It wasn't difficult to track the movement of Iturbide's army; it displaced enough resources. The insurgent army was supported by the populace and it was able to fold itself into the landscape. By contrast, Iturbide traveled with a arrogance that made it easy to follow. With the much smaller force, Guerrero was waiting for the right moment. Mexico followed his reasoning; if they could force Iturbide to defend his flanks on inferior ground, they could force a retreat. It was difficult to be this patient, but Mexico could tell himself that it would be worth it.
The morning broke bright blue and brilliant, waking Mexico immediately. The light was bright, but not unpleasant. It was clear and crisp; such that Mexico found himself awake and aware of the great gravity of the day. The awareness was not terrifying. He could feel the importance of the day in the air with absolute certainty. He got out of bed and started dressing without any hurry. There was a battle coming over the horizon, but he felt a peaceful certainty. It was coming as certainly as the night, and Mexico would be ready.
It was easy now to dress quickly and be ready. He had discussed the strategy the day before with his general, and he knew what the strategy was. They had been tracking Iturbide's force, and now there was an opportunity. With the route Iturbide had chosen, he would pass through an exposed valley today. It was important that they strike today or they may not have a better opportunity. Mexico didn't feel any trepidation at the idea of attacking Iturbide's position, even with the man's protestations of loyalty. It would either force a decision or expose the duplicity. Either way, he would have an answer on what felt, for the first time, like the certain end of the insurgency.
There was something calming about it, having two paths laid out in front of him. One led back to Spain, the other to triumph. There was not a question of which he had to choose. There was only one thought as he dressed: He had to ensure that he was on the path to independence. That could only be bought about by ascertaining Iturbide's intentions. He finished dressing before stepping out into the bright morning light.
He found everything in order for the army to move again, and he was completely unsurprised. This had become routine and the army did it with astounding efficiency. Like he had so many times, he found his horse and mounted. Excitement mounted in his chest as he got closer to his general, who was giving hurried orders on what had already been decided upon. Mexico could see the truth in the set of the man's shoulder. He was worried that they would squander this chance. They were both aware of the fact that they were attacking a force that outnumbered them significantly. But, that was why it was important to strike now, when the terrain favored a smaller, more knowledgable force.
Mexico dismounted, leading his horse, and walked over to Guerrero. He spoke, "I think we've prepared enough. There's nothing to it now but to attack. We have the upper hand." He had said the same thing the night before, but there was no harm in repeating it. The odds were not, in a strictly statistical sense, in their favor, but Mexico was certain that this was the moment.
The other turned to him and nodded, "We can crush him if we do this correctly."
He turned back to his own horse, and spoke as he mounted, "And then he'll have to make up his mind." His tone was sharp, and there was an undertone of frustration. Mexico took this as a sign that he should also mount again.
When they were level again, he asked, "Has he written to you again?"
He suspected the answer by the tone of the man's voice. It was further confirmed by the aggravated way the other exhaled, "It's difficult to tell whether I'm writing to a politician or a mistress. He will praises me only so long as he doesn't have to commit. We need to show him that until he acts, he is still our enemy." Mexico nodded shortly. He had expected as much; there had been little risk thus far in Iturbide maintaining his Spanish loyalties. The man was too cautious to state his loyalties openly now.
He said shortly, "Then we need to win today."
The other nodded to Mexico, "This is our best chance."
As the sun rose into the sky, the army arrayed itself on both sides of the valley. The strategy was to push from both flanks, forcing Iturbide to either stand or retreat North. Allowing him to retreat to the South would be tantamount to failure. Mexico took a deep breath to calm himself. He wasn't patient, but he had learned a degree of control. Jumping the gun would waste their chance, and he could not risk it. It would be far more prudent to maintain a distance from the battle until it was clear that they had a victory. There was more danger to his person while they had inferior numbers and Iturbide's ambitions were still uncertain. Even though it was counter to his nature, he would wait and watch Iturbide's army, which looked massive, even at this distance.
