rthstewart | Three Sentence Ficathon 2022 Part 2

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Three Sentence Ficathon 2022 Part 2

UPDATE 14 FEBRUARY 2022 -- 3SF 2022 IS NOW CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS! Do continue to fill prompts already posted but the 3SF 2022 is now closed. We'll be back next year in a new comm (If I can get my act together). Thank you again!

THIS IS THE NEW POST FOR PART 2 OF THE 3 SENTENCE FICATHON -- ALL NEW PROMPTS SHOULD BE POSTED HERE
You may continue to fill prompts (but not leave new ones) at the original Post 1 here but please post new prompts here, not there. And if you're asking, hey is just me, or did this get enormous really fast? Why yes, yes it did. Last year, it took us ten days before I opened a new post. This year, it took us about 5.5 days to get there. So, by all means, go back and fill in Post 1 and post new prompts here!

Also woops, in an indication of how busy I've been with other things, I neglected to post that for a third year in a row the awesome

conuly started a master list of unclaimed prompts and has been updating it as time permits. Obviously a huge task! Thank you!

Welcome to the Three Sentence Ficathon!

Here's a Friending meme!

What is the 3 Sentence Ficathon?
This is an open exchange where you answer a prompt with a fic consisting of only three sentences. It's open to all fandoms and you can post and fill as many prompts as you like, as many times as you want.

What do I do first?
You can start 3SF by posting prompts! When posting a prompt please format it this way:

fandom, character(s), prompt word/sentence.

Only one prompt per comment please. So, for example,

Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, I don't like sand."

Open ended and anthropomorphic fills are popular too, such as:

Any, Any, "I don't like sand."

or

Earth geography, sand, "I don't like humans very much, either."

What happens after that?
You answer other posters' prompts in three sentences (or more if you can't stop yourself) and fill as many prompts as you want, as many times as you wish. If you see that a prompt you loved has already been filled, go ahead and fill it again! Multiple fills of the same prompt are allowed and even encouraged! (We get really fun stories going this way).

Can I still post if I need more than 3 sentences? Or should I just abuse grammar in ways the English language never contemplated?
Yes. Yes.

But I'm not a member of Dreamwidth
No problem. You can comment anonymously or through open ID

I'm really overwhelmed by all the prompts and how much there is and how fast it goes. I can't read 1,000 prompts and fills. It's too much.
I hear this a lot and it keeps a lot of people from participating. The 3SF is big and it moves fast, especially at first. I get overwhelmed, too, and I'm hosting the thing. With 2020 and 2021 sucking so badly you don't want something that's supposed to be fun cause you anxiety. I have a couple of suggestions for managing the 3SF volume.

First, really, you don't have to read every prompt and fill on every page. You can start at the last page of this and just go forward, or back a page or two. It's fine.
You can come and go as time and energy allow, you don't have to participate the whole time, and it drops off quite at bit after about 2 weeks and especially once we open a new post because this one is approaching 4,500 comments.
Even after the 3SF and new prompting end, people fill prompts all year long.
You can fill an already filled prompt and you can can leave a prompt that's already been prompted before. People do it all the time.

Always make sure you're looking at top-level comments only, not threaded. That helps a lot. Your screen should look like this.

But shouldn't I read everything to see if someone already prompted the same prompt I want to leave if someone already filled it?
No. Prompt as many times as you want, as much as you want. It doesn't matter if someone prompted the exact same prompt. Go ahead and prompt again!

I left a prompt and no one filled it. Can I prompt it again?
Absolutely!

Can I spread the word?
Yes, please. I generally fail at creating banners and embed codes but if you create one and make it really idiot-proof, I might be able to post and share it. Feel free to cross-post this entry. If you create your own banners or icons, let me know and I'll share!
Please share the 3SF with your followers, friends, and any channels and comms you are active on. I'll post on fandom calendar, Tumblr, and Twitter, but I don't have many connections in other spaces such as Discord.

Here's my attempt at a text box that might go horribly awry.

