Emperor Pacha Must Groove

by going_to_the_sun_road

Summary:

Pacha never set out to be emperor. He's not a warrior, or a glory seeker. Just a humble farmer that couldn't keep his opinions to himself. Though he rose to power on the merits of his good advice and steady leadership, governing an empire is so much harder than acting as village leader.

Enter his new royal advisor, the capricious and judgemental Kuzco. Seemingly more concerned with whether Pacha wears the right tunics with his ornamental headdresses than with the governing of the country, it's no wonder Pacha isn't seeing eye to eye with the man.

But when a banquet with visiting nobles goes terribly awry, the two will be forced to rely on each other to survive. And along the way, they might just find that they have more in common than they thought.

-----

Containing, amongst other things: unlikely friendships, mysterious pasts, slow-acting poisons, a lost kingdom and plenty of silly hijinks.

Notes:

• For Fair_Kid.

Taking the plunge on this one, it's gonna be silly and fun and minimally edited. (or not... I do tend to take things and... go way too hard with them...)

Just can't get the idea of tired, overwhelmed emperor Pacha out my head. And sassy-beyond-all-reason advisor Kuzco.

Chapter 1: Why Me

“Why me?” Ah, dang, Pacha hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Of course the damn acoustics throw his complaint to the four corners of the throne room, booming and echoing like self-pitying thunder. Pacha winces, and sits up straighter, attempting to recover some respectability. He’s the emperor now, so he’s really got to start acting the part, he reminds himself firmly. His guards don’t react, stoically doing their best to merge with the elaborately carved stone frescos.

“No one asked this old man, but if I had to offer an opinion, it’s probably because you were the one that stepped up and decided to sit on this here hunk of decorated stone.” The creaky thread of a voice is right beside his ear, and Pacha yelps in surprise, nearly falling out of the narrow stone seat as he flails.

“Oh,” he chuckles, pressing a hand to his heart, “I didn’t hear you come in, honored traveler! Are you alright? Do you need some water or somewhere to sit?” As he makes the offers servants materialize with the proffered items, all gilded in elaborate gold and jewels. That always catches Pacha off guard, even after all these months. Where do they even come from?

“No, no, these old legs still have some hobble left! I’m a fighter, you know.” The old man gives a toothless grin, showing off his pink gums, raising his frail arms in a boxer’s pose.

His guards crowd suddenly closer as one unit, spears bristling. Pacha belatedly makes an awkward dismissing motion to send them back to their posts, bewildered that they would consider the old man a threat. He sits back against the unyielding stone and massages the bridge of his nose.

“So, would you like an old man’s advice?”

“I’d take any you had to spare, and gladly, friend.”

“You need to hire yourself an advisor,” the old man proclaims, hands on his hips. He holds the pose as the echoes slowly tail off into silence.

“I’ve got advisors,” Pacha says at last, hesitant to take the wind out of the old vagabond’s sails. “A whole panel of them, and an audience with every village leader on a rotating schedule complex enough to make the gods dizzy.”

“No, no, no! Not just any old advisor. I mean a royal advisor. Very different, very rare. Someone who knows all about running a kingdom, backwards and forwards. Someone who’s always in your corner, who knows your mind better than you do! Always has your back in a kerfuffle!” The old man is back to enthusiastically jabbing and hooking the air.

“That sounds great, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking for someone like that. My wife is really, really smart, and she’s my rock, but she’s taken over leading our village now that I’m here and we try not to talk work on the weekends…”

“Good thing I’ve got just the man for the job, then,” the old man leans in, winking. When Pacha doesn’t react he taps his nose with his finger for good measure. “Just leave it all to me, I’ll get you a real royal advisor and all your troubles will be over.”

“I don’t know…” Pacha says to the once again empty throne room. The old man is already gone. His guards remain still as statues, unmoved by his worries.

Well, he thinks practically, a new advisor couldn’t cause that much trouble.

Chapter 2: How a Simple Farmer Became Emperor

Summary:

Pacha reflects on how he became emperor. The facts are nearly stranger than fiction. All he wanted was to do right by his village, his family, his land.

Fate had other plans.

