The sound of cannon fire broke through the silence. It came with a flare of light from the Spanish forces in the fortress. The last holdout of the Spanish army on his land.
Mexico let out a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. It had begun, just as the morning light broke. He hated the time that came before a battle, and the first shot came as a comfort. The preparations had set him on edge. Working with Santa Ana to shore up the defenses had served a purpose, but it had felt like waiting for the inevitable.
Cuba's warning had given them enough warning to prepare, and the Dutch aid had freed up enough of his ships to mount a defense of the harbor. It had surprised him at first to read how few Spain had been able to muster for his reconquest. In his nightmares Mexico had seen the armata of old looming on the horizon. But, an empire crippled by a decade of war could not field the power that he once could. As the Netherlands had told him, Spain was weaker than he had been in a very long time. He had known that it would be a smaller force than Spain in his glory days, but it had done little to make him feel calmer.
Even with Santa Anna's cool confidence in himself and the defenses, he couldn't stop himself from dreading the silence before battle. In the nights before he had tried to listen to his intuition, which seemed to have an uncanny ability to predict the outcome of battle. If he felt dread, then Spain may succeed. But even his gut had felt frustratingly uncertain and undecided. But if there was anything that Mexico was certain of, it was that when he could fight he could have a part in ensuring a victory.
As the canon shot from the fortress raised splashed in the low light of dawn, Mexico tightened his hand on his sword. Though there was no one to fight yet, it felt right. The moment that a Spaniard dared to set foot aboard he would be ready to cut them down.
He knew little about sea warfare, but he could judge that there was not a danger from the batteries yet. The shots, clearly meant to be frightening, were landing in the water of the bay. Though the splashes were impressive, they were harmless. Mexico guessed that the cannons of his own forces were not firing because the shot and gunpowder were expensive and limited. It seemed that Santa Anna was capable of some restraint, though everything about the man said otherwise.
The captain joined Mexico at the railing and said, "Calm yourself. Patience determines victory at sea."
Mexico nodded and tried to release some of the tension in his shoulders. This was not a battle on land, and combat with swords would not come as quickly. He asked, "Why are they firing when we are out of range?"
He knew it was something of an obvious question to a sailor, but the captain already understood that he was a soldier. He saw the smallest suggestion of a smile on the mortal's face, which reassured him that his interest was appreciated. He answered, "They're trying to draw us out of position so that we can't counter their ships as well. I expect that we will see their fleet any moment."
Mexico nodded; he could understand the strategy at play. It was bait, and it was not being taken. The captain raised his spyglass and said, "And there they are."
Mexico glanced at the horizon and saw that the Spanish fleet was appearing at the mouth of the bay. It was not the mass of sails he had imagined, though he had known the numbers. When they were spread out across the surface of the water, it did not seem quite as frightening. Mexico realized how much he had allowed himself to fear Spain in a way that was unwarranted.
As the ships got closer, the guns at Mexico's back began to fire. The cacophony of the dueling cannons seemed like a prelude to the fight that was coming the moment that the ships were in range of each other.
The captain confirmed it by turning to Mexico and saying, "I must go. Hold on when you need to. Things are about to get bumpy."
Mexico was certain that if he could hold himself steady enough to shoot on a galloping horse, then a heaving ship would prove little challenge. He had never fought at sea before, but he had faith in himself.
There was a moment of silence, which he took to steady himself, and fix his gaze on the imperial flag flying from the Spanish flagship. If Spain was leading the offensive, then that would be where he was. And if Mexico could just reach him, he could take back the mercy that he had offered in the last battle. There was no way to secure the peace other than to defeat Spain soundly again, and leave him incapable of continuing to fight. This time Mexico was prepared to not stop short when he had the chance to end it.
He felt the wind fall quiet. As he glanced behind him, he saw the sail fall flat. For a moment, it felt like the world held its breath. The air smelled like gunpowder and salt.
Then the quiet was broken by a shouted order from the helm. It was followed by a flurry of activity. As if nature itself was following the command, the wind returned pushing from behind. For the little he knew of naval tactics, he knew that it was a favorable wind.
