done that, immediately leapt back in with the empire leaving her in the process as soon as he got the promise they might not execute him for treason because they’re so desperate to fight a war they’re probably going to lose anyway because the empire has the collective tactical knowhow of the kind of person who fights a land war in russia during the winter. so, like. no. he’s very much never ever going to be an option again.

like. if canon provides a convincing ic reason that he might defect to the republic i might indulge in an au where a chunk of the above does not come to pass but honestly? i don’t see it being the case.

lana is off the table for obvious reasons (lana’s a ds sith, manipulative, etc. eirn does not trust lana further than she could spit a rat). plus in the appoverse, lana is still on odessen running her alliance (or what’s left of it, now that most of the major players have gone)

theron is a big no, both because of his jedi ties but also that whole zildrog mess. (i haven’t decided exactly how that goes down in the appoverse but i do want to keep the speech where he tells the outlander they’re a tyrant because that would crit eirn right in the insecurities and delicious angst).

koth would definitely be a possibility if i didn’t have him with anya (though i guess i could change that? it’s not like i’ve written a ton with them). they both want to do right by their people, by all people, and have been treated badly for it. plus common ground on getting fucked over by valkoriate. and he’s a good bean all round.

tau would be a definite possibility if not for both the monologue she gives about corellia on ossus, and her general attitude towards imperial troops as monsters (granted, she’s not wrong, but if she displayed that attitude around eirn, eirn would absolutely take it personally and both be offended and internally go ‘yup, i’m a monster’ and file it away for things to berate herself with later). that and the whole ‘jedi’ thing put her in the ‘no’ column.

oc wise,

the best any eirn-awenyth relationship will ever be in ‘canon’ and its derivative aus is a mutual ‘okay-i-guess-i-no-longer-hate-you-but-please-stay-the-fuck-away-from-me’.

my hellbrain has also suggested croslan, who only has one post in his tag but was the jk in jk hell volume 1. he’s a miraluka goofball with an incredibly corny sense of humour who basically existed for kiramancing and getting legendary on progenitor (can i get an f for the old servers). i think if i was going to do that though i’d rework him to not be a jedi. the luka sene would remind eirn too much of the inquisition for her to ever be comfortable around one, but he could just be... a miraluka who is not a member of any particular religious order. existing outside of rigid religious structures is a thing that would be super common in the gffa, outside of societies like the sith empire.

aemilia is Just Good Friends. i love them both as friends, their weird jedi+sith friendship is built on years of slowly building trust and understanding (even though i. know i’ve barely posted any of it. but they met during sor; aemilia was on manaan following up a lead on the thefts from tython during an imperial incursion at the same time that eirn was there following a tip about the truth regarding the sacking of the academy on korriban. aemilia taught eirn how to use various Force techniques during late sleepless nights on rishi, and eirn would teach amy about the sith structures and statuary on yavin iv, and there were reasons eirn selected aemilia to be her ambassador to the iokath intelligence). amy has never had the end goal of getting eirn to do any particular thing - in sharp contrast to almost every other jedi, sith, and miscellaneous Force user eirn has encountered.

i don’t really have any other ocs that i have strong onions on? most of them are either in relationships/unsuitable or super minor.

that was uh. longer than i expected it would be. oops

[falkenar-a]

// Are we doing family things tonight? Oops. 

BOOK VERSE;; FAMILY

     𝓣he basic run down, is that Alistair’s father (Who I have named Richard. haha dick. lmao) was a Baron, plotting against the king in the 1300s with other men of high titles. Using his eldest son (who I have named Johnathan) as a little pawn in the game. In the end, they were caught, and Johnathan was killed for treason. Due to this disgrace, Alistair’s father spiralled into an angry reckless sort of lifestyle, dragging Alistair into the plans now. Alistair never wanted anything to do with these plans and only wanted to care for his sisters if they remain unmarried due to his brother’s mistakes.

Richard called upon the help of Astaroth and asked Alistair to follow him to an underground tunnel system where they entered a large room. After an important figure entered-- who was Astaroth-- he turned Alistair and left him to his own destruction.

After waking up, Alistair slaughtered a group of lower class people to quench his thirst... Alistair’s father then entered the room and tried to reason with the newborn vampire, but Alistair was far too frustrated for his life being ruined and accidentally killed his father.