How long will it go?
The 3SF closes to new prompts on February 13, 2022. The entry stays open permanently and people post fills all year long. (There were a bunch of new posts to the 2021 3SF this week!)

Are there any rules about cross-posting?
Nope, you can post wherever you want, whenever you want. A lot of folks collected their responses together and posted them on AO3 under the 3 sentence fiction tag. 3SFs are a terrific prompt for remixes and could be helpful for Yuletide bears, too.

What about spoilers, content and archive warnings, triggers, pairings, ratings, tags, and squick?

I thought a lot about this. It boils down to reader beware. In my experience, this typically gets too big, moves too fast, and the stories are too short for content warnings and ratings to even apply. It is too big for me to moderate in this way. You should assume spoilers are fair game and that the initial poster and the responder have opted to use no content warnings or tags. This means AO3 content warnings for dubcon, violence, canon character death, underage, etc. COULD be present (and much more). I've found personally that I can skim and scroll by stuff that, from the prompt, I can tell isn't my favorite flavor of delicious cake. Use your best judgment, protect yourself, and be prepared to skip over things that aren't your thing. In this format, the obligation is on you, the reader, to protect yourself from triggering content.
Some posters do include warnings and spoiler tags or include spoiler space, but they don't have to do so.

Why is 3SF split among several posts? That seems confusing.
It is confusing and we always lose momentum once we have to move to a second post. The reason is because at 5,000 comments to a single post, DW installs a human test CAPTCHA, which is a pain for users. So, once this entry gets to the upper 4,000 comments, I open a new post. If you've been waiting until things slow down to participate, when we open a second post is often a good place to join.

If I have questions, what do I do?
I'm rthstewart everywhere, here, Twitter, Tumblr, gmail and AO3.

A special thank you to

conuly .
Last year, Conuly started logging all unfilled prompts.
This year's (2021) unfilled prompts are here.
Last year's (2020) unfilled prompts are here.

Conuly asks that you not reply, as they want to be able to edit and add more prompts to the list.

Here, have some icons and banners and let me know if you've created your own!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Really well done! I like the rhythm of this.

Thanks! I wanted to do something a little different with this one; you can read my other fills here. https://archiveofourown.org/works/38087509/chapters/95141404

It’s good to be Revered Speaker. Nezahual has beautiful concubines, the riches of a kingdom, and the leisure to enjoy both. And, just as importantly, plenty of opportunity to spread his good fortune around.

Not that Teomitl seems to appreciate it. He’s agreed to join Nezahual in the natural hot springs connected to the royal baths, but judging by the way he’s been huddled against the edge nursing a bottle of pulque for an hour he clearly isn’t enjoying himself. He’s not even looking at the dancers in their gauze blouses and near-transparent cloaks.

Nezahual reaches over and splashes him just to get his attention. “Don’t you ever relax?”

Teomitl splutters, wiping water away from his face just to glare balefully at him. “With you here? Of course not.”

He grins as a thought occurs to him. “...Maybe I ought to extend an invitation to Acatl-tzin as well. I’m sure he’d enjoy the entertainment I picked out for us.” Granted, the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli is the most staid person he knows, but there are singers and poets he probably wouldn’t be offended by. Probably.

Now Teomitl’s turning red. “He would not,” he growls, just as one of the dancers does something with his hips that makes him practically choke on his own spit.

Oh, this is better than what he’d had planned. “Have you asked?”

“I am not having this conversation with you,” he says stiffly, and pointedly knocks back the rest of his cup.

Nezahual sighs and shakes his head, relaxing against the edge of the springs. He’ll just enjoy himself on his own, then.

He is not nice. He is rarely kind, though he tries to be. What he is—what all priests for the Dead should be—is honest. In death, there is no room for lies or trickery. A corpse has already given up its secrets, and a soul will soon be beyond any mortal concerns. Acatl, as High Priest, must be the same.

He must.

But that means he can no longer lie to himself either, no matter how much he might wish to.

“What do you think of Tizoc?”

“He killed the clergy of Tlaloc, as surely as if he cast the spell himself.”

“And you think he should rule, until such time as he dies?”

