Work Text:
From the diary of Pánfilo de Narváez, 1520
...Cortés is slain. It was not my doing, nor any of my men, for well I remember our mission to bring him back to Hispaniola. But as for how it happened, I will set down here, and somehow make sense of it. The fighting at the temple was fierce, and many times did I think we would be captured and slain, but then there came from the west a fierce light the color of blood, and the Indians all said it was a good omen. Indeed I think it must have been, for we pushed Cortés back to the river, and there we were about to capture him.
He stepped into the water. I remember that. A sword in his hand, his back foot in the water, words of the vast quantities of gold to be found in the Indians’ cities on his lying tongue.
And then the water seemed to boil, and creatures like our otters came out of the river—like our otters and yet not, I must say, for they were longer than a man is tall and their hands bore grasping claws. They pulled him under [...] many of our men as well. When I asked the Indians, they said that the creatures were called awitzot, like the king of Tenochtitlan...
[...]
...Indian warriors arrived. Maybe I can salvage this situation...
[...]
...monsters on the roads. Several of their warriors gave a great cry upon seeing them, one or two sobbing; I asked, and was told that these were sons and nephews of the king. Through our interpreter, the Indians say this is a result of their king’s death, and that it will stop when a new king is crowned. More men and horses lost...
[...]
...We have met their new king, and the devils which they call gods—gods made flesh, so they say, from the grief of their dying priests, and now too weak to ascend to the heavens. Weak, our interpreter says, yet they slew Alvarado’s men in an instant, and in the city of Tenochtitlan there is not a single Castilian standing. If Alvarado were not dead I could kill him myself. Cortés was not just greedy, but a fool. We will not bring these infidels to Christ through the sword, nor lay our hands upon their gold unless it is by their terms, and such I will tell our king. It is fortunate that they are happy to feast upon the hearts of our horses to regain their strength, instead of our men...
From the pen of Ixtlilxochitl, 50 years after the Toxcatl Massacre (13 Rabbit, New Fire Cycle 5 / 1570 CE)
Now in his youth Ahuitzotzin had been tutored in magic by Acatzin who was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, and took that man’s sister Mihmatinitzin for his first wife though their family was of humble origin. It is a widespread and common opinion that he held both of them in equal esteem, for often was he seen to clasp Acatzin in his arms and call him the best of men, while in the same breath praise Mihmatinitzin for her power and great beauty. Acatzin was known to be a great lover of justice and temperance, even to the extent of arguing with his Emperor, but Ahuitzotzin always heeded his counsel when he would heed nothing else. Alone among the noblemen, he was allowed to call Ahuitzotzin by his birth name of Teomitzin.
Ahuitzotzin was sorely injured in the great flood of Tenochtitlan, taking a wound to the skull that kept him from battle for the rest of his reign. While he recuperated, Mihmatinitzin and Acatzin guarded the Empire. Many say that he would have died if Acatzin had not pled with Chalchiuhtlicue to spare him. Others say that so desperate was Acatzin to save him that he fought with the goddess himself. All saw Ahuitzotzin’s namesakes leap upon and devour Alvarado, so I think the former to be more likely.
As for Acatzin, he lived to be over seventy years of age and was still hale and healthy when he sacrificed himself on the Night of Victory, fueling the spell which turned back the Castilians and demonstrated our might to them such that they treat with us as equals. Ahuitzotzin died upon that same night, fighting valiantly to the last despite the lasting effects of his old wound. He was succeeded by his son Cuauhtemoctzin.
From The Aztecs, Nigel Davies, 460 years after the Toxcatl Massacre (7 Flint, NF 13 / 1980 CE)
“...and Ahuitzotl, younger brother of Tizoc, was duly chosen. He was still young at the time, but was soon to prove his mettle. The summons immediately went forth to celebrate the election, and the news spread to all corners of the Empire that the sun, once dimmed, had come to shine anew.
And in truth, during this reign the Aztec sun was to shine with a brilliance never surpassed, like a star whose light is intensified in spectacular fashion before it is suddenly and forever dimmed. The electors, in making the most natural choice, had selected a giant among men. Tenochtitlan, and indeed the whole Empire, now possessed a monarch of a heroic stamp...”
[...]
...Though young – only three-and-twenty at the time of his ascension – it is not to be thought that Ahuitzotl was without training. First and foremost among his teachers, indeed first among all his influences, must be listed Acatl, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. Of peasant stock, Acatl nevertheless rose to distinguished heights on his own merits, studying in what is now the present-day Calmecac of the Sacred Precinct before being raised to the status of High Priest in what was then a minor undistinguished order. He was known for his great love of justice, his moderate temper, and his skill in magic, this last subject he tutored Ahuitzotl in. The two men were known to be especially close, even before Ahuitzotl took Acatl’s younger sister Mihmatini for a wife – indeed, Acatl was known to argue with Ahuitzotl on several occasions, unafraid of his fearsome temper. Where Ahuitzotl was impetuous, Acatl was cautious. Far from viewing this as cowardice, Ahuitzotl seems to have respected his temperance, and thus restrained his excesses for his sake.
