Chapter Text
Yucatan Peninsula, Spring, Present Day
There were times, under cover of darkness, when K'uk'ulk'an would retreat to one of Yucatan's hidden network of cenote. Attuma and his other generals have known better than look for him during such times. There, in silence, he would peer into his reflection in crystal-clear water and threw up. Sometimes until he had nothing left in his body except disgust. Revulsion, horror at his own body, his own skin, his own cursed existence. He hated himself. The fact that he was born a man. In a surface dweller's body, with a surface dweller's appendages. Countless times he secretly wished to be born blue-skinned and sturdy, with gills along his shoulders. Just like his mother, whose love was boundless as the seven seas. Then he would truly be a Talokanil, a true god-king of his people. Not a man. Why must he share features with such loathsome creatures? Who ravaged and desecrated too much in only a few centuries?
Men. Even the word stung him like a scorpion's venom. Just how many war, rape, and bloodshed have they caused? How many more sacred grounds, holy mountains and rivers would they violate? He knew their cycle of destruction. They would kill each other with such zeal, flood the very rivers they drank from with blood, and only took breaks when they were exhausted of resources. Then and only then, would the surface world know peace. Short-lived, though. Because they never learned to respect blood that trickled not from violence, but from sacred cycles of women. As a consequence, they could never understand how to appropriately nurture lives. Once these men felt they have regained enough strength, they would be back at their feet to destroy Pawahtuun's dominion again.
In silence, his ears, the ears of a living god, could never cease to capture voices near and far. And in some of his darkest hours, K'uk'ulk'an welcomed the poisonous embrace of madness. When screams and cries of women and children he could not save become too much to bear. He, the supposedly Great Feathered Serpent, was helpless. He realized he could not help everyone without risking Talokan and all Talokanils. And he would be tempted to mutilate himself, offer his flesh and blood and manhood to Buluc Chabtan. Then maybe, maybe, the Great God of War would be sated enough to listen to his pleas. Cease this endless cycle of massacre. Have mercy on those women and children.
"Aj' K'uk'ulk'an." the only person he allowed to find him called out. Namora swam upward from inside the cenote, her blue body glistened magnificently. He wiped his face, straightened his back immediately. She bowed before him, performing the open-palmed Talokan salute. Of course she noticed his bloodshot eyes, his forehead covered in cold sweat, but she showed only respect to her god-king.
"Je'el u páajtal a t'aan, ka'a suku'un."
"Leti' le itzia Shuri. Leti' ts'o'ok u jok'ol Wakanda."
His heart almost skipped a beat. Princess Shuri, no, the Black Pantheress. Wakanda's own Panther Goddess. They had not seen each other in months. A few full moons have passed since he had to yield, his wings snapped clean, his back scorched and bleeding. He still felt bone-deep cold of sharp metal against his burning skin. They both needed time to recover and he had given Wakanda and its Princess exactly that. During those months, he strictly instructed any Talokanil not to be seen around Wakanda. Their alliance would still stand, because the Great Feathered Serpent was a man of his words, but he would dictate its terms.
"Tu'ux yaan leti' bejla'e'?"
"Chicago. America. Yéetel le ch'úupalo', Riri, ka'a."
Chicago. America. It was time to fulfill his promises.