Chapter Text
"Kind of scrawny, aren't you?" Ajaw says suddenly, scrutinising Kinich from head to toe. "No wonder you don't have any children."
Kinich, who considers himself used to all the nonsense that falls from Ajaw's dragon mouth, is taken aback. "How are those two things remotely related?"—and then instantly wishes he didn't ask.
Ajaw slaps Kinich's belly with a phlogiston paw. "Look at this!" he cries. "It's all concave! You can't hold any eggs in here. And this," he adds, zipping to Kinich's arm and holding it aloft. "There's no meat, you've got sticks for limbs, tch! You can't feed any children like this."
Kinich feels as if his mind ran to catch up, but then tripped and fell into a giant hole of Wait what did he say!? "Eggs," he repeats. "Children."
"Don't even think about having mine." Ajaw sniffs disdainfully.
Voice flat, Kinich says, "I have not once thought of having your children."
"Don't be ridiculous, any lowly being with sense would fight to the death for the honour of laying Our eggs." Ajaw crosses his two square arms and looks as grand as a projection barely a metre tall can. "There is no help for it—
"We will help you!"
This a declaration so grand, so absolute, that an explosion of phlogiston fires off behind him as backdrop, his form stretching out into a strongman's inverted triangle body.
"Help me—with what?" Kinich asks. He is usually the one with the upper hand in their daily interactions. He has to be, because he has to keep Ajaw in check: no matter how harmless and silly he seems, the truth of K'uhul Ajaw is utterly dangerous. He is a dragon. Not a human, not a modern Saurian, not even a god. But a dragon, with a dragon's greed.
But right now Kinich feels as if he's been suddenly thrown head-first into a fast-moving spiritway, the currents so rapid the speed dizzies him, and before him the destination is unclear and indistinct—but nevertheless there, waiting to be reached.
"Help you fatten up so you can lay Our eggs, of course!" Ajaw says.
-
And that should have been the end of it. K'uhul Ajaw, Almighty Dragonlord, has a temperament as changeable as the weather. One day, he wants this juice; the next day, he wants that meat; and the day after, he might want neither but demand mora and riches instead. As long as his wishes don't cause harm, Kinich is more or less willing to give in to them. (To a point. Juice is juice: does it matter what grade the fruits were?)
In the first few months of their pact, Kinich overanalysed every conversation with Ajaw, played and replayed every word, every sentence they exchanged, on guard for any hidden dangers or schemes. But as the days flowed by, near the end of their first full year together Kinich slowly came to realise an all-important fact:
99% of Ajaw's words are complete and utter nonsense.
Following that, 99% of their interactions are also complete and utter nonsense. The Almighty Dragonlord's rants and ravings can be, if not wholly safely ignored, then disregarded in the moment, because chances are whatever shiny thing that catches his draconic eye will soon be immediately forgotten in favour of some other shiny thing. It is not that Ajaw does not mean what he says—it is just that what he says is all dictated by whimsy.
But there are some whims, it seems, that persist. Or at least this particular whim.
An evening not long after Ajaw judged Kinich unfit to bear young, Ajaw cries: "Hey hey hey, don't get up yet! You haven't finished eating!"
"... What are you talking about?" Kinich asks, dusting the crumbs from his hands. "I've eaten everything—mnnff!?"
Ajaw, having shoved a fistful of meat into Kinich's mouth, looks annoyed. "No you haven't. Eat this!"
"Daz yaw share..." Kinich says, or tries to say. Making a face, he leans back, but Ajaw just follows the motion, unrelenting. Kinich reluctantly parts his lips, and Ajaw happily pushes the meat fully into his mouth, at which point Kinich has no choice but to chew and swallow.
The meat is soft, with little bits of fat that melt in his mouth. It's perfectly cooked.
—Of course it is. He cooked it, and Ajaw's portion is always the choicest.
Kinich is already full. Or more accurately, he already finished the portion he deemed adequate for his needs. His meals are regular and well-balanced. His body is the foremost tool in his chosen line of work, so he takes care of it as best he can. As for the various inadequacies that result from a childhood lacking in nutrition, well, he can only make up for such shortcomings as best as he can.
But under Ajaw's expectant gaze, Kinich finds his appetite reviving.
Just a little, mind. Enough that, when he's done chewing and swallowing, he can even accept the second hunk of meat Ajaw immediately hefts over his dragon head like a weapon. Kinich takes it before Ajaw can even think of stuffing it in his mouth like he's some pig on display at a feast—Kinich can put up with a lot, but that's too much even for him.
