Chapter Text
How curious, the serpent thinks as he flicks his forked tongue out to taste the air again. Humans did not come this way…at least not often and certainly never more than once. His hunger ensured that and it was only the good fortune of a flock of his quetzals coming to tell him the newest stories of the skies on the last thirteenth Wind of the Dog that allowed this mortal to see the sixth Rabbit of the new in cencalli tonalli⩫ of the House. Still it is strange that he now tastes the same man walking the paths near his pool yet again when not even half of an in cencalli tonalli’s⩫ thirteen days have yet to pass. But it serves little purpose to dwell on the peculiarity of his prey wandering so willingly into his territory, walking the path straight to his den, while he remains oh so hungry. He can’t justify disregarding a meal of any kind, even if the creature that walks itself to his doorstep could scarcely be considered more than a snack based on the sounds of their movement through the underbrush.
His scales rasp across the stone of his den but with the recent rains making the nearby waterfall roar, there is no risk of his movements being heard by his quarry. The coiled muscles of his body carry him swiftly beyond the bare, stony boundary of his pool and into the shade of the tree canopy. Humans see so poorly.
Deeper into the jungle he forges and the great rush of water becomes a distantly gentle hum, but the leaf litter is dense here. There is nothing for his scales to scrape against and his feathers brush tree branches and leaves away with naught but a whisper. Oh, how little humans hear.
It is little wonder that he’s able to take such dull creatures so easily when they stumble into his domain. The shadows of the jungle embrace him as part of the world itself and he tastes the air once more. It is rich with the scents of a man, the ripe berries he’s gathered, and the fresh blood of…a pair of rabbits slung over slim shoulders. This slight creature makes such an easy meal of himself that it is nearly sacrificial but for the lack of ceremony, of willingness.
”Ce Acatl Topiltzín Quetzalcoatl⩫,” the man rumbles softly, the timber of his voice washing over the great serpent like velvet cacao, bitter dark and fortifyingly rich. It makes him pause and taste the air again as if this man’s words might flavour the very air. So they might, with the right blessings, he muses even as he winds his way into the canopy above the man unnoticed.
“Possessed by visions of Ometeotl⩫, empowered by divine will,” the human mumbles, words pulling on the serpent’s memories and form with the telling of the stories he patrons. “Tollan⩫ prospered at the center of the Earth.” The trees end and the human stands at the edge of the forest, framed by the vibrant blues of the pool beyond, the serpent’s pool. The man drops into a squat, leaving his defenceless back exposed to the dangers of the forest before he reaches into his bag. He withdraws a small stone and the softly grey flint blade of a well-crafted tecpatl⩫. Well-crafted it may be, but the knife fails to inspire fear in the serpent and he dares to descend from the treetops once more and draw closer to the treeline. Enthralled as he is by the man’s voice, he thinks little of risking the rustle of underbrush against his tail. His body shifts, scales receding to mimic tan skin and broadening shoulders feathering quetzal⩫ green.
As the serpent lets his shifting form settle, he watches the man turn back to his tote, the bundle of sticks stacked atop it following the other items he’s taken from it. With a strange patience, instead of striking, the serpent watches the assembly of the sticks and wood shavings into a small intricate pile. A few strikes against the stone and the shavings spark and smoke. The burn would be as familiar as the heat of the sun, the serpent thinks as he slithers closer under the cover of the crackling tinder and the sharp exhales of the human breathing life into the flames. The heat might kiss his scales and brighten his feathers, he could dance in it before the fire harmed him. He gently parts the tree branches with the new and sparsely scaled arms his shifted form allows him.
The serpent takes in the human’s appearance, the chaotic bird’s-nest hair perched upon his head, teased wild by passing branches and forest living. Sitting back upon his heels, the human brings the first of the two rabbits in front of him, the knife proving dull only in colour. The man hums, the snick of his blade striking in counterpoint to his words. “Priest-King Topiltzín Quetzalcoatl⩫,” and again, the serpent slides forward as if called upon to be known. The growing firelight flickers across the warm tones of his bare skin, catching on the dark cocoa brown of his eyes. “Most righteous king, established sacred practices in order to give back to the gods.” The gutted rabbit slides onto one of the remaining sticks. “Sacrificial mercy, returning the energy of the body to sustain the divine.” The human thrusts the stick into the ground so that the flames just kiss the meat.