A deep breath. A single heartbeat. And then, knowing he speaks truth even as the words fall like lead on his tongue, even as it dooms him for treason—

“No.”

Ooh I like this!

The unfortunate thing about the armor of the Master of the House of Darts was that the aforementioned Master of the House of Darts couldn’t actually put it on himself. He simply wasn’t flexible enough to reach the ties on his own back. Normally there were slaves to help him, but this morning was special.

This morning there was Acatl, who’d soothed the sting of his ritual bloodletting with kisses and joined him for a bath that had only not gotten them extremely distracted because it was frankly too cold to get up to anything interesting. Who was even now smoothing the feathers of his quilted cotton suit so that they lay flat and gently tweaking his headdress so the plumes fell correctly. Who’d stared at him in actual surprise when Teomitl had shown up the night before with his gear, as though there was any question of them not taking the chance for one last night together before he went off to another campaign.

Warm fingers grazed his back as Acatl tightened the knot, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver even as he grinned. “So, what do you want me to bring you from the Mixtec lands?”

Acatl was silent for a moment. Teomitl wondered what he’d asked for. He always said he never needed anything, but he’d seemed pleased with the gifts of knives and codices and interestingly shaped rocks. Maybe I’ll bring him a new chocolate cup, he mused. The one he uses is so plain.

Finally his lover said simply, “Yourself, safe and sound.”

Teomitl’s face went hot. “I—you—” He started. I can’t promise that. You can’t just say that. If you keep being so sweet and sincere, I won’t even want to leave.

He heard Acatl chuckle behind him a moment before soft lips brushed the nape of his neck. “I have faith in you,” he whispered. “Go and bring us glory.”

The first time they’d been to Texcoco, they’d been fleeing for their lives from then-false accusations of treason. Now they are here officially, as honored guests, and the experience couldn’t be more different. There are singers and musicians to entertain them, feasts for them to bask in the bounty of Nezahual-tzin’s kingdom.

And there is only one room for the two of them. Acatl is very, very aware of that single room, with two mats laid out side by side. He’s even more aware of it when he comes in on their first night to see Teomitl sprawled lazily out on one with his cloak spread underneath him, long legs splayed in a way that draws Acatl’s eye inevitably to the fact that loincloths hide absolutely nothing. His mouth is suddenly almost too dry to talk, but he forces out, “You look comfortable.”

The look Teomitl gives him should by all rights set something on fire, it’s that heated. “It’s a comfortable mat,” he says, with the edge of a wicked smile curling his lips. “You should join me.”

He should do no such thing. But they’re in a strange land, far from anyone who would judge them, and so Acatl drops to the mat.

Whether this will hold when they return home, he can’t say. But for tonight—and every night until they leave—he’ll let himself indulge.

acatl is....a good man.........plz read obsidian & blood by aliette de bodard for More Of Him.........

Hehe, I checked it out from the library. ;D

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep. He thought he might have felt a flicker of real joy a few weeks ago, but it had been gone so quickly he hadn’t had time to dwell on it. There was just so much else for him to do. Funeral rites here, vigils there, being summoned even from the scant snatches of sleep he managed to grab by the need to put down monsters that were still cropping up because he’d asked Teomitl to wait...

He closed his eyes and slumped against the inner wall of his own courtyard, taking a deep breath. Half an hour. Storm Lord strike him, give him just half an hour of rest.

“Acatl-tzin?!”

One of his priests, frantic. He could smell fresh blood.

Gritting his teeth, he straightened up. It was time for him to do his duty again.

There were certain advantages to a large age gap between yourself and your youngest sister. For one thing, it meant that when she was trying to cozy up with the man who was trying to court her, you had both the fuel and the obligation to share embarrassing childhood stories. Acatl and Neutemoc may not have spoken for several years, but when Mihmatini started talking about her calmecac training—Teomitl hanging on her every word—they exchanged looks. It was time.

Neutemoc started to grin. “Did she ever tell you about the time she tried to climb a cactus to get at the fruit when she was eight...?”

“Neutemoc!”