He sits back down to at least enjoy the food with some dignity. As he's licking the sauce from his fingers, he expects Ajaw to complain. Or if not complain, at least point out with his usual superiority: That was my share! And instead, I gave it to you! Give proper thanksgiving to Our generosity!
But he doesn't. Ajaw's projection zips here, zips there, apparently very excited. Then suddenly he's by Kinich's stomach, surrounding it with a striped tail, as if measuring. Immediately his little dragon form droops. "Not enough!" he declares. "You're not ready to lay Our eggs yet!"
"I've told you—I don't want to lay any eggs." A pause. "And definitely not yours."
Ajaw's paws squeeze and massage the flesh at Kinich's stomach. "Yes, you're not in any state yet to lay any, let alone Ours," he agrees, except he's agreeing to a wildly different sentiment.
Kinich glances down. Ajaw's form is tiny. Of course, that size is not definite: in battle Ajaw's form is mighty enough that even long-necked Rhinos might pause. But the thought of Ajaw as he is now, putting eggs in anyone's belly...
He turns his head to the side, making a noise that is definitely not him swallowing laughter back into his stomach.
-
But whether or not Kinich wants to lay eggs, he accepts whatever food Ajaw insists upon him.
Anyway, it's food that he hunted, drink that he prepared. He put in the time, why not enjoy the fruits of his own labour? If he refuses too vehemently, who knows, Ajaw might throw the hard-won food out, and Kinich abhors waste.
There is no deeper meaning to it. No further sentiment to be ascribed. Kinich will always go along with Ajaw so long as that getting along is less trouble than the alternative.
Anyway, perhaps Ajaw is right, if only accidentally. Kinich finds he can, indeed, eat more than he supposed. One day, as he's changing out of a sweat-soaked shirt in order to tend to an injury, his eye catches his wavy reflection in the nearby body of water.
Teticpac Peak's main lake is like an irregular mirror, the surface placid, only occasionally disturbed by a baby Koholasaur playing nearby, chasing after its mother. His reflection is thus very clear.
It is nighttime. Natlan's midnights are not absolutely dark; the land is lit by the stars above, as well as the twisting curving spiritways that cut through the sky like rivers, and so Kinich's half-bare body seems to almost glow with reflected light. His scars are especially clear, as is the bruise on his side—won that very day from a bad fall. Kinich, drawn by a curiosity rarely felt about his own self, draws near the water, and gazes down.
He looks much better.
Realisation blooms in his chest, as startling as a sudden unexpected storm during a hunt. Kinich does not look at himself often, but his self-image has stayed rather constant: His too-sharp features, his overly-large eyes which seem to swallow a face like a skull, the skin stretched thin and taut and brittle over bone. And the rest of him is no better, his limbs like the slashing lines of a sword, the jut of his collarbones and ribcage too prominent and defined, the overall effect severely skeletal.
When he was revived during the Ode, walking side-by-side with his Archon out of the resurrecting flames, he had seen as much terror as he had seen doubt in the gathered witnesses. Someone had even commented: "Uh, are we sure he isn't still dead? He looks awful."
But there is a fullness to him now that startles him. His cheeks are less harsh, his eyes set more proportionately in his face, and there is an overall roundness that was previously missing. The muscles of his chest, his shoulders, are pleasantly filled out. Ajaw, always one to butt in whether or not he's wanted, suddenly pops up from behind Kinich's head. "What're you lookin' at?" And then: "Ah-ha! Are you admiring my future body? Doesn't it look much better?" He flies over to the reflection in the water and slaps it with his tail, self-satisfied. The image dissipates, reforms. "You're about ready to have children!"
"I am very much not," Kinich says.
Which is true, but Ajaw misunderstands. "Oh, you're right. You're still far too skinny." And suddenly he's right in front of Kinich, groping at him with his paws.
At least there is something to grope, now: when Ajaw squeezes there's just enough fat at the belly to squish between his digital claws. But apparently not enough, because with a tch! he says: "Look, there's barely anything here still!"
Kinich places a hand on Ajaw's head, meaning to push him away. But when his palm and fingers rest on the green spines atop the dragon's head, rather than exerting force, he instead lets his hand simply rest there.
It is not that he is completely foreign to receiving the care and concern of others. But that care, that concern, has rarely come from the dragon now pinching and pulling at the little bit of fat at his waist, huffing: "You can't carry any eggs like this! Pah! I need to fatten you up more!"