The second rabbit comes into view and the same efficient knife work makes short work of it. The human needs the sustenance, the serpent decides, perhaps…too thin to serve as a proper morsel after all. Besides, why feast on this man’s flesh when the banquet of his words appeals so much more. The second animal receives similar attention as it joins the first upon the fire. Drifting ever closer, the serpent truly risks exposure in favour of his observations now.
The forest-mussed man produces a small molcajete⩫ alongside some chiles and herbs he’s gathered in his travels. Depositing them in the stone mortar, the man rumbles, “Tezcatlipoca⩫, trickster, usurper.” Pieces of his story remain clearly unspoken as he grinds the contents of the bowl in some rhythm he alone knows. Displeasure grows in the serpent at his brother’s name falling from the plush lips which drip with the sticky sweet voice that calls first to him. “Plied from his senses, Quetzalcoatl⩫ succumbed to temptation,” the human mumbles, unknowingly placating any hurt the great serpent watching him might have harboured with another succulent uttering of his own name.
Small tomatillos follow the chiles, skins easily bursting to release the juices within. The crackling fire billows, sending the smell of fat and roasting meat into the air. Yet it remains less appetising than the human’s voice. The serpent remembers this story, the original truth and the shifting of its weave across countless retellings. His form lacked feathers in that tale and his hips flex where flesh meets scale as he wonders which ending this human will offer him. The anticipation buzzes beneath skin and scale, sending his tail flicking through the underbrush and sharply snapping several twigs to his left.
Dark eyes dart up from their work — the subtle wet scrape of pestle ceasing — as they scan the forest adjacent to the serpent, alert and assessing. Exposure lingers as a threat, mere leaves between them, but the serpent no longer cares if he is seen. Even in this, the serpent finds a certain desire to be known and to know more about this human who tells his stories to the forest.
The molcajete⩫ clinks gently on the ground, pestle rolling around the rim. The human grabs hold of his tecpatl⩫, fingers flexing around the handle. Fear permeates the air as the subtlest gleam of sweat appears across every inch of visible skin, sharp awareness bleeds off muscles tensed in anticipation of action. The sight is beyond tantalising and demands the serpent taste it, his forked tongue flicking out from between the leaves to draw in the novel scents. This human smells truly exquisite despite the fear-sour now tainting his scent and the serpent is unable to contain the full-body shiver that rolls through him.
Instantly the human’s eyes lock onto the shifting leaves around the serpent’s position, his tecpatl⩫ still held defensively between them. “Ocelotl⩫,” the low voice whispers.
Offended at the mistaken identification, his terrible hiss precedes him like the great rush of flood waters following a heavy rain as he presses forward through the leaves. He will make this human see the whole of him so that he will never again dare to mistake him for an ocelotl⩫.
The human’s recognition remains that of a prey animal caught in a predator’s sights, but as the serpent reveals more of himself, it is soon eclipsed by a growing reverence. That night-dark gaze flicks from forest toned scales to brilliant green feathers in a questing course down the whole of the serpent’s sizeable form before the man frantically discards his tecpatl⩫, the blade landing beyond the man’s reach. Dropping to the ground, he prostrates himself before the serpent, hands offered palm up with his forehead pressing into the soil.
A fresh taste of the air speaks of waning fear and growing awe. The serpent’s tail winds through the small space as he fully enters the clearing. Flames flicker with enticing warmth along his scales as he comes to loom over the prostrated human. The knobs of his spine stand in stark relief from the smooth planes of his back leading the serpent’s eyes up its guided path. Its course is as plain as the stepped ascent of one of his temples and upon reaching its zenith, he ducks close, stealing the evaporating sweat from the man’s nape with the next flick of his tongue.
Green feathers along the serpent’s flank shift, brushing against the man’s bare thigh and prominent ribs. The touch yields a most delicious shiver and whispered words pouring warm breath and obeisance into the air. The serpent drinks in the prayer, feeling more scales fade into smooth supple skin. He continues to circle, hovering his now human torso over the man’s head, trailing quetzal ⩫ sharp nails through the chaos of silky soft hair adorning it.
“You mumble your prayersss to the sssoil, tlacatl⩫, human, ” he hisses softly, coiling tighter around the man. “I would basssk in your wordsss more clearly ssspoken. Rissse.”