Notes:

Fun and minimally edited, I said!!! (grits teeth, resists the impulse to rewrite this a third time)

The thing you have to understand about Pacha’s rise to power, is that fact is often stranger than legend.

Pacha didn’t set out to be emperor. He didn’t want wealth, or fame and he certainly didn't want the crushing burden of duty that comes with making decisions for an entire land. He just wanted to do the best he could for his family, his farm and his village.

Growing up, the Capital was a distant idea, as abstract as the far distant heavens. His village was his entire world. A place of thick, verdant jungles and steep misty peaks, the calls of colorful birds interlacing with the old working songs of the farmers in their terraced fields.

He was the sixth generation to work his family’s fields. He wanted to do well, to make his parents and grandparents and their ancestors proud. To do the best he could for his family, his rambunctious, lovely children and his kind, quick-witted wife.

Maybe that was his flaw. He couldn’t leave well enough alone, not if he thought he could do things even a little bit better.

As a lad, he’d run wild through the winding animal trails of the jungle. He’d seen how a single tree falling could change the shape of the land. Everything is connected.

A neighbor’s field dries up and all the fields downhill choke in dust or flood with mud in the next rainstorm.

So he started trading advice. Just little things, tricks he’d learned, insights from a weather journal knotted by his grandmother into the hearth rug. Swapped for tricks to get better yield out of shadier plots, or a tincture to cure Tipa’s fever.

Somehow that was enough to gain him a reputation. People from other villages, some more than a day’s walk away, came to seek his advice. He never turned any of them away.

His neighbors worked out a rotating system to help maintain his fields, so he wouldn’t stay up all night tending his yams after giving counsel all day.

He started missing the feeling of dirt between his fingers, and the steady, well-earned ache of muscles working hard beneath the sun.

He started taking his meetings in the fields. Had nobles and beggars work side by side as he guided them through the problems they brought him. Somehow, rather than discouraging more visitors, his notoriety only seemed to grow.

Then disaster.

The first they knew about it was that the tax men had stopped coming. It was a flood, or maybe the fire came first and then the flood, and the plague spread with the stagnant water. Or maybe it was simply a judgment by the gods. The news was tangled by the time it spread to their distant village, but all accounts agreed.

The Sun Emperor was dead, and had named no heir. The Capital was dying.

Pacha sat for a long time that night in the storage barn, looking at their tax crops. Good corn and root vegetables and grain. Though the taxes were taken in the emperor’s name, only a sliver of the food actually went to the palace. Most of it was distributed to the people of the city.

He tries to remember, these days, when he lies awake in his too big bed in the royal chambers. Had he felt a tingle of fear, that night in the barn? Had he realized how close he was to a precipice, to a choice from which there was no turning back? No, he decides. He isn’t blessed with foresight, no matter what the legends say.

At the time, all he felt was disquiet at the thought of those people going hungry. No use in all this good food rotting away, he decided. If it’s truly all connected, then the capital is just as much a part of his village as anywhere else. It's just a little further than he expected life to take him, that’s all.

Though the records of history would mark his ascendance weeks later, it was that thought that marked him irrevocably as emperor.

The next day the village gathered their crops in wagons and pallets, on the backs of llamas and farmers. They looked like an army, a living river of people and animals flowing across the roads and bridges. But when the other villages find out what they’re doing (when they find out that Pacha is at their head, as strange as that seemed to him at the time), they ask, one and all, to join them.

They walked into the Capital as a vast flood of people and animals and food. The streets are empty, the people hesitant to emerge, starved thin and wary of invaders.

Pacha knew they probably looked intimidating, so many strangers suddenly filling the streets. So he started singing a little song about plants and the sun, smiling at the wide-eyed children peeking out of doorways.

The rest of the farmers started singing along. The song Pacha chose was an old, old tune, one that every far-flung village knew, though one or two words might have changed over the years. And the voices of their crowd joined together, changing a silly planting song into a grand upwelling of joy and hope.

That's when things got really out of hand. Because the easiest place to distribute their food and make sure everyone gets their share, the largest wide open plaza, was the emperor's palace. When the guards, leaning weakly on their gilded pikes, saw them come up the grand steps, singing of the sun and carrying enough food to save the city, their fear quickly turned to relief, and they rushed to push wide the heavy golden doors.