The force was spread across the valley, and it made it clear how large the army Iturbide had been entrusted with was. It should have struck him as intimidating, but Mexico found himself smirking. When he had Iturbide's loyalty, and he was still instinctively sure that he would, he would be able to turn the lion share of the army against Spain. With those numbers, this would be over.
A voice cut through his thoughts, "We are in position."
Guerrero paused for a moment before saying, more tenderly, "What are you thinking about?" It was clear that, in the midst of giving official news, he had noticed Mexico's smile. The country had to pause for a moment to collect his thoughts. He was wary of the fact that Guerrero did not trust Iturbide, and that the mistrust was far more practice.
He said, "I was considering what victory would mean. With Iturbide's numbers I could drive Antonio off my land."
He heard the confident growl in his voice and felt it in his chest. It was the same thought he had held onto for years now, but now it felt much closer. He didn't need to look to know that the other had smiled slightly; it was easy enough to tell from his voice as he said, "Well then I certainly hope we succeed today." There was the unspoken implication tied to the earlier news. Mexico knew that his general was only waiting for his signal to order the attack. Before he gave it, Mexico took one more look at the valley below them. They were hidden in the trees that grew on either side, but his view was clear. It looked like any military encampment, completely unaware of the ambush that was coming. The red and white standard of the Spanish army flew above many of the tents, but as Mexico took a breath before speaking, all the flags fell.
A dreadful stillness settled in as Mexico turned to Guerrero and said, "It's time." The other nodded, and at his signal the now familiar thunder of canons. Mexico felt some comfort in the deafening sound and the smell of gunpowder. He kept his eyes fixed on the camp below. As soon as the sounds of the shots broke the midday silence, there was a flurry of activity. But, it was not enough. There was not the time for them to prepare before the commander on the opposite side of the valley ordered the charge. There was a roar rising from the enemy, but it would be futile. Mexico knew that, even with their advantage, they could do little more than wound Iturbide's army.
Still, the sight was exciting. From where he sat, still holding back, he could hear the yells of chaos. He glanced over at his general, who was watching with an expression of careful consideration. There was no victory in his face, not yet. Mexico understood it. They had come close before, but victory had eluded them thus far. But, there was no sign that the loyalist force was going to push back. As he watched, Mexico noticed that the loyalist forces were shifting south. This was a careful retreat, but a retreat all the same.
Mexico spoke, the excitement that overrode his caution seeping into his voice, "It looks like they aren't holding their ground." The other nodded, and allowed himself to smile.
The shadow of the young soldier in his face, he said, "They're not retreating quickly enough."
He turned directly to Mexico and added, "Let's go route them."
It was exactly what Mexico wanted to hear. He leaned forward, ready to ride into the fray. He could feel his pulse pounding through his veins. It was still compelling, but Mexico knew how to control it. He would not leap until he had the orders. He waited until he heard the official order to dig his spurs into the flanks of his horse. The charge had become no less exhilarating than it was the first time. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword with his right hand. He still had a firm hold on his reigns with the other hand as the horse leaped forward. This one was more docile than his original mount, but it could leap into battle like a true war horse.
It seemed that within moments he was in the midst of the battle, steel flashing and bullets flying. But, this lacked the order of the usual battle. Their enemy had not had time to draw up battle formations, and those who were fighting were doing it without a unified strategy. But, from somewhere in the chaos, Mexico could hear a voice calling frantically for order. He knew the voice and recognized the feeling it sent up his spine.
He turned his horse in the direction of it, certain who he would find at the end. Expediting his passage, he spurred his horse to jump over a body of a fallen soldier. Mexico found himself drawing closer and closer to the Spanish standard. It made a grudging amount of sense.
The fighting in front of him cleared for a moment, leaving a gap filled with swirling dust. Iturbide was astride a handsome brown war horse with his subordinates on both sides of him, ready to fend off any attack. Mexico could attempt to cut them down, but there wasn't a point. He was not about to kill a man as valuable as Iturbide. The mortal man turned his head and, as he had many times before, caught Mexico's eyes. Since they had met in person, the sensation of destiny was lessened.
