by Adara Wolf
The cool air underground was a sharp contrast to the sharp heat outside. Under other circumstances Ahmiki might have enjoyed it, but now he wondered if this was what the afterlife would be like: shivering in the cold, waiting for something terrible to happen.
“Shall we begin, my lord?”
Ahmiki startled out if his daze. Right. They were still in this world. He nodded at Masatl and stood passively as Masatl began to strip him of his loin cloth. No sandals, no jewelry, no crown. Naked again, naked as he had been so often in front of Masatl, and yet it was different now. This was the end of his run as ixiptla.
His eyes began to blur with tears.
Masatl’s hand stilled on Ahmiki’s back. “My lord?”
“No, I—I’m sorry. Ignore me. Let us begin the ceremony. We need to be utterly silent for this, yes?” Ahmiki didn’t wait for a response, simply stepped into the cenote and sat down on the small outcropping.
It felt like Masatl was slower to do his duties this time. He left Ahmiki sitting alone for so long that Ahmiki almost asked him what was wrong. The first touches on the nape of his neck were tentative, conveying a timidness that Ahmiki had never associated with Masatl.
No. He couldn’t keep the tears away if Masatl was going to be sad too. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the touch, hoping Masatl would understand.
The fingers moved up and stroked his shaved skull, making his scalp tingle pleasantly. This hadn’t happened the first time they had cleaned Ahmiki. He turned his head lightly, hoping to get Masatl to hurry up, but Masatl was right there, his lips were right there, and then he was kissing Ahmiki, gently coaxing his mouth open and tangling their tongues. His hands held Ahmiki’s face in place, forcing Ahmiki to accept this goodbye that neither of them wanted.
When Masatl pulled away, he said, “Let’s run away.”
Ahmiki’s heart stopped for a beat. “What?”
“Let’s run away. They’ll never find us.” He pulled on Ahmiki’s arm and tried to get him to leave the water. Ahmiki struggled against the grip and ended up falling further into the cenote, the gap between him and Masatl suddenly wide.
“But—I can’t. I told you. Teska’atl still demands a sacrifice. He spoke to me. He wants me. And if he doesn’t get me, then who knows what will happen to Xochititlan or the rest of the world?”
Strangely, Masatl smiled. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“That you won’t run. You could. Nobody would stop you. I would make sure of it.” The smile he wore was unfamiliar, almost sinister in its surety. Ahmiki sank lower into the water to avoid that gaze.
“I’m not running. I… I love you, Masatl, but I can’t abandon my duties. Even if I wasn’t meant for this. Even if I could have done something greater. I would not condemn my people.”
And still Masatl kept smiling, but it turned gentle. Not sad though, which confused Ahmiki a bit. “You are a great man, my lord. You are truly the greatest treasure this city has ever created.” He joined Ahmiki in the water and resumed washing him. He ran his hands all over Ahmiki’s skin, and Ahmiki sank back into the comfort. Their movements made the water ripple, and it crashed gently back onto their bodies, caressing them like a lover. Perhaps Teska’atl was watching right now.
Forgive us for desecrating your waters, Ahmiki thought, and he felt a wave of affection in return, pure and overwhelming, so much that it blinded Ahmiki for a moment and he could feel only the heat inside and the water pushing against his skin.
How could he run away, when Teska’atl was waiting for him? He loved Masatl, and if they had more time they would have surely become more than simply master and slave, more than lovers when comfort demanded, but Teska’atl’s affection was all consuming. Ahmiki could drown in this, and it was only Masatl’s strong arms holding him that kept Ahmiki from sinking into the cenote forever.
When he came to, he was startled to find that his body was sated, and moreover that Masatl was as well. Masatl was kissing him, whispering nonsense in his ear that helped Ahmiki ground himself back in reality. He held Ahmiki for another while yet, until Ahmiki’s legs found purchase and he could stand on his own strength again.
They walked out of the cenote. The ground should have felt cool underneath Ahmiki’s feet, but sensations seemed a bit dulled. He ran his fingers over Masatl’s chest, and the skin tingled against his fingertips. Real, but somehow not.