They called him the Sun Risen from the Bountiful Earth, and they anointed him emperor the same week.

Notes:

Next up: the grand entrance of a new royal advisor :3c

Chapter 3: The Royal Advisor Arrives

Summary:

Kuzco arrives with a BOOM! Pacha is definitely not prepared, but he's willing to give this strange young man a shot, if only because he trusts Rudy's judgment.

When the new royal advisor arrives, he does so with a boom.

Literally. The tall stone doors of the audience chamber practically rebound off the walls. Pacha sits up out of his tired slouch, suddenly wide awake.

Backlit by the golden light of the entrance stands a slender silhouette.

Did that someone really shout ‘Boom, Baby’ as he entered? Nah, couldn’t be. Much more likely that Pacha had managed to doze off prior to this sudden interruption and dreamed that. Pacha tries to look alert, less like he’d stayed up long into the night reviewing crop yield projections and an endless backlog of border disputes.

“Announcing His Eminence Kuzco, prospective royal advisor here to present himself before our Blessed Emperor!” bellows the herald. There’s a man with job security, Pacha thinks idly. Voice like a howler monkey.

As the man—Kuzco—walks forward the attendants perk up at some cue indiscernible to Pacha, all of them snapping into concerted action. They bring wide painted fans, and roll out the long, luxuriously dyed red carpet ahead of the man's feet. (Damn, Pacha had just thought he’d broken them of that habit. No one needs a red carpet to go from bed to toilet at 3 am, that’s his firmly held opinion, which he’s seriously considering ratifying into official law if this keeps up.)

The advisor’s wrists and ankles jingle with tasteful jewelry, his sandals elaborately decorated, his tunic a rich, deep crimson with gold accents. He wears a modest alpaca wool cap in the current style, his hair shoulder-length and shiny.

As Kuzco strides confidently towards the throne, Pacha can’t help but think that the man looks more like an emperor than he does. He certainly seems unfazed by the over-the-top service provided by the palace attendants.

He maintains his steady, dignified pace up until the very edge of the steps leading up to Pacha’s dais, where he stops and bows, low and formal. His hair swings forward in two curtains on either side of his face. Holding the pose he speaks in a clear, ringing voice. Intriguingly, his words hold a trace of an accent that Pacha can’t place.

“Most Revered Emperor Pacha, I come at the request of your…ah, honored guest, Rudy—”he falters there, perhaps uncertain of the old man’s official status with Pacha, which, fair. Most emperors probably don’t let random vagabonds stay indefinitely in their palace or take their counsel on new-hires.

“May His Majesty look kindly on this prospective advisor,” he finishes, smoothing over the hesitation.

“It’s Kuzco, right? So, when can you start?”

“I am prepared to begin my duties at the whim of His Majesty.”

“Ok, good enough for me!”

“O-ok?” Kuzco repeats, looking up in confusion. Pacha realizes for all his fancy clothes and formal language he’s actually quite young. Twenty at most. “You don’t have any questions for me, Great One?”

“Nah. I trust Rudy, and you came all this way. Might as well get started and see how you do.” Actions always speak louder than words, in his experience. Pacha knows instinctively this man could run verbal circles around him without speaking a word of truth.

Disbelief flashes across Kuzco’s face before he schools it back into a sort of blank respectfulness. He straightens and gestures to the attendants, who rush to bring another carpet to lay on the steps ascending to the throne.

At Pacha’s feet they place a low golden table, and on that table they place a wide golden chalice. Another attendant pours thick, dark chocolate into the chalice. Kuzco ascends the stairs with that same, formal pace, and kneels before the table.

A dagger appears, wicked sharp and gleaming. It’s offered to Kuzco with both hands by a man in an elaborate cloak and headdress that Pacha only belatedly recognizes as his head priest.

Pacha inhales in surprise as Kuzco calmly, deliberately slices open his own palm. His face maintains its stoic composure even as he makes a fist with the injured hand, letting the blood drip into the goblet. The blood glints like rubies as it falls, each drop swallowed completely by chocolate dark and bitter as the earth. (All Pacha can think of is how unnecessary and painful it is to let blood from the palm. Don’t any of these traditions take into account that people might need to work the day after?!)