The ship jerked forward beneath him, and Mexico had to put a hand on the rail to steady himself. He hadn't anticipated how unnerving it felt for the ground beneath his feet to shift so suddenly, but he righted himself quickly enough. The movement of the ships was difficult to follow as the fleets seemed to merge into each other. From what he could tell, their target was the Spanish flag ship, while the smaller ships were busy with each other.
This was the reason Mexico had chosen to put himself on the largest ship; it gave him the ability to get close to Spain. Though he wanted a victory for the safety of his fledgling empire, his personal goal was to get close to Spain again.
He put his hand on his sword again and waited with bated breath for a moment. Mexico felt the ship shake again as the cannons let out a series of bellowing shots. There was a crash of wood as a few of the shots found their target. The spray of seawater and the smoke from the guns made it difficult to tell if they had done any damage.
Mexico leaned forward on the rail, trying to assess what had happened. He could see places on the side of the ship where the shots had impacted, but it hardly seemed enough to cause significant damage.
He caught a flare of orange in his peripheral vision, and realized a moment too late that he should not be standing so close when the Spanish ship fired back. The awareness came too late, but someone grabbed him from behind and dragged him away from the railings. The force of the pull unsteadied him enough for him to lose his footing and fall. As he lost his footing he pulled his rescuer down on top of him.
A shot hit where he had been standing, sending a shower of splinters and hot sparks over the deck. Mexico drew in a breath of thick air, and tried to comprehend what had just happened. The smoke clouded his vision and made his eyes burn.
He turned his gaze to his rescuer. The man had been knocked unconscious, though there was blood seeping into his hairline on one side of his head that made Mexico suspect that it may be something worse. He put his hand to the man's neck to feel if he was still alive. He felt a pulse, though the man's heart rate was slow.
Mexico gently pushed the weight of the man's body off of himself. He didn't want to hurt the man, but he had to get himself free.
As he got to his feet, less gracefully than he'd hoped, he felt the ship shudder again as another broadside was loosed directly into the Spanish ship. He assumed that it had done significant damage, though naval battle was still a mystery.
Mexico could barely make out what was happening through the smoke, and the cacophony. But, he could tell that sailors were massing at the side of the deck. It seemed that they did not expect another broadside from the Spanish ship, so it was safe enough to stand close to the edge. He assumed that their last shots had done enough to delay the enemy guns to silence them.
He felt like he was beginning to understand how battle between two ships was fought. He also felt like he was also starting to find his feet on the swaying surface. For all of his grace, trying to keep himself sure of his footing on deck was proving difficult.
Once he was certain of himself again, he moved to join the other sailors waiting to see what came next. He heard a bellow that he assumed came from the captain, "Boarding!"
He was not certain whether it was an order or a warning. But it did not matter to him either way, since it meant a fight was coming. It was the kind of fight that he understood, one with swords and pistols.
Before diving into the fray, he drew his pistol. He had loaded a shot into each before the battle had begun, so he needed only to aim and shoot.
The sailors were throwing grappling hooks across the gap, pulling the gunnel of the Spanish ship closer. A symmetrical series of grappling hooks flew from the enemy, creating a firm netting between the two, and pulling the two ships close enough that a man could jump from one to the other.
The Spanish sailors were gathered on the other side, just as he had anticipated. In the moment, the battle would become the same as any other. With the hulls practically touching it would be impossible to effectively fire cannons into the other ship. It also seemed that the gun crews had taken to the deck with weapons in hand.
This was the moment that Mexico had been waiting for. He leveled his pistol and waited to choose a target. His hand was steady, though his footing was not as sure as it would be on solid ground.
An enemy sailor attempted to cross the gap, and Mexico fired with well honed muscle memory. The bullet found its mark, and the mortal fell into the gap between the ships. Mexico heard the splash as the body hit the water.
With that, all restraint broke. Sailors from either side cleared the gap, and there was the sound of sabers colliding and a series of shots. Mexico tucked his second pistol into his belt. In the smoke and chaos he could not be certain who he would hit if he fired into the crowd. He didn't dare take the risk of hitting any of his own men.