Kinich can only refute, yet again: "I don't want to carry any eggs." But he says nothing more. He has always rejected care, weighed every kindness on a scale, each good deed justly repaid. But Ajaw's kindness is ultimately selfish; ultimately self-serving; and somehow, that makes it easier to swallow. And so, when Ajaw says, "Just you wait, I'll stuff even more food into you," Kinich feels none of the usual automatic consideration he does upon receiving favour. He does not wonder how to pay Ajaw back, how to compensate him. He doesn't even feel the need to speak, merely stroking Ajaw's head with something that might be called gentleness.
Ajaw does react eventually, shoving Kinich's hand off with wildly-waving arms. "Stop that! Between us, it is you that are the pet! We are not one to be stroked and fondled like a lowly animal!"
"Yes, yes."
Ajaw flies about, expressing his indignation. Kinich ignores him. But as he tends to his injuries, he cannot help but imagine there is warmth lingering still where he touched Ajaw, hugging his fingers, his palm.
-
The next day, Ajaw hunts.
Not that Kinich is immediately aware. The Great K'uhul Ajaw, who cannot bear to have his absence unnoticed, announces: "We are off on an errand!" and then waits to be acknowledged. Kinich mentally reviews their surroundings. They are just south of the Coatepec Mountain, and not far away is the twisting curving lines of the ocean's shore. There aren't any people nearby that he knows of that Ajaw might cause trouble with, only the endless sky above and the various fauna of the area. So Kinich throws Ajaw's sudden declaration out of mind. His attention turns instead to the trap he is readying for the day's commission.
"Don't go too far off."
"I won't, I won't, I know full well that you cannot accomplish any worthy task without Our help," Ajaw says, and off he goes.
When Kinich's unfortunate business is concluded, the corrupted Tepetlisaur he was charged with hunting put down, he is back at camp and carefully putting away the evidence of his kill when Ajaw returns.
Dramatically.
He announces: "Behold! Your Lord has returned!" and drops a great giant four-legged beast smack! right there onto the ground. Everything in the camp bounces a little in reaction: the tent's wooden frame, the fabric, and even the late Tepetlisaur's decorative adornment, which its companion had asked Kinich to retrieve as a momento.
Ajaw's prize is a brown deer of considerable size—with a single glance, Kinich ascertains that it must near twelve stone. He is dumbfounded. He barely has the presence of mind to put away the things in his hand before asking: "You... do you want to eat roast meat? Is that why you brought this here?"
Ignoring Kinich's words, and Kinich's surprise, Ajaw declares: "Although it is a tiny morsel barely fit to fill the spaces in between my teeth, We are bestowing this paltry gift upon your unworthy self."
Ajaw... hunted? Ajaw went hunting? No—Ajaw went hunting for him?
"I don't want it!" Kinich says immediately, shattering the atmosphere like hammer striking bone.
"You need not prostrate yourself in gratitude as We know you wish to, for We are generous enough to... to... wait, what? You're... refusing? You don't want it? How dare you refuse my grand gift!!" Ajaw goes red in the face. Literally. His head inflates, like an explosive barrel about to go off.
"Is it a grand gift or a tiny morsel?" Kinich asks dryly. He adds, before Ajaw can truly explode: "Listen, I appreciate the thought, but I'm not up for cooking today."
Ajaw vibrates, so angry and infuriated little squares of phlogiston steam rise from his head. He looks like a kettle, and when Kinich ducks his head, making a small choked-off sound, he gets even more infuriated. "Are you—are you laughing? You... you DARE laugh at US!?"
"I'm not, I'm not," Kinich says, immediately getting his face in order. Although perhaps the game is given away when his first words quiver still with mirth. "Ajaw... I mean, Almighty Dragonlord K'uhul Ajaw, I thank you." He even manages the words with some formality, without total sarcasm. "But I really am too tired to even think about preparing all... that... and then cooking, and preserving anything left over. Look. If you don't mind, we could sell it to Michica—"
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Ajaw actually does explode then, bits of him flying about in fury at the mere suggestion. He mends himself back together just to say: "Just the thought of passing my gift on like unwanted leftovers... NO! We refuse!" He breathes heavily, seemingly lost in thought, and at last says: "Your main objection is that you don't wish to cook."
"Uh... I suppose..."
"Fine," Ajaw says. "Fine! We shall lower Ourselves, then, but only because it is for your sake." In hasty clarification—although certainly not the clarification the befuddled Kinich wants—he goes on: "Don't let this grace confuse you: you are nothing but a mere servant! This is a special, one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-seen favour that your undeserving self shall not be blessed with EVER AGAIN!" And he hefts the brown deer aloft, disappearing in a fit of draconic indignation.