The human sits back on his heels, spine bent in supplication and chin resting on his sternum, palms on his thighs. The prayers grow louder though still spoken with a demure softness. “Ascendant morning star, Quetzalcoatl⩫,” he breathes.
The great serpent draws closer behind this human whose fear-sour scent has fully dissipated from the clearing. “You ssspeak my ssstoriesss in my foressst. You make your offerings above my pool...Finisssh the one you ssstarted.” He leans in, the next flick of his forked tongue landing behind the man’s earlobe. He feels the man’s shiver along his scales, brushes the tufted feathers at the tip of his tail along the back of his hands. “Plied of my sssensssesss,” he prompts, a clawed hand drawing the man’s chin upwards.
“Topiltzín Quetzalcoatl⩫,” his name falls from trembling lips with stuttering awe, “succumbed to temptation, fell to Tezcatlipoca’s-⩫”
Quetzalcoatl⩫ hisses softly at the name. “Go on,” the god hums, hunger overcoming his displeasure at that name.
“His brother’s betrayal, thus ending the golden era.” The deep voice weaves the story and entrances Quetzalcoatl⩫. He licks into the air beside the man’s face to taste his words as they leave his mouth. “Topiltzín⩫ cast himself upon a pyre ascending to the heavens, most divine morning star,” the human intones.
A soft sigh escapes him at the completion of the story as he begins circling again. “Sssuch giftsss make a temple of thisss place. I would have your name, tlacatl⩫?”
The human’s eyes track the rustle of his tail through the dirt, still cast down and away, never rising above the great serpent’s newly created navel. “Temiquiliztli⩫,” he answers in that deep pleasing voice.
”Hmm, you bear a perfect moniker,” Quetzalcoatl⩫ whispers back. “What better way to dessscribe you but a Dream?” He allows a length of his tail to pass over the man’s thighs, feathers shifting over the man’s fingers resting there. “I’ve had enough deference. I would have you gaze upon me, would bessstow on you my favour for a tassste of sssomething different.”
Dark eyes flick up from under lashes as black as the night sky, light catching like stars in his gaze. “Sacrifice?” Dream’s head turns to track Quetzalcoatl⩫’s approach, his eyes cast low enough to be fixed on the serpent’s sharp teeth where they peek from between his human lips.
Quetzalcoatl⩫ stops inches from the human’s face, a clawed finger pushing Dream’s head to the side only enough to reveal his unadorned ear. “That which isss willing, yesss.” Resuming his circuit of the man, he wraps his tail more firmly around Dream’s lithely muscled legs so his feathers brush tantalisingly against a bare hip. He will test this persistent lack of fear, for the taste of it hasn’t returned once since Dream dropped his knife.
Now that he has been commanded to look, Dream’s eyes never once leave Quetzalcoatl⩫’s and when the god moves beyond their limited range, he turns his head so their gaze remains unbroken for as far as he can manage. When Quetzalcoatl⩫ at last crosses to Dream’s other side, but before the man can twist to look over his opposite shoulder, he relents to the hunger this man’s offering has stoked in him and sets his sharp fangs to the tender flesh of Dream’s earlobe. The continuation of their exchange hangs in the air, the question Quetzalcoatl⩫ knows Dream will answer even as he leaves it unspoken.
“I am willing, Quetzalcoatl⩫,” Dream insists, voice impossibly deeper. The human’s emotions are only visible in the subtle increase in the rise and fall of his bare chest, but it is enough to assure the divine serpent of his sincerity. He senses little hesitancy and brilliant anticipation as he teases the flesh he holds tenderly between his long sharp teeth before piercing it in one swift bite. The human only barely tenses at the minute wound.
Perfect for future adornment, Quetzalcoatl⩫ thinks, perhaps, a gold plug in the form of a snake. He laves over the small puncture, suckling at the slow trickle of sacrificial blood, wrapping his thick arms around Dream’s chest. One hand caresses down the hard planes of that bronzed torso while he holds Dream still at an ideal angle with his other on the man’s strong chin.
Even as his coils tighten around his sacrifice — for he will let no other have him — Dream doesn’t fight him as the blood flowing from his ear slows, the piercing so small. Quetzalcoatl⩫ lingers over the taste appreciating this rare indulgence. Not often does he get such a sacrifice straight from the source, where it remains so intensely tied with the energy of the human body. Reluctantly, he detaches himself from the sweet flesh of Dream’s ear, running his nose along the man’s sharp jaw towards his parted lips. “You taste divine, Notemictli⩫,” he groans, the taste and smell of fresh blood, a willing sacrifice, pungent in the air. “My Dream.”