Astaroth likes games. So the tunnel system is basically a labyrinth. And Alistair got so frustrated, it’s canon... he started bashing walls to get out. I imagine he would hate tight spaces now due to this. Once he got home, he realized that his mother and sisters had been taken by Astaroth as prizes and has never heard from them since.

It is unknown if Alistair’s mother or sisters are still alive. Astaroth could have very well turned them into vampires. And if any of you want to make characters of his family, I WELCOME YOU TO DO IT.

[cynthiaandsamus]

Custom Toonami Block Week 56 Rundown

Code Geass: It’s the deserted island episode where everyone gets naked, first Kallen just decides to get naked and have a bath for no reason only to get jumped by Suzaku who’s more surprised she’s a Black Knight than that she’s here and also naked. Then Lelouch strips down Euphie for some reason (I mean wet clothes yeah but it’s still a little weird to strip your sister completely naked). And then Suzaku pleasures himself with this fish. Everyone kinda navel gazes for a while and they’re all picked up at the Thought Elevator where Lelouch is like “Sweet they left the keys in the experimental weapon that matches my fighting style, bye” Also Suzaku’s in trouble because of Lelouch’s ridiculously vague Geass order telling him to live which for some reason surviving is treason.

Inuyasha: We start off the Tsubaki arc this time around, which I honestly do have some fondness for, I originally remember thinking this was a filler arc (and it kind of is, it’s just canon filler) but it’s in the manga and it does have some neat stuff in it. In one of Naraku’s mos hilariously convoluted and indirect schemes he contracts Tsubaki to curse Kagome and control her to kill Inuyasha to get off both Naraku and Tsubaki’s hateboner for Kikyo. Now this is kind of an interesting standoff because if Inuyasha runs from Kagome trying to kill him, Naraku’s told Tsubaki to just off Kagome so they can get her out of the way but Inuyasha doesn’t know that for sure but still doesn’t want to abandon Kagome in this state so it’s real good dramatic irony honestly.

Yu Yu Hakusho: Yusuke goes back to his first day of school and everyone’s just kind of okay with him dying and getting better and the scumbag teacher tries to frame him again but gets caught because he didn’t even bother to hide the stuff he stole in Yusuke’s desk and kept it on his person like a dumbass. Yusuke learns his Spirit Gun finally and uses it for a petty display against his teacher (honestly we’re lucky Koenma didn’t underestimate Yusuke’s power here because if he had latent potential he hadn’t accounted for he would’ve blown this teacher’s head off right away). The thieves of the three sacred treasures meet up in the most obvious spot for Yusuke to track down and he interrupts Kurama probably about to fucking murder Gouki for trying to punch him but Kurama dips out for his own shit and Hiei’s like ‘dude wtf I thought we were evil bros and shit’ and follows him, leaving Yusuke to fight Gouki. So Yusuke has to fight a giant ogre and he’s already used up his one shot supernatural power for the day on being petty, really Koenma probably shouldn’t have let him test it that soon or sent him out the next day, just saying.

Unlimited Blade Works: Shinji wants to kill Rin and Shirou for busting up their little loli murder party but Gilgamesh has leftovers he needs to get into the fridge so they book it and Lupin!Lancer has the hots for Rin (who doesn’t really) so they form a Total Drama Alliance and go to fight Archer and Caster and Rin says some stuff that would probably be important to anyone who doesn’t already know the twist about Archer’s past.

Panty and Stocking: Okay so this episode is on the top of the “Would not fly in 2021” list, and that’s not a short list (well it is because I’ve only seen four episodes on it but every episode has been on it so far). But we have an episode dedicated to fat-shaming Stocking and then one where Garterbelt takes way too long looking at naked high school boys while the girls do their best reenactment of the Kill la Kill ending by stripping a whole high school naked (though the girls do actually fondle said high schoolers but idk how old they’re supposed to be so I can’t make much of a judgment call on that) the first episode is so dedicated to making fun of fat people and the second has a message about being comfortable in your underwear which makes the combined moral “Be free and naked as long as you’re thin and pretty.” But I’m not saying I hate this episode or anything, it’s a lot of fun but oh my GOD this would not get away with airing today. A lot of PSG is casually obscene for shock value and the irony is I feel like the obscenity is probably one of the less objectionable things about it nowadays, there’s lots of risqué anime now but there’s lots of slurs and weird uncomfortable sexualization that would just be kicked out of the game so fast now. Still it’s cool to just watch this chaos unfold and have fun with it, it’s a neat little time capsule of how permissive stuff was ten years ago.