“Am I cleansed?” Ahmiki asked as an afterthought.
Masatl kissed his brow. “You have always been pure.”
~*~*~
Everything passed in a daze. Ahmiki played his flute as he walked down the Avenue of the Sun, wearing only the simple loincloth and the many flutes tied to strings around his neck. He saw people waving and cheering, but the sounds didn’t register. All he had was the music, and the sense that he had to do this to please Teska’atl. It didn’t matter that his brother had done all of this to kill Ahmiki. It didn’t matter that he would never talk to his sister or mother again.
It didn’t even matter that he would never see his son. Because Masatl had been right: Ahmiki could see the life growing in Sentewa’s womb, the small spark that would one day become a strong boy. He was sure that a great destiny lay ahead for that life. Ahmiki put his feelings into the flute music, the song of a great warrior and a great king who would bring prosperity to Xochititlan.
But before the prosperity, there was darkness ahead. He saw that looming over Colsatsli’s head, a dark cloud that obscured his face even now. It was fear and jealousy and pride, all of it wrapped tightly around his brother and leading him down a path of destruction.
He got to the steps of the temple. He played the first few notes of his final song and smashed the flute against the first step. Then he went up, played a few notes on the second step.
Again and again, a rhythm that almost soothed him. With each flute that he smashed, he shed the resentment that he had carried with him all year. He thought his heart would be pounding when he reached the top, but he felt only surety in his path. He would be rewarded for this.
He didn’t hear whatever words Tlanextic said, though the crowd below cheered in response. He saw the next ixiptla, a young man, a slave, who stood behind the small temple threshold and had fear in his eyes. Ahmiki wanted to reassure him, tell him that Teska’atl was a kind and loving lord, but he couldn’t find the breath for words.
Off to the side stood Masatl. Was he supposed to be there? Or—Ahmiki wasn’t sure he was there at all. Masatl glowed with energy, and his eyes were the bright jaguar’s eyes that Ahmiki had seen so often. Nobody else was acknowledging him, so perhaps it was a true vision: Masatl was with him in spirit if not in body.
Masatl nodded at him. It was time.
Ahmiki lay down on the stone table and stared up at the purple sky, slowly turning blue in the dawn sun. The beat of his heart thrummed in his ears, steady and loud.
I am sorry, my treasure, Teska’atl said to Ahmiki, only it sounded different.
Tlanextic raised the ceremonial knife above Ahmiki’s torso.
And then, just as he was bringing it down to pierce Ahmiki’s chest, the world froze. The flock of birds in the distance hung motionless in the sky. Tlanextic’s dagger was just a hair’s breadth away from Ahmiki’s skin. Not a single gust of wind brushed by.
Masatl, glowing almost brighter than the sun, stepped up to the stone table and leaned over Ahmiki. He cupped Ahmiki’s jaw and kissed him gently, his love pouring into Ahmiki, filling him down to the last hair.
You are so brave. My jade, my silver, my treasure.
Ahmiki heard the words, though Masatl’s mouth didn’t move. And it was Masatl—but it was also Teska’atl, and he realized now, it had always been Teska’atl, watching him, caring for him, protecting him, loving him. He had so many questions, but had no way of putting them to words.
Yet Teska’atl understood, and he smiled gently at him. You were not meant for me, and yet here you are. I have watched for a year to see if y
ou were suitable, and I have loved you for nearly as long. I am angry with your brother for how he has deceived this city—this city that should have been yours—and yet I cannot bear to let you go.
So this was what it meant to draw a god’s attention. If Ahmiki had been found unworthy, perhaps he would be allowed to live. But faced with this vision of Teska’atl’s full glory, he didn’t care. He wanted to be a part of that, to be surrounded by this glow of love for an eternity. Surely life on earth could never compare to the embrace of the heavens.
Teska’atl stroked Ahmiki’s shaved head and kissed him again.
