Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

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cri because I made you wait so long for a reply

To play the part of a hero—to act with bravery—was not Mazatl. Never had he been anything more than prey, both in his current life and the past, and surely even in the next. It wasn’t his fault, really, he’d simply been raised to obey. It was his job to please those around him, to ensure that no one left his quarters unsatisfied; for each unhappy customer, he’d felt the lashings of his maternal figure. Before having collapsed into a heap of useless flesh a whisper had invaded his ears and snaked itself around his mind, urging him to give in. It was all he could do, all he’d ever been able to do, and so the boy had surrendered himself over to the inevitable. Never had the man’s voice reached his ears, either, the harsh timbres of the Cihuāpilli’s distant voice having blocked out all else. Only after having fallen to the ground had he been able to hear again, though the echoes remained in the back of his head; repeating, growing, and intending to someday take over.

An unfamiliar weight draped itself over his neck, making the yearling stiffen. It’d taken a moment for him to remember, adjust, and then relax again. Craning his neck, an attempt was made to look at his new master, but he’d stolen hardly a glance before looking back down towards the earth underfoot. The male seemed confident, having decided that Mazatl would someday reveal his name, but the boy wasn’t too sure. Nevertheless, he hadn’t protested in any way, deciding instead to just rest against the man and regain his strength. Already he knew that a life with Athanasius would be a risky one, but he had no choice other than to go along with him.

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