FMA Brotherhood: Hoenheim confronts Father and infects him with his people juice, trying to give him the feels. The Armstrongs finally defeat Sloth with the help of Izumi and her husband, and Briggs takes Central, but oops, Bradley’s back and ready to fuck shit up.

Attack on Titan: Hange’s about to kill Reiner but Jean has to open his mouth and be sensible so Pieck’s able to reclaim him, but at least they still have Bertoldt and they spend half the episoe deciding whether or not to save their Commander in Chief because he’s good at planning and shit or Armin because he’s a main character and “But the Sea Captain, THE SEA” but yeah, honestly this was probably the right call, Erwin’s fine and all and decently good at formations and shit but the crazy crap Armin comes up with is irreplaceable and Erwin would be a lot harder to utilize at the Colossal Titan since they don’t really like just throwing him into shit. Plus the whole deal of “Man I’m just a rotten little hatebucket but Armin’s a pure soul” Eren spouts out hits a lot differently now that we’re in the finale, so yeah one of those classic “spend the whole episode debating something only for it not to matter” episodes of Attack on Titan.

[ofaphrcditearchive]

( eiza gonzalez, 29, she/her ) pardon, do you know where i can find  angelina valeria moctezuma? they are the chameleon around the castle and a governess from spain I was told they are rather observant + intelligent, but also mistrustful + blunt. I wouldn’t want to see them on a bad day.  

it is i, your resident impulsive trashbag, here with another character oops??? also, snake gif is accurate because... homegirl is a snAKE. anyway angelina is basically a mashup of elizabeth bennet, nancy drew and yvaine from stardust?? she is v v blunt, not a very expressive person unless you annoy her and if you can make her laugh you are one of the eight wonders tbh. she is incredibly clever (like an actual genius, has photographic memory not that anyone would know what that is now), comes with being a governess that the queen of spain wants (though not technically just wanted to teach her future kid a nursery rhyme ya get me). the way to her heart? books. basically collects them, is a huGE nerd. sometimes goes by ange/angie/lina to those she knows well but don’t bother if she doesn’t like you, she’ll just find it patronising. dad used to call her angel so anyone really close might call her that too. father was originally from a well off merchant family (like greer in reign, no title but rich af) in mexico until his father fought in the war and basically saved the former french king’s life so was given a marquess title. eventually the fam immigrated to france when grandpa died and began the noble life. anyway LIKE this if you want to plot and i’ll come hit your inbox up!!

for the BASICS please click here !!

angelina was born the oldest of four. with a brother and two sisters relying on her, the future reputation and success of her family rested on her shoulders and she was happy to take such a burden because she adored them more than anything. she lived the start of her life as the daughter to a rich merchant in mexico until her grandpa died and left them the title and estate in champagne, france. so the family packed up and moved and began to integrate into french society. no easy feat for people who had never been to a royal court in their life. to make the transition easier, their father set up a champagne business on the side and soon, with his expertise, was one of the main champagne supplies in france. angelina always knew she had a pretty face, and her family knew she would blossom into the perfect bride, not that she ever cared much for her looks when her mind was always filled with the stars, with science, with what was beyond france. she never really warmed to the country, and their family didn’t like the new queen that had been placed on the throne to rule. mexico looked after all their people, but they could not see that same community spirit in their new home and eventually grew disenchanted with the same monarchy that gave them power.

upon realising that a family of one of his subjects at court had been given title and land in france, the spanish king saw an opportunity ( albeit with a little cajoling from his daughter violeta ) to spy on france in a way that would ensure their loyalty to him but also to make sure he always knew what was going on. angelina’s father received word from the king and decided he and his family could do well with this deal. as far as they were concerned, france was just a place they lived and they had no loyalty to the crown. and he had always been grasping for more money and power than he had right to so it was an obvious deal to accept. he decided that he would use his eldest daughter for the role because no one would ever suspect her and she was made for it really. the eldest had always been a genius, and charming when she sets her mind to it and was obviously stunning. she was perfect. so pablo moctezuma accepted the deal that his family would quietly work for the spanish king as long as they were offered refuge in her country if ever things went wrong. they would be getting revenge on a country that didn’t really ever respect them, making powerful friends and money and would eventually get to live their lives in a country they saw as a much better fit. 