As for the scholarly opinion that the two were romantically involved, we must be cautious not to ascribe modern feelings to these two great men of a bygone age. Flowery language was and remains common in Nahua poetry, and ought not be taken as literal fact. As well, there was a gap of some ten years between their ages, and so one may reasonably assume that Acatl viewed the younger man more as a son...
From assorted museum plaques in the Sacred Precinct, 500 years after the Toxcatl Massacre (8 Flint, NF 14 / 2020 CE)
String of silver owl beads once owned by Cicuacen Acatl, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli 1479-1520 (b. ~1450).
Silver pectoral of an owl flanked by two spiders, the reverse bearing the name-glyph Teomitl, once owned by Cicuacen Acatl, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli 1479-1520 (b. ~1450).
Painted wooden comb carved with a bat motif, once owned by Cicuacen Acatl, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli 1479-1520 (b. ~1450).
Painted clay cup bearing a motif of reeds and water birds, donated from the grave goods of Emperor Ahuitzotl (1487-1520, b. ~1463) by his descendants.
Fragmented, fire-damaged codex page purported to be love poetry written by Emperor Ahuitzotl (1487-1520, b. ~1463).
Slightly less fragmented, fire-damaged codex pages also purported to be love poetry written by Emperor Ahuitzotl (1487-1520, b. ~1463), these bearing annotations in an unknown hand.
Carved stone stele depicting Cicuacen Acatl and Emperor Ahuitzotl upon the Night of Victory. They are holding hands.
Fifteen years before the Toxcatl Massacre (13 House, NF 3 / 1505 CE)
The city of Tenochtitlan is glorious in the morning sun, sprawling across the lake like a jeweled mosaic, but this morning Acatl isn’t thinking about that. It’s past dawn, and he knows he should get off his mat. Make his devotions to the gods. Something.
But Teomitl—the man he serves, the man he loves—is already up and curled in the window, watching the gardens below with narrowed eyes, and he doesn’t want to make any sudden movements for fear of startling him. Since his near-drowning, he’s had good days and bad days, and one can easily become the other. So Acatl pushes himself up on his elbows, wincing as his back and hips protest the motion. He’s probably getting a little old for them to be quite so energetic at night, but he can’t say it isn’t worth it.
Especially when that movement, slight as it is, gets Teomitl to turn back to him. His lover smiles and nods, a wordless good morning that lightens Acatl’s heart. His hair may be liberally sprinkled with gray now, with a shock of pure white where his skull healed over, but that smile is still brighter than the sun.
And it’s too far away. The sleeping mat, raised up on a dais which Teomitl is forever hitting his shins on, is well-padded with cotton blankets and jaguar pelts. It’ll be more comfortable than the plastered stone of the window. Acatl holds out a hand, beckoning him back.
Slowly, as though considering every movement, Teomitl unfolds himself and ambles over. He ought to be using a cane even for this short distance, but he’s forever insisting that his sense of balance is not that bad. Foolish man.
Beloved man, especially when he lowers himself down to the mat and kisses Acatl hello. Acatl can’t help but rise to meet him, deepening the kiss with a hand buried in Teomitl’s hair and an arm around his waist to pull him closer. I love you, he thinks, but when they pull apart for air he finds he doesn’t need to say it. Not with the soft way Teomitl is looking at him. So instead he strokes down his back and murmurs, “Sleep well?”
Teomitl makes a face, waving one hand in a so-so gesture. “You know how it is,” he mutters.
He does know how it is. He shifts his weight, tugging Teomitl over to lean against him in a position that won’t put pressure on his bad knee. “Is that what got you up so early?”
“...I was thinking.” Teomitl’s not looking at him now, gaze moving restlessly around the room. The Revered Speaker’s chambers are painted with bright frescoes, teals and greens and blues and fiery oranges. There are quetzal-feather fans, banners of captured cities, shelves of colorful ceramic animals (Mihmatini’s) and interestingly shaped rocks (Acatl’s; Teomitl himself isn’t one for collections), but he seems to focus on none of them. Finally, he glances out the window and falls silent.
Acatl waits. When it seems Teomitl isn’t going to continue, he prompts, “...About?”
Teomitl takes a deep breath. Bites his lip. His fingers clench into fists around a pulled-up handful of striped orange blanket. “About...what we leave behind. What my legacy will be. What will they say about me, after...?” He still hasn’t turned back to face him, but Acatl can see the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes.