A deep whine escapes the human’s throat before he whispers in a choked voice, “Take more of me if you wish, exalted sun.” An exhale reveals the source of that scent, the blood coating Dream’s teeth a seductive red. Quetzalcoatl⩫ licks into his mouth with forked tongue to taste this sweet offering, self-inflicted and the sweeter for it. Dream surrenders to the serpent’s will, held firm by Quetzalcoatl’s⩫ tail and arms. Lowering the human to the ground, the serpent devours Dream’s mouth from above, drawing in and consuming the red blood and all the life stored within, reintegrating into his godly form. Serpent fangs pierce into wounded flesh, adding more intentionally shallow cuts. Quetzalcoatl⩫ sucks the man’s lower lip into his mouth pulling yet more blood from his willing sacrifice, drawing from the life-energy within him. Dream’s eyes roll back, body limp and at the great serpent’s mercy.
⨇⨈⨇⨈⨇
Temiquiliztli⩫ awakens slowly from a sleep visited upon by a god. Swallowing heavily, he hisses softly at the throb of pain from his swollen lower lip where it presses against his teeth. The smell of roasted rabbit and fresh salsa mingles with the wood smoke of the fire. Shifting proves impossible for the weight resting heavy on his torso while his head and knees lay pillowed on raised ground. Warm fat and juices drip against his parted lips, the acidity of the salsa on the cuts stinging mildly. Scales and feathers shift along his bare skin and Dream’s eyes snap open, the reality of the meeting settling in immediately upon looking up into the golden eyes of a serpent. Taloned fingers brush absently at this hair as the tail beneath his head shifts slightly, the coil around his torso constricting possessively tighter.
Quetzalcoatl⩫’s dark human hair merges seamlessly into the vibrant green plumage adorning his neck and shoulders, the image inverted above him. His unblinking serpent’s eyes peer down at him and Dream feels himself drowning in the god’s golden gaze, the colour of his eyes consuming the whole of them unlike the limited bounds of a human’s iris before giving way to white sclera. Unable to prevent the rise in his heart rate at being pinned beneath that predatory gaze, Dream feels only the subtlest give in the great serpent’s hold around his chest.
With an inhuman tilt of his head, Quetzalcoatl⩫ presses the meat to Dream’s lips once more. “Eat, Notemictli⩫,” he instructs, his hiss elongating the words as they pass through needle-sharp fangs. “Sssussstaining a god isss taxing on one ssso sssmall.”
Dream takes the proffered meat gingerly from the god’s taloned fingers, chewing it thoughtfully as he tries to comprehend his current situation. But, his thoughts completely stall out when those talons pull yet more meat from the roasted rabbits to dip in his molcajete⩫ and feed to him. He’s too stunned to protest, let alone form a single coherent thought as he takes in this being that he’s only ever seen in art or in his own mind’s eye when he pictures the stories he memorises.
Patches of forest green scales adorn the great serpent’s human arms, sparser near his clawed hands and denser along his well-muscled shoulders where they sink under the mantle of quetzal⩫ feathers. Small clusters of blood-red scales highlight his left collarbone, as well as his ribs just beneath the swell of his pectorals. The sun-kissed skin of his belly blends warmly into the wide, golden scales where hips give way to serpent underbelly.
Dream expects the image to fade as a mirage might, expects his preference for the company of the forest and its near silence to have conjured this unbelievable scenario. Perhaps a venomous creature bit him in passing…or the volume of stories filling his eager thoughts finally left no room in his mind for his knowledge of edible foods to sustain himself on. It must have led him to mistakenly consume a poisonous plant. Which is to say, Dream expects he has been reduced to a lesson, a cautionary tale against wandering alone, to be told to children. Yet, despite having to blink at last, Quetzalcoatl⩫ remains above him, below him, all around him. As he always is, his mind insists. The gods reside in everything, lend their energy to everything. He swallows the latest morsel that had been pressed to his lips, considering how to proceed when the god himself prevents Dream from moving into a more respectful position. “How may I serve you, Great Serpent?”
