Once, he would have spoken to his brother with honest respect, if not quite with affection. (Tizoc is a hard man to like, and they’ve never been especially close.) Once, his brother would have responded with fondness in his own voice. (At least, until Teomitl did something foolish, like fall in love with a peasant.)
But then there was a knife at Acatl’s throat, that peasant’s daughter spoken in a vile hiss, blood in the streets of their city and on the rocks at Meztitlan, plague rattling through his chest and the horrible certainty that Tizoc was unworthy rattling through his mind.
“It’s been a while since you’ve deigned to speak with me,” Tizoc says now.
He keeps his eyes downcast, so his Revered Speaker can’t see the expression in them. “Forgive me, my lord.”
Between them, there’s only the rustling of the wind.
Obsidian & Blood, Teomitl & Tizoc
Once, he would have spoken to his brother with honest respect, if not quite with affection. (Tizoc is a hard man to like, and they’ve never been especially close.) Once, his brother would have responded with fondness in his own voice. (At least, until Teomitl did something foolish, like fall in love with a peasant.)
But then there was a knife at Acatl’s throat, that peasant’s daughter spoken in a vile hiss, blood in the streets of their city and on the rocks at Meztitlan, plague rattling through his chest and the horrible certainty that Tizoc was unworthy rattling through his mind.
“It’s been a while since you’ve deigned to speak with me,” Tizoc says now.
He keeps his eyes downcast, so his Revered Speaker can’t see the expression in them. “Forgive me, my lord.”
Between them, there’s only the rustling of the wind.