Your father saw that your brother lacked a true face, so your brother hastened his death. Your brother would have you killed so that you may never displace him. Do not worry. I will not allow you to go unavenged. Your brother will fall and be forgotten, while your son will carry your name to greatness. Your legacy will be remembered.
The last of Ahmiki’s worries fell away. Yes. His city would be safe. Maybe not immediately. But someday. It would be great and glorious, and he would watch it at Teska’atl’s side.
Ahmiki closed his eyes.
He felt Teska’atl kiss his chest, just over his heart, at the same moment that the blade pierced him.
End
Thank you for reading
If you enjoyed In Life, In Death, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or on GoodReads. It really helps me out.
If you’re interested in more in this universe, you can get A Poet, A Prince, a prequel story featuring Ahmiki and a character from Book 2 of The Saga of the City by the Flowers by signing up to my mailing list.
Other Works by Adara Wolf
Under His Heel
Under His Heel: A Kidnapping
A Coward, A Warrior (Saga of the City by the Flowers, Book 2)
Excerpt from A Coward, A Warrior
Tekokwa runs. He runs from his past, he runs from his future. He runs from himself.
He runs so far from civilization that he should be the only human around, but instead he finds himself living with Kwaotli, a mysterious young man who is one contradiction upon another. He's a spoiled lordling one moment, a humble weaver the next. He tells stories like nobody Tekokwa has ever known, and yet won't share his own. And above all, his moods swing: from fun and carefree to manic and angry.
Despite everything, Tekokwa can't defend himself against Kwaotli's advances. Kwaotli seems determined force Tekokwa to face himself, to let out the darkness that Tekokwa has tried so hard to suppress all his life.
A Coward, A Warrior is a 30k novella with no happily ever after.
Please enjoy this brief excerpt from A Coward, A Warrior, Book 2 in the Saga of the City by the Flowers.
~*~*~
Tekokwa wasn’t quite running anymore—he was sure he’d lost his pursuers by now—but he didn’t feel safe staying still either. The forest around him had grown ever denser, trees impossibly large, and still he felt the slave hunters’ breaths on the back of his neck.
It was illogical. He wasn’t worth that much, and his owner had been a priest’s daughter. They’d bought him to protect her from a particularly arduous suitor, who was of too low rank to even be considered for a husband.
It would have been fine, if Xochititlan hadn’t invaded Yowalapan. Suddenly, tribute needed to be sent, month after month, more and more warriors to become part of their army of slaves and sacrifices.
Tekokwa had no intention of being sacrificed. He’d overheard his mistress’s father saying he’d be sent away next month, and he’d planned his escape. He’d waited until the festival to Ekakoapilli, when the city of Yowalapan would be too busy to watch all exits, and left while all the people celebrated. He felt bad for the poor ixiptla, the living representative of the god Teska’atl, who would have to let their slob of a king fuck him that evening. And at the end of the year, the ixiptla would be sacrificed, having put up with all that shit for nothing. No way was Tekokwa going through any of that, or even worse: being the kind of tribute who got sacrificed when some rich snob died. So he ran.
The jungle he was in now would probably be safe. He was already lost, and he doubted any of the slave hunters knew the area any better. He’d heard there was a great river somewhere here, almost as wide as the Great Lake. Finding it would help him survive—fish would be in abundance—but even without the river the forest appeared to have plenty. He’d spotted many peach trees and berry bushes, and several nut trees as well. His spear wouldn’t last forever, but he was sure with enough time he could fashion other ways to hunt. Some of the trees had bark that he could easily strip to weave into nets.
The most difficult part would be finding a good spot to build a shelter. He hadn’t ever built a house before, but a light drizzling rain had followed him the past few evenings, and he didn’t want to sleep like that forever.
So he walked farther and farther, another three days, until he found a small clearing near a large old tree, its trunk so wide that it would have taken three of Tekokwa to encircle it. The lower branches already provided some semblance of shelter; he would just need to fashion a proper roof to fill the gaps and he would be set.
He got to work clearing the forest floor. Near midday, he left to find food and collect a few more materials: large leaves and vines and more branches that might serve as a frame.