He remembered the offer that the man had made him by letter. Mexico knew the man was important, and he was not about to jeopardize that. The same thought seemed to occur to the mortal. He ordered his protectors away, though they did not go far. Then, he turned directly towards his country and, with a quizzical smile, raised both arms and presented his chest. With a jolt, Mexico realized what Iturbide was doing.
If he wanted to, Mexico could draw his pistol and shoot the man off his horse with no resistance. It was precisely what he had promised in the letter. With this show of bravado, he was offering his life. Mexico couldn't help but be impressed. It would have been easier for him to run or to fall back on the protection around him. But, he stood by what he had promised. To show that he was not about to take up the offer, Mexico slid his saber into its sheath.
Though they did not speak and battle raged around them, understanding passed between them. Iturbide's expression shifted to a confident smile that raised goosebumps on Mexico's skin. Mexico took a deep breath as the feeling hit him,The light of the sun was caught behind the mortal again, and Mexico was reminded vividly of what he had seen and felt when their skin had touched. It filled him with an unshakable certainty that Iturbide would be instrumental in his independence.
Only the smell of gunpowder reminded him that there was still a battle happening. The mortal saluted him, and turned his horse. With one more glanced, he disappeared. Mexico let out the breath he had been holding, drew his saber and turned back to the action.
Once the action had ended, Mexico found Guerrero at the tent that Iturbide had been forced to abandon. He looked completely unharmed and the glow of victory gave him an amazing vivacity. When Mexico dismounted, he immediately found the man looking over what Iturbide had left behind. Mexico spoke, "That couldn't have gone better."
The other turned to him with a look of amusement, "For now. We'll see what Iturbide does next."
He continued to glance around, looking for anything that would give him insight into Iturbide's attention. Guerrero was preparing for another battle as though they were enemies until action proved otherwise. From what Mexico could see, the man had left very little behind. He was undoubtedly aware of how the insurgency had used breifs and letters to ambush loyalist garrisons. He had left only finery, which had little use to the insurgency. Mexico glanced around, seeking for a glimpse of the man through his belongings. The ostentation of the furnishings were gaudy for an officer. They reminded Mexico powerfully of the court that he had left several years ago. There was a strange pang in the pit of the stomach.
His attention was drawn away by something that was sitting on one of the tables that caught the other's eye. He turned and picked up a piece of parchment that seemed too conspicuous. Mexico suspected that whatever this was, Iturbide had left it with the intention it be found. It was too careful to be a mistake and Mexico couldn't shake the feeling that the parchment had been left for him. Guerrero opened the letter and, as he skimmed it, his eyes widened. Mexico's curiosity was piqued by the expression on the man's face passed from disgust to bewilderment.
When he finished reading, Mexico couldn't restrain himself; he asked, "What is it." The man fixed his eyes directly on him and he could read frustration in his dark eyes.
Offering no explanation, he extended the letter to him, saying only, "Tell me what you make of this." The harsh edge on the words left Mexico with the impression that he had already made up his mind. But, Mexico took the letter all the same. He could not fight the urge to know what Iturbide thought important enough to leave behind.
He turned the parchment over to look at the seal to know who had written it. The red wax was shattered and the parchment was torn next to it, like the person who had opened it had done so with incredible force. It was impossible to tell what the seal had been when it was whole. But, it became completely superfluous when he opened the letter and immediately recognized the handwriting. Though Spain's writing was messier than usual, more frantic, it was very familiar.