“...She didn’t.” To give him credit, Teomitl was clearly trying not to smile. Unfortunately, he wasn’t trying hard enough. “What happened?”

Mihmatini glared viciously at her brothers. “You’re both horrible,” she muttered.

Acatl reflexively winced, but Teomitl seemed determined to allay the tension in the room before anyone got anything thrown at them. He gave Mihmatini’s hand a squeeze and said, “It sounds very brave of you. Maybe a little foolish, but I’m sure I did worse things when I was eight. At least you never tried to pet an ocelot.”

“You what,” said Mihmatini and Acatl simultaneously, which at least did derail the conversation from Mihmatini’s childhood gluttony in favor of Teomitl’s complete lack of self-preservation. And it made Teomitl laugh, which in Acatl’s view was always a plus.

Teomitl has many siblings who share his blood, but none of them have ever really felt like his brothers or sisters. He was the youngest, the spare, the hanger-on. The one whose birth killed his mother. It’s not particularly conducive to a good family relationship in the viper’s den that is the Imperial Palace.

But then he meets Acatl and his family. Mihmatini, who has the courage of eagles. Mazatl, endlessly curious. Necalli, grave and careful. Ohtli and Atoyatl, who are astonishingly clever for their age. Ollin is too young to have much of a personality yet but he smiles at Teomitl anyway, which is adorable. And Neutemoc, the childrens’ father, who is...well. Teomitl’s never met a man who wants to sit in silence with him while they go over their armor or discuss entirely hypothetical battle strategies over dinner. Acatl is wonderful in other ways, but the affairs of warriors visibly make his teacher’s eyes glaze over and he doesn’t want to put him through that.

Neutemoc, on the other hand, listens. He has ideas. He’s teaching Teomitl how to put together a macuahuitl from scratch. He is, in short, a far better brother to him than his own ever were, for all that his relationship with Acatl is strained. (And for all that Teomitl privately thinks Acatl was in the right; if the rest of his family couldn’t see how amazing Acatl was, that was their own fault.) He’s never once made Teomitl feel unwelcome in his home or in his family’s lives.

“Teomitl!” screams Mazatl when she sees him, sprinting across the courtyard so he can pick her up and swing her around. Both of them laugh; in the background, Neutemoc and Acatl crack fond smiles.

“It’s good to see you,” Neutemoc says, and Teomitl’s heart is light for what still feels, even now, like the first time.

He does want to marry Mihmatini, regardless of how much the court fights him on it. But even if he didn’t—even if he wasn’t willing to go to war for that—there’s nothing that would make him give this up.

“I got them to make me a key,” Teomitl says, and grins.

Are you insane, Acatl wants to say. Do you have any idea what Tizoc-tzin would do to you if he found out?

He does say that last part, but with one thing and another—it’s probably not the worst week of his life, but it’s certainly a strong contender—he actually manages to forget entirely about the passageway through Tlalocan Teomitl’s managed to hold open, and it’s only months later he’s reminded about it at all.

Granted, at the moment he is, Teomitl’s no longer the only one who’d be dead if Tizoc-tzin found out what either of them had done. Are doing on a regular basis, in fact; he’s still catching his breath, brain pleasantly fuzzy, when Teomitl murmurs, “You should stay a little longer.”

He heaves a sigh. Teomitl’s fingers are tracing a meaningless pattern over his chest and the last thing he ever wants to do is leave this mat, but he doesn’t have a choice. When they’re in Teomitl’s palace quarters, he can’t afford to linger. “You know I can’t. If I’m caught here without a reason...”

Teomitl lifts his head. “Don’t you remember? There’s a faster way out.”

“Beg pardon?” Nothing occurs to him. Possibly that’s because Teomitl’s still draped over him.

“That tunnel you scolded me for making?” His lover’s wicked smile probably shouldn’t stir his blood so soon. “I’ve made a few improvements. There’s a side passage that lets out near my quarters.”

He swallows. Teomitl knows what he’s doing, but Tlalocan is still dangerous. On the other hand, the chance of a few more hours in his arms is tempting enough that he wants to risk it, even though... “I wasn’t scolding you,” he huffs. “I was worried for you. You know I loved you even then.”