and it worked for a few years because no one ever suspected angelina. she fed useful information back to the king, always through her father and they were rewarded greatly for it. eventually, however, the french crown caught wind of the trading of secrets and the information was traced back to their family. as everything had come through her father they blamed him, because why would they have ever thought it was his innocent angelina? he was accused and convicted of treason and there was nothing they or, their new friendship with spain, could do about it. he was executed for acts of treason against the crown and his family, though allowed to live, were exiled from france for life. 

the moctezuma’s, grief stricken by their father’s loss and sacrifice, sought refuge with the king. as they were stripped of their title and wealth, they needed income and fast, and this fell on the shoulders of the eldest children as the queen could not publicly offer titles to traitors. eventually they would earn a title again with their continued work for the spanish crown but for now angelina was offered a position as governess to noble spaniards as long as she continued to spy for her and eventually asked to look after violeta’s child when she eventually became queen. her position was a low one, but a perfect fit for the intelligent woman who could now gather information from the nobles and not be suspected of a thing.

angelina has followed her queen to bern because of her pregnancy and to continue looking after the noble children who have travelled with the spanish court. she feels as if she owes her families life to spain and would do anything for their new queen, including kill for her. and she has. though not many. no longer just gathering information, the eldest moctezuma will kill those who are a threat to the crown if she has to.

WANTED PLOTS

former betrothed: the engagement was broken off when her family were charged with treason and exiled. they wouldn’t have been too high in station so no one in line for a crown. bastards, merchants, dukes and fifth in line princes tbh. angelina did fall for them and wanted to spend her life with this person. unfortunately her fall from grace made this impossible and she was heart broken when things ended. now has no chance in marrying him as she is so low in station.

family: bring me her mother, her brother and two sisters or cousins! she is big on family and will do anything for them. literally anything.

enemy: so like they hate eachother. maybe it was someone they betrayed in france, maybe they used to be friends until they found out she was using them and now takes pleasure in her fall but give me someone she loathes.

best friend/former best friend: either someone she adores and was her support through everything or someone that used to be her best friend and the relationship is now too damaged to fix.

forbidden love: fallen for someone she really shouldn’t. they’re far too above her and it ain’t gonna happen but she’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

someone who’s children she looks after: i mean, she’s a governess so gimme a kiddo she watches after.

someone who doesn’t trust her: knows her family are traitors and even if her father took the blame suspects there’s more to the story than they say there is.

just hit me up for any tbh!!

[flyingsassysaddles]

The Execution

It was ironic, Munkhbat decided, staring at his executioner and the crowds that cheered for his death, that he was going to be executed for the one murder he didn’t commit. The Emperor was speaking to the mob outside of the execution ring, his short hair brushed to silk-like perfection, his soft clothes shifting over the sand crusty with blood, hands gesturing with a passion that was completely fabricated. Munkhbat decided to listen to the lies Emperor Kiku was telling the audience, just for old times sake.

“This Mongol comes into our home, our palace, our lives, and kills the firstborn of the Empire!” the newly crowned emperor roared, and the crowd howled back, feet stomping and becoming even more bloodthirsty. “This murderer takes a man loved so dearly by his empire, and for what?! For money?!”

The Mongol could have rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy. Like the second born prince of the empire was one to talk about cheap motives.

“Today, we kill this murderer! Today, we kill the man that had plagued our people with death and destruction! Today, we kill the man who took our EMPEROR!” The mob screamed back like a wild animal, screaming for his blood, screaming for the blood of a man that killed 21 people.

At least, as far anyone would ever know, Munkhbat snickered. He covered his tracks well, so well that the assassin was almost certain that he would never get caught.

“Almost being the keyword”, he remarked dryly, and out loud, making his guards whip over to him and press their spears harder in his already bloody back, as if a simple word was enough for the fighter to teleport out of this execution arena and never be found again. The truth was that Munkhbat always knew, in the deepest, darkest, most hidden corners of his mind, that he would get caught. Really, the entire underground knew the Palace Guards would grab them eventually, they all knew they were on borrowed time when they signed their contract with the devil and let themselves be pulled down into the most terrifying pit of humanity. So Munkhbat knew, but he didn’t know he would be snatched for something he actually didn’t do. He gave a final glare to the beautifully dressed man before his guards shoved him onto the stage.

“Jeesh, I’m going, I’m going!” Munkhbat rolled his eyes and strutted onto the stage. Grinning, he met Emperor Kiku���s eyes and decided this was the best time for a conversation, given that it was going to be its last and all.