Kinich is left with his mouth slightly agape. "But what favour?" he asks the long-gone Ajaw. Then he decides: who cares? Does he want to know? In fact, isn't it better he doesn't know?
Unfortunately, just because he doesn't want to know doesn't mean he won't eventually find out. He's already lying down on his bedding, ready to fall asleep under the stars, wondering how to tell his client about their beloved companion's last moments and debating even if it is necessary—when the smell of burnt meat wafts to his nose.
Or, rather, is thrust right under his nose, by an arrogant and conceited dragon.
"Ajaw, what..."
"Here! Eat!"
Kinich closes his eyes. Counts to ten, and then goes backwards down to one. When he opens his eyes, Ajaw is still there, imperiously waving a crudely charred bit of meat in front of his face.
"—That smells awful," he says, sitting up. All his features scrunch together in distaste, like his eyes and nose and mouth are all crawling to the middle of his face trying to escape the stench.
"Hmph! Don't be absurd, it is perfectly edible."
Kinich looks at Ajaw. Ajaw looks at Kinich. Finally: "Pah, pah! Even if this meal is less than adequate, the fault lies with my prison, not me! That pathetic contraption is far beneath me! Anyway, you can still eat it!" Even as he says this, Ajaw's dragon body bends back in a C-curve as if to get as far away from the burnt meat as possible. "If I could act with even a tenth of my real power, why, I would—"
"Not burn the deer meat into a mess?"
Ajaw's face undergoes a rapid series of changes. First embarrassment, then anger, then indignation. At last: "We see that Our grace is unwanted! Unvalued! Unappreciated! Very well, I shall never see fit to please you ever again—"
But he is unable to fly away. Kinich's fingers are wrapped firm around not only him, but the poor blackened stick on which the sorry-looking meat sits.
Without hesitation, he tilts his head down and bites right into the most vile-tasting meal he's ever had in his life.
Anyway, it doesn't rank that much lower than other meals he's had. He has scavenged through rubbish; consumed poisoned berries; eaten half-rotten food all just to fill his belly. Compared to that, this little bit of burnt meat is really nothing.
It is more than nothing. He bites down, and his teeth fight through the hard outer shell into the undercooked inside. He chews, chews, chews and swallows—leans down for another bite—and seems to mean to keep going until the stick is stripped bare when, with a little twist like a lizard escaping a bear trap, is suddenly out of Kinich's reach.
"Stop stop stop!"
"I thought you cooked that for me? Shouldn't I eat it?"
"Yes! —I mean, no! I mean... I mean..." Ajaw is so flustered his sunglasses are crooked. "It's... it's... it's unworthy!"
"Yeah," Kinich agrees, "it tastes like shit. But you made it for me, right?" He licks his lips—a slow drag of tongue, from corner to corner, collecting all the juice and gathering it up. Maybe it is his mistaken impression, but Ajaw's eyes seem fixed on the motion.
He says, suddenly: "It's not worthy of you."
His voice is pitched low, and the reverberations echo in the still night. Kinich thinks suddenly of their first meeting, in the deepest, darkest depths of an ancient ruin. In the void of a darkness so thick it was impossible to distinguish even his own hand in front of his face, he had first heard the Great K'uhul Ajaw's voice.
It was not as it is now: high-pitched, coming from a form that resembles the crudely-drawn drawing of a child. No. It had been a voice so full of malice, so full of evil, that Kinich had determined at once to bind the beast. That Ajaw does his bidding is a happy accident: Kinich's intent had been to chain him, as a prison might jail a madman. He had thought: This creature can never be allowed to roam freely.
Looking up at Ajaw flying above him, silhouetted against the night sky, his eyes glowing eerily, Kinich cannot help but think of that Ajaw, the Ajaw that comes from Natlan's deep, dark underground, the Ajaw sealed for millenia for unknown reasons.
"I will do better... We shall do better," Ajaw says. "And then, you—"
"I'm not laying any eggs," Kinich interrupts. "And I'm especially not having yours."
"Hmph, obstinate," Ajaw says, and suddenly it's the Ajaw that Kinich knows. He throws the unfinished stick of meat away half-heartedly, and when he flies low he is no longer a strange black shadow of the night but a phlogiston projection again, bright yellow and green, a silly pair of sunglasses for eyes. "I shall convince you yet!"
A pause, and then: "I'm sure you will," Kinich says, and pulls the tent's opening firmly shut. He can still taste that badly-cooked meat on his lips, can still feel the bitter flakes of char lingering, and in the privacy afforded by the small tent he chases the flavour with his tongue.
He smiles. If there is anticipation to the curve of his lips, to the sparkle in his eyes, well. No one has to know.