When he returned, there was a youth sitting in the middle of his little clearing.
The young man—he couldn’t have been much older than seventeen, not with that skinny frame—was extremely pale. Instead of rich clay tones, he looked more pink, as if he had lain ill for a long time. His long black hair had bold streaks of silver running through it, another sign of illness.
Only his eyes shone like bright emeralds, despite the red tint around the irises.
So, ill and crying.
But not, Tekokwa thought, a poor boy. He wore finely woven sandals, and his skirt was dyed in greens and yellows. On his ear dangled a quetzal-feather earring and his fingers were bedecked with rings.
“Get out,” Tekokwa growled as he dropped his supplies. “This is my spot.”
The boy sniffled and huffed. “No. I was here first. And you’re not supposed to be here anyway.”
The words pierced Tekokwa’s heart with fear. The boy couldn’t be from Yowalapan. It was too far away for somebody so fragile to have traveled here. A noble son, then, of some city nearby.
“Boy, I could easily murder you right here. Run home if you value your life.”
The boy had the gall to approach him, walking in a circle around Tekokwa but staying well out of immediate range.
“Are you sure? Should I go home and tell them I found an escaped slave?”
“What? No, I’m—”
“I’m sure there are a lot of free men with numerous whip scars on their backs. If you aren’t a slave, then in the very least you’re an unrepentant criminal.”
Fuck it. Tekokwa couldn’t risk this brat giving him away. With his heart pounding hard, he lunged and grabbed the boy, closing his hand around the boy’s throat and squeezing.
Instead of looking scared, the boy started laughing. Laughing until Tekokwa stole his breath entirely, and his eyes started leaking tears.
Tekokwa closed his eyes, not wanting to see the boy’s face turn pale for lack of air. He waited, and waited, and then his hands started shaking so hard he was forced to let go. He stumbled a few steps back and cursed his weakness.
The boy collapsed to the ground, unbreathing, and for a moment Tekokwa thought that he’d actually done it, actually killed him. It made him feel ill. But then the boy took a gasping breath, and when he looked up at Tekokwa he started laughing all over again.
“I thought you said you could kill me!” He stood up and twirled mockingly, apparently unaffected by the choking.
The ring of red Tekokwa had left behind stood out in sharp contrast on the boy’s pale skin, almost like a collar around his neck. Tekokwa felt his face heat with an unwanted emotion.
“Oh, don’t be like that. There’s enough space here for both of us. Yes. I’ve decided. We’re going to live here together.”
Tekokwa looked at the small clearing, and the work he’d already done on it. It was the perfect place for him. If he could tolerate this crazy boy…
Maybe a jaguar would eat the kid. That would save Tekokwa some trouble. “Fine. But you do your share of work. And don’t even think about telling anybody where we are.”
The kid smiled wildly. “I would never! I was having such an awful year, but you’ve brightened it completely.”
An awful year? Maybe that explained the sick pallor and the red tinged eyes, but Tekokwa didn’t know how getting almost murdered by a stranger twice his size would have improved it.
“What’s your name, kid? I want to know what to yell the next time you piss me off.”
“Kid? Oh, I guess I look young compared to you. Hmmm… you can call me Kwaotli. And you are?”
Had the boy given him a fake name? Tekokwa hesitated and thought of doing the same, but his name was the only thing he’d really owned for the longest time. He didn’t want it gone. “I’m Tekokwa.”
With surprising grace, Kwaotli darted in close and peered directly into his eyes. The gaze made Tekokwa uncomfortable, but he couldn’t get himself to look away either.
This close, he had to admit that maybe Kwaotli wasn’t as young as he appeared. He had lines around his eyes that ran deeper than expected for a man so young, and fine scars peppered his shoulders—very thin, almost invisible on his pale skin, but there nonetheless.
“Very well, Tekokwa. You’ll do. Let’s finish building your home.” Kwaotli turned and skipped away.
Purchase A Coward, A Warrior on Amazon, or find out more (including detailed content notes) at my website.