“Tell me ‘Emperor,’ how does it feel to have a brother’s blood on your hands? Heavy, isn't it? I'm curious, is it still the same even if you are not related by full blood?” The Mongol tilted his head to the side in mock thought, grinning even wider when Kiku stuttered and stared at him in confusion.

“I did not kill Yao.”

“Oh save it for the choir,” Munkhbat snapped, looking at the mob that was growing more and more impatient. “If not you, who else? Certainly not me. I hated Yao, sure, but I would never kill him. I could never even try! The man is, oops, WAS,” Munkhbat corrected, “Guarded like he was worth his weight in gold. He had troops everywhere he went, poison testers, heck, he even had booby traps load all over the palace! Some say that might have been a bit paranoid, but Yao was a smart man. He knew there were people in high places that wanted him gone. And so he made sure he was always protected, never unguarded, never unsafe. I couldn't have killed him if I tried. Though I am flattered by your faith in my skill.”

“What is the point of all this?” the Emperor hissed, face going white.

“The point in all this is that, with so many guards around, he sure was killed pretty personally huh? Poison and then strangulation? You have to be really close to pull off something like that. You'd have to sneak past his guards and get him alone then get him to EAT something and it's just a mess! Of course, it would be a lot easier if it was someone he trusted.”

“Stop it. I command you to stop talking!” The Emperor grabbed his collar and gave him an excellent view of the royal majesty’s fury filled brown eyes.

“You can't stop rumors, Kiku.” Said man dropped him at the sound of his name and backed away, eyes wide. “You can kill the guards who might have witnessed it. You can praise all truth seekers until they are clay in your manipulating hands. You can even use me as a scapegoat. But here's the thing. You can never stop the rats from chattering, no matter WHAT you do,” Munkhbat chuckled maniacally, pointing to the new murderer in front of him. “Once you murder one, you won't stop. It's like drugs, once you do it once, you can do it twice, thrice, even 42 times! So let me pass on a bit of advice.” He leaned in close to the frozen man, who had become a white sheet. “Don't use rope. It makes to much of a mark.” The Mongol then strutted over to his execution block, smiling at the black hooded executioner and getting ready to die.

“My brother was unfit to be Emperor!” cried the second in line, the spare, the son of a lowly concubine.

“And you are?”

“SILENCE!” the man screamed, jolting their conversation from the stage and to the general audience, who were now jumping at their feet, excited that FINALLY there was going to be blood. Money was passed around and bets were made about how many chops it would take to get through the assassin’s neck, if his head would roll down, etc.

One stood in the crowd, completely silent and not moving, eyes wide and hands making no effort to try and lob bets. Munkhbat’s eyes managed to stray onto the monk, where they locked and grew soft for a fraction of a second, before going back to being diamonds.

It was rather ironic, he decided once more, that the one time he was to be executed, there was somebody who would actually miss him. He never expected that at his execution, a crying someone who would actually scream out when he was about to die. Most of his dreams of his execution followed many others in the underground of humanity, involving angry declarations and vows of coming back with a vengeance. He'd been thinking of what he would say ever since he first signed his first contract with the devil, though he failed to read the fine print stating he could never go back after his first murder. He looked back at the monk as the executioner put his head down on the block, never letting his eyes stray as the executioner got ready to swing. He took a deep breath, let it out, and waited for the ax to fall.

“WAIT!” someone in the audience cried, and the ax stopped centimeters away from his neck to stare at the man who had cried out. The audience turned their eyes towards the monk, desperation and fear jolting out of him as he ran to get closer to Munkhbat.

“This man is innocent! I can testify! He was with me on the night of the murder!” The mob gasped, whipping their heads to a stuttering Emperor, who looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

“What do you mean, innocent?” The Emperor finally regain his composure, glaring down at the protester, and the crowd soon followed. “This man has been accused of twenty one murders and convicted of seven!” Munkhbat chuckled to himself at that one. He still didn’t know how he pulled that off.

“Sure he is a criminal, but he is also a human being! Should he not get a trial? Should he not be executed for a murder we know he has done?!” The monk grew louder, commanding the attention of the bloodthirsty being of people, and muttering could be heard from the thousands of heads it boasted. “He has not even been found guilty of a crime! Should not, we, the people of the Empire, decide who killed our Emperor?” Now the heads were nodding, turning its thousand eyes towards the Emperor, waiting for an answer.