The words were clipped and official, but there was an undertone of desperation. After listing the titles he was returning to Iturbide in the most diplomatic terms possible, but offering no apology for the original dismissal, the emotion became clearer. It read, "I am returning your positions to you and giving you command of my army with the expectation that you hunt the insurgency. I expect a swift victory. I am providing you the opportunity and the numbers; you have the ability to end this farce and you may be the only one. Keep whatever plunder you take along the way. I do not care what you take for yourself; all I require is that you return Alejandro to me as unharmed as possible. As for his general, I do not care if he is dead or alive, but I require him as well. I will need to make an example to discourage any further insurrection. Do what you will to the rest of the rebels. I am giving you far more discretion now than I did before. I do this expecting that you will soon bring Alejandro to me."
Mexico didn't need to read further. He knew that the rest would only be demands and conditions. Spain, though he was desperate, was not above putting conditions and demands on this tentative return of trust. Mexico smirked to himself. Spain obviously had no idea about the communication between Iturbide and Mexico. He greatly underestimated how deeply he had wounded Iturbide's pride if he thought a restoration and nothing more would cure it. It was also cowardly to send this information in a letter instead of summoning the man back to the capital. Spain's pride would not bend enough to admit his mistake in person.
Mexico tapped his finger against the back of the letter, contemplating the reason for it. Iturbide did not leave this crucial letter just to demonstrate that Spain had not done enough to appease him. Though that did explain why he was not in earnest in his campaign, there was no information Iturbide hadn't already conveyed in letters. Then it occured to him that that was the reason. In leaving the letter that reinstated him, Iturbide demonstrated that he was being honest. Spain had promised him nothing that he hadn't already disclosed. Mexico said, still looking at the letter, "He wants us to trust him. The offer is what he said it was."
He glanced back up at the other, who had been waiting for his reaction. Then, with a sigh of frustration, Guerrero said, "I don't have the time for his games!"
He pushed his sword back into the scabbard with a huff like an angered bull. Mexico replied sharply, "At least it's not duplicity. He's not pitting our offer against Antonio's." The response came quick and as sharp as steel, "Is that your standard for loyalty?" Mexico recoiled. The words hurt, partially because he understood them. He was not trying to measure the loyalty of one man against the other. His certainty of Iturbide's intentions didn't come from his belief that the man was a patriot. Iturbide was proud and that pride was wounded, and Mexico counted on that to keep him far from Spain.
He said, saying the only thing that could placate the man, "I don't think he's loyal. I think he's useful; we don't have another option." He expected another retort to reproach him for his equivocation. It seemed trivial that they were bickering about this now of all times. They had just won a victory, and yet this thorn was still proving decisive. The same thought seemed to occur to the mortal.
The will to fight faded out of his eyes and he turned away, saying as he did so, "You're right."
Tersely, he added, "We should camp here tonight and take stock of what we have won." Mexico nodded; not bothering to comment on the change of subject. He would rather not fight over Iturbide. But, the new subject offered very little to discuss. It was close to being a command, and Mexico had no objection to it. He let the silence laps before, without another word, Guerrero walked out with the pretense of giving the orders to set camp for the night.
Later in the night, Mexico found the mortal again over dinner. He had been ruminating on the earlier conversation for the past couple hours. It was not in his nature to apologize, but he felt the urge to set things right. The last thing he needed was discord between himself and his general, especially now. It was unusual for either of them to be solitary at night anyway. Mexico felt uncomfortable being alone when it was usual for him to dine with his general and spend the night planning the actions of the next day.
So, steeling his resolve to be at least partially contrite, Mexico found his way to Guerrero's tent. Upon walking in, he immediately took note of the fact that Guerrero had not balked at the idea of taking some of Iturbide's furnishings. The table he was using looked suspiciously like the one Iturbide had left his letter on. The chairs were also new, and the thought brought a smile to Mexico's face. Their cause was not too ideological or moral to refuse plunder. He walked in without an invitation, but did not sit without one; his presumption only went so far.
Guerrero looked up at him as soon as Mexico entered the tent. Mexico half expected to be reprimanded again, but a quick smile flashed the mortal's face. He said, gesturing to the empty seat across from him, "I'm glad you're here. Dine with me. We have to discuss our strategy for tomorrow."