Teomitl blinks at him. “You were...oh. Oh, Acatl.”

Then he surges up and kisses him, and Acatl knows he’ll definitely be making use of that tunnel later. Anything for more of this.

The peyotl, the teonanacatl. The copal incense. The bloody paper burning in the brazier. Cacao and herbs and sour, scorching pulque. Quenami sat in a room that had never known sunlight and took it all in. He knew no pain, no want, no time. The pounding of drums.

The rolling of thunder, close enough that he felt it in his kidneys.

The staccato beat of hooves—a herd of deer? But strange, giant deer without antlers.

Ships larger than any he’d ever seen before, with snow-white cotton stretched above them.

Sallow, pale-faced men in strange clothing, speaking a tongue he didn’t recognize.

A Tlaxcallan nobleman smiling coldly.

Blood. Blood. So much blood. The roofs of the houses were caving in, and the bed of Lake Texcoco was cracked and dry, and a single shattered spear lay forgotten in the dust, and—

There was a horrible retching noise. It took him a moment to realize he was the one making it, but fortunately his underlings were quicker and less...impaired than he was, so there was a basin in front of him before he ruined the arrays drawn onto the floor.

“What did you see, Quenami-tzin?”

He grimaced, wiping his mouth. “I must speak with the Emperor.”

Tizoc wouldn’t be happy.

“How dare you,” Acatl snapped. “He’s my former student—his wife is my sister, the Guardian of the Duality! You cannot possibly be suggesting that he or I would even contemplate such things.”

Acamapichtli frowned thoughtfully for a long moment, but finally he conceded the point. “You have always been sickeningly self-righteous. I confess I thought the rumors far-fetched.”

Acatl drew himself up to his full height and adjusted the fall of his cloak so it looked a bit less rumpled. It was something of a lost cause. “Keep thinking that. And if you spread them any further, we will have words.”

And then he stalked off, back stiff. The nerve of Acamapichtli! At least the way he’d tied his cloak did an admirable job of hiding the love bites on his collarbones.

Outside there was the low hum of passersby and the snort and stamp of horses. The saloon had just opened for business, adding its own din of shouting cowboys and the calls of working girls. The windows had been flung open in a desperate bid for any sort of breeze, but it wasn’t working very well.

Acatl grimaced and straightened up from the corpse he was laying out. As much as he hated to admit it, maybe it was time for a break. A short one. Miss Alvarez (age 21, stab wound, perpetrator yet unknown) would understand if he at least paused for a drink of water. But the pump was outside, and outside was loud.

Nothing for it. He washed his hands quickly, rolled his sleeves down, and stepped out into the sunset night. The saloon directly across from his funeral parlor was already bustling, gamblers and tradesmen alike spilling in and out of its swinging doors. They looked as though they were having fun. As he watched, a young man on a black gelding trotted up to the hitching post and dismounted in a smooth motion that set his bright orange poncho swirling. Acatl couldn’t help but stare a moment. There was something terribly familiar about that aquiline nose...

“Hey, our little prince is here! Teomitl, what’ve you been doing with yourself?”

Teomitl was huffing at the gambler who’d waved to him—something about needing a drink before work—but Acatl wasn’t listening. Teomitl. Their town wasn’t large, and their mayor made frequent rounds with his wife and children. And his younger brother, who was glancing back over his shoulder in Acatl’s direction with something like surprise on his face.

The gambler smirked as he saw where he was looking. “That’s our coroner. Don’t bother inviting him in; man’s never darkened this doorway in his life. Heard he usedta be a priest—he sure does act like it!”

Acatl flinched. It was true, but that didn’t mean he wanted it bandied about. But Teomitl didn’t look judgemental; instead he turned to Acatl and nodded politely, visibly dismissing the gambler with a sort of inborn arrogance that wasn’t surprising at all. Annoying, but not surprising. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been looking for you.”

A cold chill ran down his back. Suddenly and irrationally, he wished he was wearing his gun. It was a cheap six-shooter, but it would do for self-defense. “...Why?”