“SILENCE!” Emperor Kiku ordered, and the world obeyed, the thousand-headed creature shutting its mouth and the trees stopping their whispers. The wind slowed as if the air itself was waiting for an answer. “This man has been found guilty by the High Court for treason, murder, torture, and a list of things not fit for public ears. ALL people deserve a trial,” the Emperor shouted, before turning to point at the assassin behind him, “But this one DOES NOT!”

The man went on to speak of his crimes, his murders, his targets, and had their family members stand onto the stage to testify. It was not fair, nor was it justice, but to the writhing being of anger and judgment below them, it didn’t matter. One of the victims they pulled onto the stage as time crept by and Munkhbat’s neck started to cramp, was a six-year-old girl, handheld by a shivering mother, seething at the assassin with hate as she told her story. Munkhbat remembered that one. The victim’s wife had been pregnant. Oh, and that one! That was the son of the lord who drank his arsenic. This one was the second cousin of a drug lord, those ones were the younger sisters of the concubine, and on and on. The parade of victims marched forward, and the Emperor grinned at his position above the monk. It wasn’t justice, it wasn't’ a trial, but it didn’t matter. He had lost the court of public opinion.   

“Does anybody think this man should get a TRIAL after all that he had done?!” the Emperor roared, pointing at the guilty man on the stage, and the crowd roared back, teeth clashing in anger, ready for justice. Emperor Yao was a beloved figure if a bit heavy with the beating stick. Should not the murderer face justice? And even if he didn’t do it, he still deserved to die. So chop off his head, the judges decided, and let the gods sort it out!

The executioner raised his ax once more before another cry from the monk stopped him dead in his tracks once more.

“WAIT!”

“WHAT IS IT NOW?!” The emperor was getting twitchy, so close to killing Munkhbat that he could reach out and taste it, but this monk kept getting in the way. He had brought out the victims, he had gotten the verdict of the crowd, what more could this monk do?!

“I am a holy man. Let me go onto the stage and bless him before he dies and his spirit never finds its way,” the Tibetan monk said calmly, and the beast of the crowd slammed its maw shut and looked toward their new Emperor. Surely a great man such as he wouldn't let any man, no matter their crimes, wander in this realm for all of eternity?

A couple of seconds passed before Emperor Kiku gave a wordless nod, and the monk stepped up to the stage. Walking up to the man he had taken care of for the past 3 years, the monk kneeled down and reached into his robes for a blessing rope with trembling hands.

“D-do you accept your crimes?” he stuttered, bringing out his blessing rope and waiting for an answer.

“Most of them. A lot of them deserved it. But some didn’t. And I regret that.”  The assassin smiled at the man who had been his caretaker for years, the one who had taken him in, his only friend in the darkest of nights, and the sole visitor of his prisons. “Don’t you worry Tshering. This was a long time coming. And I’ll be fine.”

“You’re about to die and you’re telling me you’ll be fine?!” Tshering hissed, angry at himself or the or the assassin Munkhbat had no idea.

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Oh, and Tshering-”

“And that is enough time for the blessing!” Emperor Kiku ordered impatiently, skin crawling with the internal scream to get this over with. “Guards, lead the holy man away.”

The guards extended their long claws in the monk’s direction, snatching the back collar of his robe and dragging him off the stage, wood scraping his loose sandal like sandpaper and the curling sense of blood already embedded in the air sighing through the monk’s lungs. Tshering looked at the man he knew for so long, the one with the scarce smile that bloomed in his cheeks, the one that taught him where to put his feet when he was punching underhand, the one that silently helped clean his temple at the end of the day, the one who came to his doorstep a lost man and came out a laughing friend, and so, so many more. He stared at this man, the one he loved, and something in him broke as the condemned man shot one last rare smile, and looked down on the floor bracing for death. A part of him shattered as he saw the ax go up, and then he couldn't hold the jagged pieces any longer.

Tshering wished he could say that he protested with dignity, stopping the execution in its tracks and saving Munkhbat once and for all. But it didn’t happen like that. Instead, he screamed out, lunging for the man he loved, managing to slip away for a few, scared seconds before the guards sunk their teeth back in a pulled him from the stage.

“MUNKHBAT!” He tried to reach out to him, arms stretching, pushing away the guards and trying to run back into his arms just one more time. Don’t let him die, don’t let him die, DON’T LET HIM DIE, he screamed in his head, struggling to escape and pounding on the bars of flesh that stood in the way.

“Put him down! The monk is clearly mad!” The Emperor’s words were obeyed, and Tshering was shoved down to the floor, boots slashing into his head as he screamed once more. The mass of humans shuffled and looked away from the fiasco, and Tshering kept screaming, kept begging for them to let his lost friend go, kept begging for the condemned to fight, to live.