Ah. Not a good day, then. It rips at Acatl’s heart, merciless as an ahuitzotl’s claws, and he has to swallow past a lump in his throat. He’d really thought Teomitl had been doing better; it’s been weeks at least since he’s been this maudlin, a far cry from those dark days just after his injury when he’d been sunk so deeply in the mire that even the children could barely reach him. When he’d woken sobbing at night and burst unexpectedly into tears during the day, when he’d grown first furious and then despondent at each gap in his memory and reminder that his limbs would not always obey him, when he’d asked why Acatl hadn’t let Chalchiuhtlicue take him. The healers had said that such emotional upheaval was to be expected after head injuries as severe as his—gods, he’d nearly died—but that hadn’t made it any easier to bear.
It definitely doesn’t make it easier to bear now. Acatl tightens his hold around his lover’s waist, only loosening it a little when Teomitl huffs out a breath. He doesn’t ask what prompted Teomitl’s thoughts to turn in this direction; it’s not as though this is the first time. Being pulled from the water has done what hundreds of battles couldn’t, and has given his Revered Speaker a sense of his own limitations. His own mortality.
He takes a deep breath. “Look at me, love.”
Teomitl turns, and Acatl meets his gaze and holds it steady. His voice, too, holds a calmness he doesn’t feel—but he knows crushing Teomitl to his chest and burying his face in his hair won’t help. He needs words. “My lord...you are the greatest Revered Speaker we have ever had. You have spread our Empire from one end of the sea-ringed world to the other, your name rising like smoke and mist. You honor the gods with your every action. Your army fears and respects you, and your children are growing strong enough to carry on your legacy.”
It’s all true, but that doesn’t seem to reassure Teomitl, who bites his lip and stares down at his lap. His fingers are twisting up sections of blanket restlessly, and his voice is still thick with tears he isn’t letting fall. “And afterwards? When I am ash, and my—and our children are ash? What will they say about a Revered Speaker too crippled, too—too damaged, to lead men in war with his own hands? Who can’t make it up the steps of the Great Temple without stumbling? Who struggles even to remember his new advisors’ names?”
Acatl wants to reassure him, but it’s never been his way to offer false platitudes. Five years on, it’s unlikely that Teomitl will recover much more than he has, and pointing out how far he’s come since the days where he couldn’t walk at all won’t help. A hard knot of something like grief sits in his gut. “My lord,” he starts, and stops at the shuttering of the light in Teomitl’s eyes. Taking a breath, he tries again. “My love.”
That at least gets Teomitl to look up again, encouraging him to continue. “Look at what you’ve built already. Do you think that goes away, that it doesn’t count because of your injuries? Look at the canals of your city, the Great Temple you dedicated to the gods, the monuments to your victories. You rebuilt the city after your wounds! The banners of cities you’ve brought into the Empire line the walls, and even if you didn’t march into battle yourself it was your training, your strategies that brought them here. You will be remembered with love and pride for generations. By the Duality, they sing songs about you.”
Teomitl flushes at that, as Acatl knew he would. “Still can’t believe that,” he mutters, but then he adds—hesitantly—“You really think so? Even if I’m...”
“I know so.” He smiles slightly, reassuringly, and it makes Teomitl smile back.
Though it doesn’t stop him from asking, “...And what do you think they’ll say about us?”
Acatl blinks at him. On the one hand, he hopes they don’t say anything about him. On the other hand, he knows he won’t be that lucky. “What do you mean?”
Teomitl leans forward and slides a hand into the loose tumble of hair at the nape of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. His voice is soft, breath tickling Acatl’s lips and making his heart skip a beat. His eyes are dark and serious. “Will they know how much I loved you?”
Oh, my beloved. “I’m sure they will,” he whispers, and closes the distance between them.
Gods, he can kiss Teomitl forever and not get tired of it. This time it’s tender, gentle; he takes his time, lingering in the softness of Teomitl’s lips and the pleasant rasp of the night’s stubble on their faces. Teomitl hums against his mouth, the vibrations making his blood sing, and he sighs in response. It’s the easiest thing in the world to melt into this, knowing that nothing can stop them. That he’s allowed to spend the morning—the whole day, if he wants—in Teomitl’s chambers, in his arms, and it will be alright. Because the Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan, the shining sun of the Empire, loves him.
Finally they pull apart, and he takes one look at the glittering, mischievous light in Teomitl’s eyes and warns, “...But you’re not putting up a statue of me.”
Teomitl’s eyes narrow. “Will.”
“Won’t.” It’s childish in the extreme, but Acatl pokes his ribs to hear him squeak with laughter. Mercilessly, he continues, “I will haunt you.”
Still squirming, Teomitl huffs, “You would never. I’d—I’d haunt you back!”
He raises an eyebrow. “And create more work for my successor?”
“Do not test me, Acatl.”
Now he’s trying to look haughty. Since his hair is still a mess from sleep and Acatl’s fingers, this isn’t working very well. Acatl grins at the sight. “If I didn’t keep you in check, my lord, who would?”
Yes, one day they will be ash and dust. But even when that day comes, he knows he’ll have been loved. And as for what his legacy will be...well. He doesn’t think he has to worry about that.