The blade was certain though. An enemy landed right in front of him, and Mexico acted on instinct. He cut the man down easily.
It almost felt like there was little challenge in anticipating that more men would pour across the gap, and taking them out as soon as they landed. It would also do little to end the battle. The average sailors were not driving this attempt at reconquest.
He had to find Spain, and he had to end him. That was why he had decided to be on this ship, and it was the only thing that mattered. He tried to see through the mass of bodies to see if he could catch a glance of Spain through it. He knew what to look for, the scarlet coat and the glare of his eyes. Mexico couldn't see him, but he continued to look because he knew that Spain must be on the other ship somewhere.
He didn't realize how intently focused he was until he felt a sharp pain in his side. He broke his gaze away from the crowd and looked down at the source of the pain. A sailor who he had failed to notice had managed to stab him. But it seemed that he had not found quite the right stance, and the stab had only managed to touch his side.
He gritted his teeth, turned, and hit the man with the pommel of his sword. The mortal stumbled backwards and fell into the gap, disappearing into the water.
Mexico put his free hand to the wound. It didn't feel deep, but his hand was stained with blood when he pulled it away. He was used to the sight of his own blood after all of the years of war. He wiped it on his own jacket, and tried to focus on Spain. Being injured meant it was even more important to find him, since he could not afford another lapse of judgement.
He glanced around. His eyes fell on the upper deck, and he smiled. That would be the best place to get an elevated view of the deck. It looked as though a couple shots had hit the upper deck and shattered the railings. But, the stairs had little damage, and that would give him the advantage that he needed.
He looked around to make sure that there was no one who was about to stab him again the moment that he turned his back. He did not see anyone who seemed poised to attack him, so he took the moment to make a break. He took quick steps up the stairs, and then turned to face the battle. From above he could get a better sense of what was happening, and from his perspective it seemed to be a perfectly even battle.
He scanned the men, looking for Spain. After his moment, his eyes landed on him. As he caught sight of Spain, the man turned and met his gaze. He saw the way that Spain's lips curled into a smile, like he had been looking for Mexico too.
Mexico knew that he had to take advantage of his position and the distance between them. It would not last, because he was aware that Spain would get closer. He wanted a decisive fight as badly as Mexico did.
He drew his pistol. A single shot could do enough to remove the other man from the war. Mexico leveled the gun and took aim. He couldn't squander the shot, so he was hesitant to pull the trigger. He could feel the enormity of the moment on his shoulders.
He lined up the shot, and took a breath to steady his hands. But, before he could fire, Spain moved into the fray. Mexico couldn't fire without possibly hitting someone else. He would not waste his one shot on that.
Instead he tracked Spain's movement through the fray between the two ships. Mexico put his finger on the trigger, waiting for the first moment that he could get a clear line of sight. He waited, and was uncomfortably aware of the swaying of the boat beneath him. It seemed somehow less predictable than a galloping horse.
He saw Spain emerge, and he fired immediately. He felt the way that the ship heaved again as soon as he fired, but he could not take it back and hope for a better shot.
Spain staggered, and Mexico thought that the bullet had found its mark. He could not see the other clearly enough to tell where it had hit. But, as Spain straightened up, he felt his heart drop. Spain had his hand pressed against his left shoulder.
It wasn't even his dominant arm.
Mexico put the pistol back into his belt, saying as he did so, "God fucking damnit!"
He could have made that shot easily on land, and he knew it. It was enraging when Spain met his eyes again and raised an eyebrow like he had expected better. Mexico clenched his teeth, and decided that he would finish the job with his swords. He drew both, and waited.
Spain reached the stairs and said, barely even sounding winded from the rush to reach Mexico's position, "Shall we dance again, my dear?"
Mexico loathed how confident he sounded, like he didn't have blood soaking into his jacket around the bullet wound. He took a step closer to make it clear that Spain did not intimidate him and responded, "That didn't go very well for you last time. Are you sure you want to try again?"
He was amazed that the stab wound from their last battle had already healed. He would have to do it again. Spain smirked, "You won't get that lucky again."