“IGNORE THE MAD MONK!” Emperor Kiku, that terrible, terrible man, ordered, and the ax rose for the final time. Tshering felt fear trickle down his face as he watched the ax fall, fall, fall in slow motion.

The air was filled with a sickening crunch, and blood of an innocent man dripped onto the crusty sand, along with the heart of a broken man, wailing slashing the air and filling the whispering trees.

And around the stage, bets were paid.    

[s-tarboi]

"I don't want your pity, I want your absence." with Alize and Latis //rip that one probably hard

whoops this was longer than I meant it but aayye here you go bb some alize/latis angst for the soulalso sorry for any grammatical errors or anythingI’m still tired af bc I couldn’t take that nap oops

Soft clinking of chains filled the cell as Alize tried to move. The chains themselves were short and way too fucking tight, to the point she was sure her wrists were bruised. Then paired with the fact the cell itself was barely larger than she was, only big enough to fully extend her legs but not much more than that. A small barred window was placed high on the wall she was currently resting on. It was snowing, as was the norm for this kingdom of ice after all. A cold chill came through the window and Alize shivered slightly. This was definitely a change of scenery from the sunny prairie lands of the south in which she grew up in.

Despite the freezing temperature, the pain in her arms and wrists, and the discomfort of the cell, this was all trivial things compared to what may possibly lay in store for her later. To say she was terrified was an understatement. While, yes, she could potentially be face to face with the person who sent her mother to her early grave, finally be able to see for herself what a horrible savage this Latis the Demented Queen was, that didn’t excuse the fact that Alize was utterly powerless in this situation. She had no weapons, couldn’t use her fists, couldn’t even bribe herself out this situation… Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck…. What to do..Time was ticking down on her clock. She heard the tick, tick, tock drumming in her ears louder than the Church bells on a Sunday morning even though it’d be ridiculous to have a clock in a jail cell. Regardless, she heard it. Painfully aware that this could be the last day she breathed. Even so, she remained vigilant. Alize refused to let her mother’s legacy die in vain with her. No. She would go kicking and screaming if she had to. Or at least take as many of these crazy bastards that lived in this godforsaken castle with her as she could to the after life with her.A sound caught her attention. Metal scraping on metal as the jail’s main gate was raised. Someone was here. A new prisoner perhaps? Guards making their rounds, spitting and jeering at the prisoners as they passed by? Both, maybe? Or was it finally time to meet this oh-so-infamous queen? Heavy footsteps could be heard throughout the jail’s halls. She remembered there was a cross section at the end of her hallway. If they turned left, she was safe for now. Right and surely they were coming for her as there weren’t many people on this wing of the halls.Her heart beat faster as she heard the person stop….They picked up again and she smiled to herself, her head dropping low, and her stomach in her throat. The person had gone right. She let out a long, soft breath to clear her mind of every negative thought. She could do this. She could get out of this. Latis won’t get the chance to kill Alize just like she’d killed mom. She gently shook her raven black hair back as best she could from her face. Just in time before the footsteps stopped outside her cell. Looking up, she was met eye to eye with a rough looking guy. He looked around her age, early adulthood that is, though his face was covered in scars and one eye seemed blinded and clouded over. He had short, messy, ginger hair and wore a scowl. Alize guessed quickly that must be how he looked quite often. His armor was the same as every other guard in the castle. Faded blueish gray with yellow markings across the shoulders and various other parts.“Ready or not, Queen Latis summons you, girl.” he said in a bitter tone. His voice was deep and gravely, not at all what she expected. She didn’t voice this opinion out loud, of course, instead just simply nodding. The guard opened her cell, grabbing her chains, dismounting them from the wall and leading her through the twisting and winding dungeon up into the castle itself. As they walked, Alize took in as much as she could. The dungeon had been grimy and cold and smelled of shit and death. But once they got into the castle, it was like a whole different world. Bright, shiny knick-knacks covered each shelf, as well as books, papers, and journals. Large, lavish paintings and tapestries adorned the walls as well. To Alize, they were all of random scenes, random people, nothing she particularly cared about nor was interested in.They eventually came to a set of wide double doors, made of a dark oak. It was smooth and almost appeared glossy, much like the rest of the castle she mused to herself. The ginger headed guard that had been escorting her opened the doors, pulling her along with him as he stepped inside. The chains clinked almost too loudly in the way too quiet throne room. People were gathered here, all eyeing her either suspiciously, accusingly, or downright hatefully as she was pulled in front of where Latis herself sat on her lavish and aggravatingly posh throne, made of red satin and the trim lined with yellow, orange, and white gemstones.Latis herself looked at Alize with a sour look, her featured tightening ever so slightly. She had chocolate colored hair pulled into a tight pony tail, caramel colored skin, and light yellow eyes. Age wrinkles adorned every part of her body, as well as three long scars that sat in the middle of her face, adding more to her scowl than normal.  