As the next bite is brought to his mouth, Quetzalcoatl⩫’s talon presses gently at Dream’s swollen lip. Dream forces the whine trying to escape back down into his chest, but he can’t help pressing up into the pain rather than pulling away. The motion doesn’t go unnoticed and he finds he would give willingly again if requested if only for the lilting smirk that earns him.
“I would see my priessst sssated,” the god declares, smooth scales sliding along Dream’s body as the strong tail shifts its hold on him.
“I am no priest,” he argues, softening his words with deference as Quetzalcoatl⩫ stares down at him, “with respect, Second Sun,”
The great serpent’s palm slips under Dream’s chin, taloned fingers bracketing his jaw, though the touch remains gentle. “You ssspeak my ssstoriesss?”
“I know our histories, the tales of our gods and creation,” Dream confirms, gaze locked with those golden serpent’s eyes.
Quetzalcoatl⩫ smiles, stroking the line of his cheek with a razor sharp claw, yet doing no damage. “You are a pilgrim to my pool?”
Dream had intended to find these waters rumoured to lie so far south from his village as to be only a myth. He’d wanted to confirm the pool’s existence but never could he have anticipated stumbling upon the god in this way. “I…I suppose I am,” he allows.
This admission earns him another bite of meat, the great serpent’s touch grazing purposefully at his lip. “Your sssacrifice wasss willing and true?”
His jaw brushes the great serpent’s fingers as he chews. Quetzalcoatl⩫’s nails skim through the fine hairs below his ear and send a fire blazing across his scalp. Dream swallows, his throat grazing the sun-warmed palm. “It was,” he answers.
The coiling mass of the god’s serpent half tightens, wrapped two-fold around Dream’s body, as the distant tip of his tail trails vibrant feathers from Dream’s ankle to his stomach in a teasing caress. He withdraws the hand he had been petting Dream with to pluck a single cascading green feather from the plumage at his tail’s tip. “I ssspoke truth, when I named you priessst,” the great serpent hisses with conviction, shifting smoothly around to face the human.
Dream’s torso rises as Quetzalcoatl⩫ brings him closer, the hand on his throat shifting to his jaw as fangs reclaim his ear. A still willing sacrifice, Dream hardly feels the god’s sharp tooth sink in comparison to the initial pain of his flesh being pierced earlier. Pleasure sparks low in his belly at the slow and lingering pull of blood from the reopened wound into the warm, wet heat of the god’s mouth.
He barely contains the whine that threatens to escape him when that warmth leaves his ear, but then Dream feels the blunt heft of the feather’s dark green calamus press to the new hole there. The serpent god threads the exquisite plumage into place, the fluffy down settling against the front of his ear while the remaining length of brilliant green cascades down his neck and onto his chest. Quetzalcoatl⩫ eyes his work with an unblinking intensity that sends lightning down Dream’s spine before he’s helplessly gasping, eyes fluttering shut, as an errant drop of blood is swept away from his lip with the broad face of the god’s forked tongue. The hand resting on his jaw shifts, caressing along the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He blinks the haze of unreality free from his eyes and witnesses golden eyes disappear beneath the sweep of long and lush, dark lashes on newly formed lids.
A sense of daring possesses Dream. He wiggles within the tight coil of the great serpent’s hold, shrugging his shoulder to squeeze his bicep in close to his body and free his arm. Dream feels Quetzalcoatl⩫ shifting his hold around his torso so that he is allowed his arm even as the snug pressure along his ribs does not diminish. The silken human hands which had begun exploring him from the shoulders up, return to his neck, talons shorter and almost dull against his skin, and remain fitted there.
Granted this measure of freedom, he telegraphs his movements, setting his thumb at the corner of his god’s left eye. Quetzalcoatl⩫ closes it, leaving Dream pinned beneath the unblinking gaze of his golden right eye. “You are changing?”
The plumed serpent turns his head, pressing his lips to the inside of Dream’s wrist. “Only asss much asss I wissssh,” he hisses, fanged teeth brushing tender flesh. “Only asss much asss your blood providesss.”
“You require more?” Dream asks tentatively, unsure of what being named priest by the god himself entails. His teeth press into the swollen flesh of his lip, a sharp flash of heat arcing across his scalp from the pain.
“Perhapsss,” Quetzalcoatl⩫ rumbles, thumb brushing gently along where the feather rests on Dream’s shoulder. An appreciative smile reveals his still inhuman teeth. The great serpent sets Dream down beside him, tail unwinding from him although remaining coiled around the clearing. “Now, you require ressst, my willing sssacrifice, but you may make offeringsss of ssstoriesss if you wisssh.”