Mexico accepted the change in tone, though it still seemed forced. The question of Iturbide still hung in the air, ominous and unanswered. He sat, taking food as a pretense. In truth, he had already eaten, but it served as enough of an excuse to be here. He said, taking the subject as a cue, "Well, Iturbide will probably want to avenge his losses. If we want to stay a step ahead of him, we should move tomorrow. Disappearing again will give Iturbide time to consider his options, and if he doesn't decide, we'll hit him again."
The words were meant to sound confident, but the had the sound of common sense. Mexico knew he was not saying anything they had both already thought of. The strategy from the beginning had been to strike when the enemy force was weak and disappear into the terrain that they knew better. This conversation felt unnecessarily tedious, like it existed only for the sake of itself. There was another thought that had been bothering Mexico since earlier in the day. He had been considering why the mortal had reacted to Spain's letter with anger. It was not the fear of his own mortality; the threats were not new. Spain had spat more venom in letters directly to both of them. Mexico had landed on a single thought, one that was alarmingly simple.
With little hesitation, he asked, "Are you still worried that he will choose Spain's cause?" The other man sighed and pushed away his plate, apparently having lost interest in it. He had the air of a man who's charade had just been shattered.
He said, his voice sounding far more genuine, "I can't trust him entirely." He paused as he contemplated his words. As he did so, he fidgeted with his knife. Mexico allowed it; he needed an explanation so that he could remove the anxiety. Finally, Guerrero continued, "We are on a precarious edge right now and we are relying on a man who is unreliable. If he decides against us, I can only protect you for so long. You read the letter. You know how much Spain is offering him."
Once he finished speaking, his hands settled into tense fists on the table. Mexico responded, "Yes, I read the letter, and that is why I am certain Iturbide will not turn back. Antonio did not apologize for labeling him a brigand, and that was what hurt Iturbide the most. Tony never could admit when he was wrong, and he will lose this war because of it." The other nodded slowly, but did not immediately respond. Mexico took it as a good sign. A retort would have come quickly; agreement could take time.
He looked around while he waited for a response, taking in the comfortable night and the pleasant surroundings. Whatever happened the next day, with the tension between them relieved, the night was incredibly pleasing. The day had been hot and bright, but the night had cooled to only warm. The mortal spoke, his eyes on Mexico, "All our speculation is irrelevant anyway. He has the numbers to crush us and he hasn't yet; we should consider that enough."
Mexico added, "And we have won a victory; that is also good."
A warm, genuine smile spread across his face. Mexico felt it in his own chest, warming him. There was levity in Guerrero's voice when he said, "Yes, we have. It won't be the last either. We may not be able to defeat him for good, but we can make him bleed." Mexico liked the man like this, confident and certain in his course. There was something about the brash, unrefined soldier that never faded away and which Mexico couldn't help but find exceedingly charming. He found himself looking at the man, enjoying the look of bloodlust in his eyes. Only once a couple minutes of silence had lapsed, Mexico said, "We won't have to defeat him. I'm certain of it."
Mexico stopped speaking for a moment and America was not certain of the reason. He wondered if he should ask why, but his lover spoke again, "I was right, of course. I had the measure of Augustin."
America was confused. He could hear a hesitation in Mexico's voice, like he was about to admit that he was wrong. But, that was not what the words seemed to indicate. Not one to hold his tongue, America asked, "Then why do you sound so unhappy about it?"
Mexico scoffed and fixed his eyes on his lover. Before he spoke again, he walked back over to the bed and sat right next to America. Mexico ran one hand softly up America's leg, and the blonde could not see how this was an answer. He would not complain, even if he thought this was a distraction. But, his eyes still fixed on America's own, Mexico said, "Independence is a complicated thing. We both know it. You spend so much time plotting about how you're going to get free and you don't think about what you're going to do when you get there."
America leaned closer, still feeling the touch of Mexico's fingertips on his leg like fire. He was so close that he could almost taste the other's lips. But, he elected instead to say, "That didn't answer my question, Alex."