Her clothes consisted of a floor length dress the same faded blue as the guards’ armor, an icy colored sash wrapped around her hips and thrown over her shoulder. Light beige trimmed the sash and she wore a dark gray armlet with a large sapphire stone placed in the center. She definitely gave off a vibe of power and royalty.“So. You’re the rebellions leader, girl?” Latis finally spoke. Her voice was harsh like sandpaper over a chalkboard. It reminded Alize of a hissing cat.Alize simply looked at the queen. “No. We don’t have a dictatorship like you’re miserable excuse for a kingdom. We vote on our actions amongst ourselves. The strongest of us are the ones that take action first, while the rest follow. The ones who aren’t afraid to risk their lives for our cause, who know how to rally, inspire, and empower our, er, weaker willed members. We lead ourselves.”“Then you are apart of the rebellion. Treason as it is. Punishable by death or exile, y’know. Maybe both.” Latis laughed to herself. It was a wicked and shrill laughter and it almost hurt Alize’s ears.“So it may be. But I assure you, Stormscar, even if I fall by your hands, another will take my place. Then that person may fall and another will take their place. And so on and so on. Until we overthrow your kingdom and restore a peaceful government to these lands our ancestors used to call home. That goes for all unjust and biased kingdom.”“Sounds more like world domination to me.” Latis cawed again.“No. All we want is peace for the kingdoms. We’re tired of war. Tired of living in fear that our husbands, our wives, our children, our lives we’ve built generation after generation could be demolished in the blink of an eye before the next sunrise. Call it whatever you will, in the end its your well deserved justice.” Alize retorted.“Justice? That’s a load of horse crap, dear. There is no justice in this world. Just suffering and agony at the hands of people like you who come brandishing their weapon of silver tongues, calling for peace and harmony and all that tree hugging hippie bullshit. Even if you were to end this apparently “wicked” reign of mine, as you said, another will take my place. Another just like me. Then another after them. What then? Back to square one it would seem.” Latis said, drumming her fingers on the arms of her chair impatiently.“Maybe you have a point. Maybe this world is destined to be drowned in chaos until we as a species end up killing ourselves to extinction. However, I don’t believe that. I believe, eventually, there will be someone that will come to their senses and say “Hey, the way we’re doing things is bad. Maybe we should change?” But that would never happen with narrow minded simpletons like yourself… You’re majesty.” Alize spit the last words at Latis’s feet, though the queen didn’t flinch at all.“Perhaps that may be the case. I do pity you, girl, I wish I was as naive to the world and how it works as you were. Maybe one day you’ll learn that corruption is a natural part of life and the most powerful always come out on top.” Latis said.Alize spit to Latis again, this time managing to strike the queen’s dress. Latis raised an eyebrow though Alize spoke before she could. “I don’t want your pity. I want your absence. And we’ll see to it you’re replaced. For the people. For my mother.”Latis then raised a hand, signalling for the guard from before to step forward. “Baphomet, kill her. Leave her body where these revolutionists will find her body. I want a message sent to them that we’ll kill anyone that will oppose us.”“Yes, m’lady.” Baphomet said, drawing his sword without a second thought. Alize narrowed her eyes. So much for getting out of this alive. For a moment she thought about trying to fight her way out of the castle. But she realized she was hopelessly outnumbered. The odds were stacked against her. She couldn’t escape. Instead, she accepted her demise, refusing to give Latis the satisfaction of hearing her scream as the sharp metal of Baphomet’s blade sliced open her jugular, blood pouring across the white marble floor of the throne room. All the while, until the very end, Alize glared straight at Latis.She’d failed her mother. Her people. The kingdoms. The rebellion. She failed them all. But she still had hope that Latis, and all the other tyrant rulers of this world, would get their judgement. If not by her hands, by someone else just as worthy to uphold the rebellions morals and laws.