After being held so close, Dream simultaneously feels ready to ascend into the heavens at any moment, free from his body; and thoroughly hollowed out, his body instead filled with a weight that leaves him sure he will never be able to rise again now that he knows the touch of the divine. Only when thick lashes and bronze skin blink closed, hiding Quetzalcoatl’s⩫ eyes for mere moments, does he realise he’s been staring at the god for some time, blinded to the world around him as surely as if he were staring into the burning face of Huitzilopochtli⩫ when he has first risen above the horizon and bathes everything in his golden sunlight. Heat rushes up his neck and settles into a blaze high across his cheeks and along the tops of his ears at the realisation. When those golden eyes resettle on him, Dream watches with fascination as the black pit of the god’s pupils flutter ever so slightly. Another small change his blood has provided.
Quetzalcoatl⩫ tilts his head watching Dream and his mouth has never been more dry. Grabbing his water skin, he takes a large gulp and then pointedly attempts to keep his gaze trained away from…the everything of the god. The sprawling coil of his serpentine tail makes this difficult as the scales and plumage wind about the small clearing, filling it. Dream would gaze upon that captivating form until the setting of the fifth sun, but he cannot fulfil the task given to him if he continues to do so now. With every ounce of his control, he forces his gaze heavenward, to the realm of winds — of the god lounging next to him — and loses himself to his art, the weaving of words and telling of tales.
“Before the earth, there was only sea…”
⨇⨈⨇⨈⨇
Dream’s voice cracks from sustained use. It seems his chosen mortal is unused to the weaving of such long stories, but the growing roughness of a voice pushed to its limits is an offering of its own. While the gravelled quality of his priest’s words makes him shiver and his feathers rustle, Dream must strengthen his voice if he is to fulfil his duties. Quetzalcoatl⩫ watches the way the man loses himself to his storytelling — his hands gesturing dramatically and his tongue darting out to soothe his lips — all with a hunger to know more about these descendants of his creation.
“After Tezcatlipoca⩫ was knocked from his place in the sky, he took his revenge and unleashed his jaguars upon the first humans. The large cats set upon Quetzalcoatl⩫’s creations with insatiable hunger, rending and tearing their flesh until they were eradicated from the earth.” Dream captures those last words in his palm as he finishes the story of the first sun and releases them in offering as he opens his hand along its descending arc from his lips. The human watches Quetzalcoatl⩫ with dark eyes, searching his features for any further change to his form.
“Your kind ssshift the ssstoriesss of creation,” he hums with a smile, “fabricating talesss from truthsss to sssuit your needsss.” His priest looks fearful at this proclamation, unsure of his offering’s reception. “I am not dissspleasssed that you count yourssselvesss asss children of the firssst to walk the earth. I wasss quite fond of the firssst people,” Quetzalcoatl⩫ soothes. “It wasss many sssunsss ago.”
A gusting breath leaves the human, relief dissolving the tension from his body and drawing the corners of the great serpent’s lips up in a warm smile. He stretches his new arms, arching his back and feeling the pull of his new abdominal muscles where they connect to his serpent half. His head tips back with the motion and it is then that he realises how far along his younger brother is in his daily course, the sun nearly hidden below the treeline of the clearing Dream had settled in. Dream’s dark eyes burn with unbridled interest that has him trailing clawed fingers along the human’s jaw once more. He draws the mortal’s face tantalisingly close until he is sharing in his life’s breath, relishing in how that same breath hitches at the brush of his forked tongue along those plush lips.
“I will have more of your ssstoriesss, my sssweet tlacatl⩫, but not today. Your offeringsss have pleasssed me and now I would sssee you truly ressst.” He strokes the emerald length of his feather hanging from Dream’s ear before he turns back to the forest. His need to find prey and sustenance once again reasserting itself alongside a desire to return to his den.
“W-will I see you again?” Dream’s roughened voice cracks on his frantic question.
“You are my priessst now,” Quetzalcoatl⩫ reminds the man. “You will sssee me again…sssoon.” Shedding the partial humanity his form took on from Dream’s offering, he returns to his purely predatory serpentine state as he reenters the forest and resumes the hunt he had started that morning.