Teomitl’s gaze flicked from side to side before returning to Acatl’s face. His spurs jingled as he stepped forward, the sound almost covering his low voice. “I might have some information for you regarding Miss Alvarez. And the other women.”

Acatl sucked in a sharp breath. Because Miss Alvarez wasn’t the only woman who’d been killed recently, but Teomitl had been in the city for the past month so there was no way he’d have known that, unless... “Did Ceyaxochitl send you?” At Teomitl’s sharp nod, he grimaced. The old woman had gotten him away from the church in El Paso, saying that he could do more good out here. Ever since then, she’d made a habit out of offering her “help” just when he didn’t want it.

Well, there was no stopping it now. He nodded politely and motioned to the pump in the street. “I’ll draw us some water. We can talk inside.”

(i feel ENORMOUSLY galaxy-brained for this)

From the pen of Ixtlilxochitl, 50 years after the Night of Victory

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, and 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. Ahuitzotzin died upon that same night, fighting valiantly to the last despite the lasting effects of his old wound having kept him from battle for many years. He was succeeded by his son Cuauhtemoc.

From assorted museum plaques in the Sacred Precinct, 500 years after the Night of Victory

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 clay cup bearing a motif of reeds and water birds, donated from the grave goods of Emperor Ahuitzotl (1486-1520, b. ~1463) by his descendants.

Fragmented, fire-damaged codex page purported to be love poetry written by Emperor Ahuitzotl.

Carved stone stele depicting Cicuacen Acatl and Emperor Ahuitzotl upon the Night of Victory. They are holding hands.

There is a way to dig himself out of this chasm he’s fallen into, and it starts like this.

“I brought you lunch.”

“Talk to me, I’m listening.”

“Do you mind if I sit and watch you work?”

“My lord, I was thinking...about Tlatelolco...”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He’s still not sure if he’s doing it right; he came so close, so horrifyingly close, to destroying what he loves. But little by little, the fences he’s broken seem to be mending. Acatl is happy to see him even when he doesn’t come bearing food. (He still does, because the gods know that the man needs it.) Their relationship with Tlatelolco is finally improving. (He might have to marry one of their princesses, but he hopes it doesn’t come to that. The last thing he needs is another wife to potentially disappoint.) And Mihmatini...

She smiles at him, and it feels like a victory hymn.

Jade Skirt speaks to him and through him, an itch in the back of his mind. No, not an itch—a gnawing, as if something with too many teeth wants to get out. He gave himself to Her freely, knowing what he was sacrificing, but that doesn’t make it any easier. She is not kind, and She is not gentle, and She is not careful.

And She doesn’t let him lie to himself at night. Oh, during the day it’s mostly fine—there are distractions aplenty, and he can’t afford to waste time ruminating on all his failures. But if he tries to rest or meditate, there She is.

You cannot run from it forever. One day you will lie in the embrace of the earth, and it will be too late.

Speak your heart, boy. He was right in front of you!

She loves you. She worries for you. Will your reign be magnificent enough to make up for slighting the Guardian of the Duality?

Teomitl punches his cushion. It doesn’t help. He wants to scream, but he doesn’t dare risk it; his sister’s compound isn’t the place to show frustration or weakness. Soon, he promises Chalchiuhtlicue. I’ll make it all right soon, and when Tizoc is gone I’ll raise such a temple to You as was never seen in the Fifth World.

She grumbles inside his head. You’d better.

At the end of every month, the Guardian performed a ritual with a few drops of her own blood and a great profusion of flowers. It was intended to clear the air of magical interference for the start of the next month, ensuring that the proper reverence was given to each god. Though it took less than an hour, it was still performed at the top of the Duality’s temple with no less than four attendant priests.

And Teomitl, whose job it was to metaphorically anchor his wife to the material world. Metaphorically, which meant that instead of channeling magic of his own or being more fully involved with the proceedings, his job was to stand there and watch in case her magic was too much for her. He hadn’t previously thought it was possible to be bored and terrified at the same time, but watching the ritual be set up proved him wrong.