Leaving his sluggishly bleeding hand unbandaged, Kuzco lifts the heavy goblet with both hands and offers it up to Pacha, his head bowed forward, jewelry and hair swinging. Blood flows slowly along the carved details on the side of the cup, tracing the images of gods and kings in crimson.

“My strength and spirit become yours, Emperor Pacha, Sun Risen from the Bountiful Earth,” he vows, voice heavy with tradition.

Pacha takes the goblet, trying not to fumble it in his shock. There’s probably a proper response, something dignified and similarly traditional. He hadn’t spent any time since he took the throne learning tradition.

This is the first moment he feels cause to regret it.

“I accept,” he says plainly, voice hoarse. He touches the blood and chocolate to his lips, but can’t quite make himself drink. Kuzco watches impassively, his hand seamlessly bandaged by another attendant the moment Pacha accepted.

Another servant whisks the goblet away and Kuzco springs to his feet, clapping his hands together briskly.

“Alright!”

“Alright?”

“Step one is doing something about this decor I think, and then we can get you measured for some proper attire.” He pauses, flicking his hooded gaze up and down Pacha’s body. “Jewelry as well, and definitely a haircut.”

“Hold on, that’s not—”

“Ah, ah, ah, don’t fret, Your Majesty,” he says, wagging an admonishing finger. “Just sit back and let me do my job. I ‘might as well’, since I ‘came all this way’,” he quotes at the end, his tone subtly barbed like a cat’s hidden claws.

Pacha sits back and watches in growing horror as Kuzco takes up a position at the front of the dais, hands moving like a talented conductor, bringing the palace to life around them.

Notes:

Look, this whole thing is going on vibes anyways, so if you're wondering why they're using drinking chocolate when the Incan Empire didn't actually do chocolate... well, just imagine that Kuzco had it imported for the added drama. :3c

Oh, Pacha, your worries are only beginning >:3

Chapter 4: What Makes an Emperor

Summary:

Kuzco gets to work, trying to whip the palace into shape. Pacha isn't as on board with the direction his new advisor is taking things.

“Oh gods, you're a brick house. One of those warrior emperor types? If you’ve got a room full of the moldering skulls of your enemies somewhere, tell me now, I'll have to get the artisans to work it into the decor somehow.”

Kuzco examines his nails languidly, lounged on a divan near where Pacha stands stripped to his underclothes. Pacha is trying his best not to squirm as the tailors (Multiple tailors! Apparently everyone in the city wants a chance to compete for best outfit for the emperor. It’s a plot Kuzco devised to get him a wardrobe finished sooner rather than later) take measurements of every inch of his body. He swears one of them measured the width of his toes earlier.

“I’m a farmer, not a warrior,” Pacha says on a sigh, barely restraining the urge to roll his eyes. They’ve been at this for hours. The line of tailors still winds all the way out of the room. Each one insists on making their own measurements in case the others try to change the numbers to sabotage each other. Who knew it was such hard work to stand still with your arms out? Pacha didn’t, that’s for sure. Neither his aching back nor his dignity are coming away unscathed from this particular scheme of Kuzco’s.

“Uh…huh,” Kuzco drawls, leaning his cheek into his fist doubtfully. “So what? You grew the best potatoes and this magically elevated you to godhood? You’re either born an emperor or you fight your way to the top, that’s just the way the world works,” he declares. He turns his head suddenly, coming alert like a hunting dog catching a scent and springing from the divan to go berate some attendants that were fluffing pillows wrong or something.

“I didn't fight!” Pacha protests, projecting his voice in the hopes that it re-captures Kuzco’s attention. The attendants suitably chastised, Kuzco drifts back to Pacha’s dais, glaring at the tailors as if he could judge their skill from how they hold a measuring tape or something. “I just talked to the people around my village and explained the best course of action,” Pacha continues, “And then we brought the surplus harvests to the capital and then when everyone was fed there was some more talking and now here I am, Emperor Pacha, the Sun Risen from the Gentle Earth or whatever my title is this week.”

Kuzco throws up his hands with a scoff, glaring towards the ceiling like he’s accusing the gods of playing a cruel trick on him. He then turns the glare on Pacha, who matches it, refusing to be cowed. Apparently rendered speechless by this, Kuzco turns and stalks off in a huff, barking orders as he goes, scattering the attendants like a hawk in the chicken house. Pacha is left adrift, one small island of bewilderment amidst the never ending stream of cloth samples and measurements.