He could see Mexico's eyes roll and he immediately regretted asking. The hand that had been so tantalizing disappeared and America let out a slight groan. Mexico said playfully, "Well, if you are so eager to know what happened next, I'll tell you." He continued, "It was much the same for the next month. Augstin pretended to chase us, while he wrote letters incessantly to Vincente. We attacked and retreated as necessary. I will not bore you with it; it was tedious enough to live it." He let out a slight chuckle, "I was watching two men court each other. I would not interfear and force them together, even if there were moments when I wanted to."
America let out a short laugh, "You make them sound like a bickering couple." Mexico smirked, "Well, that was how it felt. Eventually, Augstin exhausted his options and decided to send his entire plan to Vicente."
Mexico was sitting in his tent, thinking about his meeting with Iturbide. It was still puzzling that he had felt such a strong pull towards the man, and yet nothing had come of it yet. Waiting for something that seemed so inevitable was getting draining. He heard familiar footsteps outside of the tent and immediately knew what they meant. Iturbide had sent another letter and Guerrero was going to tell him what it said. It was no longer an exciting prospect to hear what the letters said; it was fairly predictable.
As the mortal entered the tent, Mexico smiled at him and said, "Another letter from Iturbide?" He didn't actually need to ask. There was nothing else that qualified as news.
The other replied, the look on his face betraying excitment, "Yes, but this one is different."
Mexico was intrigued, less by the words than by the look on his face. It looked like more definite progress than they had had in months. He responded as the other sat across from him and pull out an unusually thick looking letter, "This time he has actually sent me a solid proposition." Now he had Mexico's complete attention. When they had met so many months ago, Iturbide had told him of one plan for independence, but that was definitely not what he would propose to Guerrero.
So, the contents of the letter were a mystery to him. He said, not bothering to hide his curiosity, "What did he say?" The other unfolded the letter with a deliberate flourish that made Mexico smile. This must be important if Guerrero was resorting to such dramatics.
The man started paraphrasing the letter as he ran his finger down it, "The first part was usual. He congratulates me on my cunning. Then he says that he regrets that there has been conflicts between us."
Mexico smirked. He had heard that before, it seemed to be Iturbide's way of saving face. He commented, "It's easy to regret them when he keeps losing."
The mortal gave him an encouraging smile before continuing, "But, this is where it gets interesting. Instead of assuring me that he is a patriot and wants independence as he usually does, he laments that we have yet to reach an understanding." His smile widened and Mexico knew that he was reaching the most important part of the letter. He continued, "And here he explains that I have left him no choice but for us to meet and negotiate the terms of the independence as he sees that we both passionately desire independence."
Overcome with his own enthusiasm, he slammed his hand down on the table, "We finally have him!" It could not have been better news and Guerrero's enthusiasm was infectious. For all of Iturbide's words, there were finally actions. Just as Mexico was certain there would be with time. He couldn't help but feel incredibly vindicated.
He responded with the only question of pragmatism that could possibly be pertinent, "Did he specify where you are going to meet."
Guerrero glanced at the letter, "Acatempán." Mexico nodded. The place was familiar and close, which seemed to indicate that Iturbide knew where they were, but had not acted on it.
He replied, "That is close and to our advantage."
This fact elicited a nod and another excited smile, "He's in earnest this time."
Mexico couldn't help himself; he said, "I told you he would yield eventually." It was impossible for him to not feel smug that he was right about Iturbide, and always had been. He had the distinct feeling that this was more than just another step. This was monumental. The mortal pushed away the letter, paying no mind to the rest, which was probably full of flattery and matters of protocol. He had clearly already read the letter several times, wondering if it was real. Mexico's own heart was pounding as it had when the insurgency had began. After so long, so many years, he felt a familiar optimism. It felt like a real glimpse of an end. Iturbide could bring his entire army to their side and turn them against Spain, then the odds would be heavily in Mexico's favor for the first time. He was certain that the ripples of Iturbide's decision would go further.