And then Mihmatini slashed her earlobes and left palm lightly, and he forgot all about his own frustrations.

Blue light spilled from her, deep and pure as the sky above. When she lifted her voice in a hymn to the Duality, he actually had to fight the urge to drop to his knees from the sheer unleashed power of it. The world felt for a moment as though it had shifted on its foundation—no, he thought a moment later, shifted back on its foundation. It had been just slightly askew, and now it was right again. Mihmatini was doing that with the power of her blood and her voice and her connection to the Duality, and he was...he was...

Mortal. Human. Weak. He almost couldn’t breathe.

Slowly, a thought filtered through the crushing awareness of his wife’s power. A half-hysterical laugh started to bubble up, but he kept it locked firmly behind his teeth.

And I thought she needed protection.

As soon as the pirate’s ship was spotted Captain Shepherd ordered a white flag of surrender flown; as he explained to the enraged owner Mr. Elliot, his cargo would be lost either way, and better to keep their lives than risk cannon balls the Kellynch could neither counter nor outrun. As the young lady traveling with her father had grown quite pale on glimpsing the boarding party, he determined to comfort her instead of arguing further: “Do not worry Miss Anne, this fellow is known to be quite the true gentleman of fortune, I am sure no harm will come to you.”

“I am sure it will not,” she answered, eyes fixed on the equally startled first mate of the Sophia’s Surprise rather than its famed Captain Croft.

“Carrots!”

Poor Diana had warned Anne that Gilbert Blye was the worst of her tormentors, but the actual words were crueler even than she had imagined possible.

“I wouldn’t announce my ignorance to the whole world if I couldn’t tell the difference between a root and a peach,” she proclaimed to the school at large while turning her own dull charcoal braid away from the hateful boy and devising new odes to her friend’s more vivid locks.

I struggled with this one, and I'm not sure the final result is exactly what the prompt called for, but the idea of Anne Shirley not having red hair just felt too good to pass up (and once I thought of it, I was shocked #GingerFlip was not a fandom trope).

I really liked this!!

ooh, nice!!

He doesn’t think. There’s a monster straight from the underworld bearing down on them, and Acatl—well, he’ll be the first to say Acatl’s a skilled fighter, but not when the thing currently charging at them doesn’t seem to have easily stabbable parts. So he dives between them and nicks his own arm, bringing Huitzilopochtli’s protective magic to searing golden life.

The monster isn’t so easily deterred. Now that he’s bought them both a moment to think he can see it’s something like a smoky beast of shadows with a head like a caiman and claws—ouch, very sharp claws—like a bear. It’s all he can do just to hold it back, because his sword isn’t doing anything. It seems to really hate his magic, though, which gives him an idea.

Acatl’s quicker than he is. “Keep it steady so I can banish it!”

“Work fast,” he snaps back. His skin feels like he’s been shoved into an oven, and he’s dimly aware that he’s still bleeding. But Acatl said to keep it steady, so that’s what he’ll do. Feint here, jab there, keep moving and circling and don’t show fear—

He can hear Acatl chanting. It can’t be much longer now.

Step. Turn. Watch its claws and teeth, keep your distance. Slash down, briefly parting the smoke that wreathes its body. Step.

Acatl’s voice lifts. Mictlan’s magic surges like the tide, cold and empty and final. Teomitl staggers, nearly falling to his knees, but that’s alright. He’s allowed to be weak now, because the shadows are rising to sweep their foe away.

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Three Sentence Ficathon 2022 Part 2

Re: Obsidian & Blood, Acatl & Teomitl

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Obsidian & Blood, Nezahual & Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl

Re: Obsidian & Blood, Acatl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl/Teomitl ("what happens in texcoco stays in texcoco")

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Re: Obsidian & Blood, Acatl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl

Obsidian & Blood, Acatl, Neutemoc & Mihmatini

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Deviation (Persuasion)

Ginger Flip (Anne of Green Gables)

Re: Ginger Flip (Anne of Green Gables)

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Obsidian & Blood, Acatl & Teomitl