Later that day, Pacha goes looking for Kuzco, intending to ask why exactly that conversation had made him so upset. At last, he finds him near the palace gates, chatting up the guards. He’s lounged against the wall, making jokes and smiling easy, his glittering intelligence mostly hidden away behind a lazy, heavy-lidded expression. Pacha ducks back into the shadow of an archway, not wanting to interrupt the moment. He listens in (a little guiltily) from his hiding spot, curious what his new advisor talks about when he’s not around.

It turns out that Kuzco is delicately grilling his guards for information without letting on that’s what he’s doing. He cajoles and fishes and hints, steering the conversation expertly to Pacha’s past and ascendency.

The guards know a fair bit of the story, and most of it is even true. Kuzco nods along, hiding his dissatisfaction behind admiring ‘ahs’ and dramatic gasps at the appropriate moments. But from where Pacha is hidden he can see how Kuzco’s expressive mouth pulls down at the corners as the tale goes on.

When one of the men gets to the part about the singing, those sharp eyes flick unerringly to Pacha, like Kuzco had known he was lurking there the whole time. Pacha ducks away from his gaze, flattening himself against the wall, his heart racing. Caught out in his own damn palace. He sighs at his own foolishness and heads back indoors.

Later that night, Chicha says to him: “If you don’t think he’s the right man for the job then let him go. Hasta la vista, thanks for playing, try not to poison anyone on the way out.” She mimes booting the new advisor out and then waving sarcastically. They’re in their shared bedroom, getting her belongings unpacked for the weekend. He has until she’s unpacked and settled in to talk to her about work. It’s a compromise.

“Poison?” Pacha echoes, mouth going dry. When she turns away to hang up a dress he sneaks a few ponchos back in her bag. He really needs her advice, ok? Stop judging.

“Yeah, I mean that’s the root of it, isn’t it? All your complaints? You don’t trust him.” She turns back to the suitcase and raises an eyebrow, pointedly taking out all the ponchos Pacha had repacked in one big bundle and tossing them into a heap beside the bed. “You know it’s always the royal advisor that ends up evil in the stories. Maybe that’s for a reason,” she says with a shrug. Then she pivots and face plants into their massive, emperor-size bed, groaning in weary delight. Advice time is over.

Pacha swallows his defeat with serenity of long experience and crawls into the bed beside her. She sleepily pulls him in to cuddle, her breath evening out even with the lamps undimmed. It’s hard on her and the kids to make this trek so often, even with the guards and attendants from the Capital to help.

It’s incredible really, how staunchly Chicha has supported him through this whole mess. Their lives have been split in two, as irrevocably as a mountain gorge splitting the jungle. These weekends together are a thin rope bridge they’ve strung up together, barely spanning the old and the new. He hates to push, worried their new routine is too fragile to take on the weight of an Empire’s-worth of worries.

Kuzco had cornered him just this morning to tell him it was too dangerous to let Chicha live away from the palace. That there were plenty of opportunists that might plot to capture the Emperor’s family and hold them for ransom. But Pacha knows he can’t ask her to give up their family farm.

He chose to leave, but he won’t force her to follow. Not that he could. Chicha knows her own mind; as stubborn as a stone, his wife, but as steady as one too. It’s one of the many reasons he loves her.

He lies awake for a long time that night, thoughts of kidnappings and poison haunting his thoughts.

All of Pacha’s conflicted feelings about Kuzco boil over only a few days later, when he finds out that Kuzco canceled his weekly petitions with the common folk.

“You did what?!” He asks, holding onto his calm with his fingernails.

“Oh yeah, knocked that right off the schedule. We have too much real work to do, the banquet hosting the nobles from all four states is less than a week away.”

“What do you mean, real work?”

“Glad you asked! First you’ve got the royal hairstylist booked for noon to deal with… all of that. Then etiquette training with the head steward (that’ll take at least two hours, he’s a real stickler), and then there’s wardrobe!”

“Wardrobe?” Pacha grits.