The thought was interrupted by the unexpected feeling of a hand against his own. He looked directly at Guerrero, and was surprised by the look he saw in the other's eyes. it was not just one of earnest excitement, there was something there that sent a flash of heat across Mexico's cheeks. The other said, emotion in every word, "I was wrong to ever doubt you."
Mexico countered, not completely comfortable with the praise, "No, you weren't. You've protected me."
But, his objection was brushed away without even a word. The mortal shook his head once before speaking again, "You did so well with Iturbide; now it's my turn. I will negotiate with him and-" His hand tightened on Mexico's. He could feel the callouses of swordplay and hard work pressing against his own skin. But, Mexico couldn't pull his eyes away from the other's face as the man finished, passion causing his voice to strain, "You will be free. After all these years, you will be free."
The words pierced through him with a staggering clarity. The promise was not empty; it was more plausible than it had ever been. This, the dream he had held onto his entire childhood, was so close to finally coming true. An unusual feeling rose in the back of his throat, thick and heavy. He didn't know what to say, how to thank his friend for persevering for an impossible goal. But, it seemed words were unnecessary as the other lifted Mexico's hand to his lips and kissed it once. It seemed like an odd gesture coming from him. It belonged in some tale of chivalry that had long become outdated. And yet, Mexico felt a tingling in the skin the man's lips had touched. The man added, "I will negotiate with Iturbide and ensure that this is the independence we both fought for."
The sun glinted off of the metal thread of the other army's uniforms and their rifles as the formerly opposing forces stood stock still in the open air of the plain. Iturbide had kept his promise and arrived with his army exactly when they had agreed. Mexico looked beside him at his general, who was adjusting his regalia as though he had not thought to do it that morning. He had not worn such a formal uniform since he had assumed the role. Fighting as a badly outnumbered rebellion, it had not been advisable to be ostentatious. But, to meet Iturbide he had to exaggerate his own status. But, it was clear that he was deeply uncomfortable with it.
A single figure rode forward from the other army. Iturbide was unmistakable. He was dressed in every accessory of his office. The light was blinding off the carefully polished gold epaulets. Mexico couldn't help but see a man who was trying to project his own importance and majesty. But, he also couldn't deny that it was effective. Out of the corner of his eye, Mexico saw Guerrero straighten his back. He leaned over and said, quietly enough so that he could not be overheard, "Don't let him try to intimidate him. You are his equal, blood be damned."
The mortal nodded before digging his spurs into the side of his horse. Mexico felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched the two ride towards each other. They reached a midpoint between both armies that gave neither an advantage and stopped to dismount. It was surprising to see how very different the two were. It had not been apparent until they stood right next to each other. Guerrero was taller and much darker. He retained, even with his promotion, rugged and unrefined. He looked even more so standing next to Iturbide, who was slighter. Iturbide was imposing in his own right, but he was shorter and fairer. He had the indisputable nose of a creole and bright piercing eyes. Guerrero's hair, already tousled, was caught by the wind and became far more disordered. It was in such strong contrast to the meticulous order of the other's appearance.
Mexico found himself marveling at how magnetic they both seemed, wildly different, but joined in a common cause like two opposing parts of himself finally brought together. They took the measure of each other before Iturbide wordlessly extended his hand to Guerrero. It was a sign of trust and camaraderie. The other took the hand.
Mexico felt himself let out a nervous breath he had not noticed he had been holding. He expected nothing more. The men had been enemies and this sign of friendship was enough. But, as Mexico watched, their eyes met and they pulled each other into an embrace. From this distance, he could not tell who had initiated it, but his heart jumped at the sight.
He felt himself smile in the most sublime triumph. He could taste it on his tongue and feel it in his guts. This was his victory, completely unobscured by a continued loyalist threat. The thought crossed his mind of how Spain would react when he got news of this. That was enough for Mexico to smirk to himself. Soon Spain would know that his dominion was ending.