“That’s the fun part. The tailors here are really something!” Kuzco enthuses, twirling and hugging his clipboard to his chest. “It’s not just this room, this entire wing is filled with new things for you to try on! I’m thinking a first pass to narrow it down to colors and cuts that fit you best, then we can really dig in and get serious about who has the best embroidery details—”

“NONE OF THAT IS REAL WORK!” Pacha bellows. Kuzco freezes, his eyes wide.

“I don’t CARE about clothes or the latest in gold cutlery or any of this! We have crop yield reports to review, and road construction routes to approve, and people’s petitions to hear! You can’t turn these people away, some of them walk for days to get here! Your priorities are all backwards.”

Kuzco’s mouth has thinned into a flat, pressed line throughout Pacha’s tirade. He takes a breath, smoothing down the front of his ornate tunic and touching his advisor’s headdress gently to make sure it’s on straight.

“Do you want to know the real reason I canceled your petitions?” he asks. His eyes are hard, his back very straight.

Here it comes, Pacha thinks, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Sabotage. Betrayal. Poison.

“It’s because people have started calling you the Peasant Emperor, and I’ve heard it's spreading beyond the city. And you want to know why they’re doing that? It’s because, amongst other things, you don’t dress appropriately!”

“I dress fine! All the rest of this—this fanciness is a big waste! Can’t they see that? They didn’t make me emperor for my fashion sense, they made me emperor because they trusted me to lead!”

“Yes, they trust you to lead, but I’m telling you that to lead you have to understand the meaning of an Emperor!” He looks around, and then plucks a golden cup off of the tray of refreshments that always appears wherever Pacha pauses for more than a few moments.

“Do you see this cup?” he demands, waving it under Pacha’s nose. “Do you see the engravings on this? This probably took some craftsman months to complete. And the metal for it came from the royal mines, where dozens of people worked to gather this sacred gold. Not to mention the juice in the goblet, pressed from the fruit of distant lowland farms and carried all the way to the capital. When you see this, what do you think? That it’s all a waste?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not even thirsty right now,” Pacha says, crossing his arms.

“The Emperor is a symbol of the empire. The best of us. These fancy things, the clothes, the decorations, the jewelry, all of it represents the pride of the people in their nation. You honor the craftsmen of this cup whether you drink from it or it sits unused, ready for your slightest whim. So what message do you think that sends when you dress like a farmer, and tell the chefs not to cook, and the tailors they aren’t needed?”

“I think it sends the right message,” Pacha says, stubbornly. “Just because that’s the way it’s been done, doesn’t mean it’s right. I refuse to be a burden on my people. Waste is waste, no matter what reasons some people use to justify their liking for excess.”

Kuzco pales, and then, unexpectedly, bows. “Apologies, Emperor. I’ve overstepped,” he says to the floor.

“Just… prepare what you must for the banquet, but leave my schedule alone,” Pacha says, rubbing a hand down his face wearily. He’s never felt the weight of his station quite so heavily as he does right now, looking down at the vulnerable strip of neck bared by Kuzco’s low bow. “And when the banquet is over, I won’t require your services any longer.”

He leaves Kuzco there, head still bowed, a lone figure nearly swallowed by the racks upon glittering racks of unused finery.

Chapter 5: Banquet? Bring It On

Summary:

Stumbling through secret tunnels in the pitch dark, fleeing guards, nobles and rising flames, Kuzco can admit it: the banquet could have gone better.

Notes:

Some Kuzco POV in this one! Too much fun, writing Kuzco's POV :3c

Stumbling through secret tunnels in the pitch dark, fleeing guards, nobles and rising flames, Kuzco can admit it: the banquet could have gone better.

Not that he’ll say as much to the stupid peasant emperor lumbering along behind him. Pacha isn’t the one who’s been poisoned, so Pacha doesn’t get an apology. Not yet, anyways. Kuzco figures he’s entitled to a couple days of bitterness. A week tops.

And you want to know what hurts the worst about all this? Kuzco was really trying this time. Yeah. Big whoop. Fat lot of good that did.

Not to say he hadn’t tried before. Gods damn him and his massive, gold-plated ego. He thought that if he just wasn’t so complacent, or if he kept a sharper eye out, then surely he could avoid everything that went wrong the last time. There’s no way he could bring down two empires in a row, right? Nobody’s that unlucky…

With the clarity of hindsight he realizes he hadn’t factored in two things. One: the gods hate him specifically, and two: there’s never been as incomprehensible and infuriating an emperor in the history of the world as Pacha.

He should have turned around and ran that first day. If he’d been smart he would have. The whole palace in chaos and shambles, the emperor in some dust-streaked rags like a beggar that snuck his way in during petitions and dared sit on the holy throne.

But he’d trusted Rudy. The old vagabond knew a little about his history, from those lonely weeks they’d shared traveling the mountain roads. So when Rudy had sent him the runner with the simple message ‘here’s your chance to fix things’ he’d been foolish enough to hope.

Kuzco should know by now that there’s nothing worse for someone like him than hope. And poison. Poison feels pretty bad too. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.

“How much further?” Pacha asks, panting down his neck. His words are a little garbled, but Kuzco figures having a few dozen extra teeth in your mouth would make talking difficult. At least this form is fairly stealthy, now that the emperor had sorted out the whole four paws situation.

“The exit should be about…here!” Kuzco declares, tapping on a small hole in the ceiling, where moonlight shines through like a thread of silver in the gloom. He drops his pack and braces himself, trying to push up on the heavy stone cover above them. Ohhh, that was a bad idea. The world tilts around him and suddenly he’s struggling to stay standing by gripping two handfuls of thick fur.

“Ouch, that hurts, why are you pulling on my, uh, fur?” Pacha hisses, shrugging off Kuzco’s hands with an irritable shake of his sloped shoulder.

“Can you and your massive bear paws help a guy out, this thing is heavy,” Kuzco gripes in hushed tones, steadying himself on the cold stone of the tunnel wall instead. Pacha heaves his new form upright and shoves, the grating of the stone cover echoing loudly through the tunnel as it shifts aside.

They emerge into the moonlit jungle, well outside the palace walls. Pacha pauses, looking back up to where the palace glows, lit by the flames pouring out of the east hall windows. Distant figures are shouting and swarming over the courtyard like ants, forming a bucket brigade.

“I hope they’re all ok,” Pacha says quietly. Kuzco scoffs, and when that intimidating wide head swings to pin him with a glare he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“They tried to kill us both, I just think they can clean up their own mess, is all,” he defends.

“But the palace staff didn’t deserve any of this,” Pacha says heavily.

“They never do,” Kuzco agrees, looking back up at the scrambling people. He shivers, his finery not well suited to the night chill, and turns back to face the looming dark mass of the jungle. He can just make out a faint trail, visible through the tangled underbrush.

“We gotta keep moving. Once the flames are under control the guards are going to come looking for us. We’ll want to be far gone by then.”

Pacha heaves a big sigh, his sides expanding like bellows. Kuzco follows his hulking shape into the jungle, trying to keep his footing steady in the gloom.

His stomach twists, poison and anxiety mixing together into a super fun cocktail of cramping discomfort. He hoists his pack higher and steels himself for a long night.

On the run again. Booyah.

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The most infuriating thing was, Kuzco wasn’t half bad of an advisor when he was focusing on things that were actually important.

After their argument and Pacha’s ultimatum, Kuzco had been… eerily docile. He helped Pacha review the crop yield reports, and audit the prices of the grain merchants in the cities without a hint of protest. And he was good at it! The man has a great head for numbers, and an unerring sense of when people are trying to pull one over. But gone was the sass and the little barbed jokes, and Pacha told himself he didn’t miss it. That this new, solemn Kuzco with the far-away eyes was more like the royal advisor Pacha had wanted all along.

As he commanded, Pacha was bothered no more with any preparation for the banquet. He saw the dining hall renovations go up, tapestries of himself and his legend appearing lining the walls in green and gold, quinoa and corn and crowds with their heads raised in song. The rows of new clothes were packed away somewhere, and none of the renovations in the throne room were scheduled to disturb his petitions.

There were a few stranger changes, things that Pacha couldn’t easily explain. A whole regiment of his guard suddenly relocated to patrol far distant trade routes, the order signed off by Kuzco. The cook coming to Pacha in tears after his advisor had thrown out nearly all their beer in the cellar and insisted they source a new batch. Nothing too sinister, but concerning nonetheless.

He knew on some level that he was running Kuzco ragged. Pacha’s work kept him up late in the night, the palace stewards dragging him out of bed at the crack of dawn to consult him on banquet logistics before Pacha awoke and the whole cycle started again. Despite it all, the man was always uncompromisingly put together in a new ornate advisor’s outfit with matching jewelry and belts and sandals, ready to work when Pacha sent for him. All that gave him away was the darkening bruises under his eyes, and the stifled yawns he hid between reports.

Pacha tried not to feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault if Kuzco still refused his own rest to continue planning all this unnecessary frivolity.

Ok, he did still feel a little bad. The little guy obviously cared a lot about the whole first-impressions with the nobles thing, and he was looking so stressed out by the time the visitors started arriving that Pacha relented, giving Kuzco a half-day to get him dressed and ready.

It was a whirlwind of body paint and hair care and rapid-fire instructions on how to greet the nobles and correct etiquette for a formal banquet and where to place his hands and his fork and his dirty napkin and—ok Pacha can admit, there might have been more to do for this than a half-day could cover.

When he walked into the long, shimmering hall, and all the nobles in their finery rose to face him, Pacha was suddenly, painfully grateful for every tidbit of Kuzco’s hasty instructions he could recall. He nodded his head as regally as he could and tried to set a respectable pace up to the royal table, situated on a small platform above the four long tables where the visitors were seated.

Kuzco sat at his right hand, pale and nearly vibrating with nerves.

“Relax, it all looks fine,” he’d said, and Kuzco had looked at him blankly, like he hadn’t heard a word Pacha said. That clenches it, he definitely should have insisted his advisor get more sleep. Not that he’ll be Pacha’s advisor much longer. Pacha feels his stomach twist in regret, and pushes it aside. They can talk after the banquet. If Kuzco would even be willing to consider staying on, after Pacha had treated him so poorly.

The courses came through one after another, various nobles giving speeches or performing stories between the bouts of eating like Kuzco had warned him they would. All of them showboating for each other and competing for the favor of the new Emperor.

Pacha was having to pinch himself to keep from yawning by the time the banquet was nearing its close. Kuzco looked like death warmed over beside him. He’d only picked at his food all night.

“A final toast! A toast to the Emperor’s health!” cried one of the jovial, half-drunk nobles. The rest of the tables took up the cry, and two goblets appeared at their table before Pacha could blink. He wearily raised the cup, tilting it towards each table in turn like his barely memorized etiquette demanded. He brought it to his lips.

“NO!” Kuzco shouted, snatching the cup from Pacha’s hand. The nobles cried out as Kuzco whipped around, scanning the room with wide, intense eyes.

“Who brought that cup? Who brought that?! It’s not safe, don’t drink it. Guards, there’s a plot against the emperor!”

“What are you saying, Advisor Kuzco?” asked the jovial noble, “We are among friends here! How could there be any danger to His Majesty.”

“If anyone had the opportunity to plot against the new Emperor it would be you,” said another, standing up to be heard above the crowd. “Where did you say you were from, again, Advisor Kuzco? What noble line?”

Kuzco stammered, the guards hesitating.

“Maybe you should drink it. The safety of the emperor’s cup is your concern, after all.”

“Come on, I’m sure it’s fine,” Pacha soothed, trying to take back the cup, “We can just toast and wrap this thing up and go sleep, ok? No harm.”

Kuzco’s face hardened and he tipped back all the contents of Pacha’s goblet in one long swallow. Then he shuddered and paled, gripping the table's edge. ‘Poison!’ gasped a few voice in the crowd.

Then Pacha had bumped the table while rushing to catch Kuzco and Kuzco’s cup had spilled all over him and then there was this prickly, horrible stretching feeling and everyone had started screaming ‘BEAR’. Kuzco had revived enough then to pull a stumbling, confused Pacha towards a secret exit behind the royal table, knocking over several brasiers on the elaborate tapestries as they went.

Exeunt stage left, all pursuing a bear. If this is how badly things could go wrong at a royal banquet, Pacha thought, no wonder Kuzco wanted so much time to prepare.