Without further warning, he lunged. Mexico caught his blade with his own. The force of the blow caught him slightly off balance. To regain his footing he took a step backwards up the stairs. He said, as he parried Spain's second blow, "What are you trying to do? I will not surrender."
Spain was making a point of attacking aggressively, and Mexico chose to play the defense for the moment. When he got on the level ground of the deck it would be easier to push back. Spain responded, "I'm taking back what is mine. If you think I will not fight to my last breath for you, then you underestimate me."
Mexico felt his foot hit the flat of the upper deck and prepared himself to push back. He spat back, "You are being pathetic. I am never going to accept a monster like you."
He deflected Spain's next strike and countered with one of his own that Spain managed to dodge. Mexico retreated enough to find his footing. Spain took the opportunity to keep talking, "You call me a monster, but I heard what you did to Tlaxcala. I kept that useless old man alive for centuries, and you killed him without a second thought. I didn't think you were capable of it."
Mexico felt like Spain had knocked the air out of his lungs. He hadn't realized there was anyone who could have heard that conversation and told Spain. The mere implication that it was anything like Spain's crimes made him see red. He said, through clenched teeth, "You could not possibly understand."
Before Spain had a chance to make another comment, he aimed a slash at Spain's side. The other caught it and parried, then transitioned smoothly to an attack of his own. Mexico saw it coming and caught it.
Spain leaned forward over the crossed swords, "You're just like me now. You have blood on your hands."
Mexico felt the rage in the pit of his stomach. He pushed Spain away as hard as he could. He said, barely containing his own rage, "I am nothing like you."
The way that Spain continued to look mildly amused made him even angrier. He threw another blow, intent on causing damage. Spain caught it and said, with a sickening smirk, "Just admit that we are meant for each other."
Mexico could feel Spain pushing him backwards, but he refused to break the guard yet. He shifted his grip enough to get the right angle, and then pushed against Spain's sword enough that it slipped out of his hand. The sword clattered on the deck, and Mexico took it as a sign that he had Spain where he wanted him.
He stepped back and raised his sword, and said, "I have you again. When will you understand that you're beaten?"
Spain met his gaze unflinchingly. He didn't seem to understand that he was unarmed and at Mexico's mercy. He said, "You have so much to learn about naval battles. First, you need to learn to pay attention to your surroundings."
Mexico had no idea what he was talking about, and quickly glanced around to figure out what he had missed. In the momentary distraction, Spain charged him. He felt Spain's shoulder hit his chest. Suddenly the ground disappeared under his feet.
He was falling for a long moment, and then he hit the deck hard. There was an immediate splitting pain in his head where it had impacted the wood.
His thoughts felt fuzzy as he slowly opened his eyes. He couldn't figure out how long his eyes had been closed. As he looked up, he realized what had happened. He was looking up at the break in the railing on the upper deck where Spain must have pushed him off.
The next thing he was aware of was that Spain was no longer on top of him. He was standing, dusting off his own jacket. Once he had pulled himself together, he said, "Now I am going to take you home."
He sounded very far away, and there was a ringing in Mexico's ears that nearly drowned him out. Mexico felt strange, but he knew that he would not let Spain touch him. He drew a small knife from within his jacket.
As gracefully as he could, he sat up and jammed the knife into Spain's stomach. He saw the look of shock on Spain's face at the injury.
The Spaniard growled and responded by headbutting him, which sent a new spike of pain through Mexico's aching head. Mexico's eyes watered at the pain, but he refused to look away from Spain. He would not concede, not for a moment.
Spain pulled the knife out of his abdomen and tossed it across the deck. Then he said in a voice that sounded like he was trying very hard to hide how angry he was, "It's over. Come with me, now."
He leaned down and reached for Mexico's jacket. Mexico wished that he had another knife, but he had used his only one, and could not figure out where his sword had gone. So, he reached up, pretending for a moment that he was reciprocating the gesture.
But it was only to get close enough that he could seize Spain by the shoulders. Once his hands were firmly in place, he responded, "Damn you, bastard."
And then he drove his thumb into the bullet wound on his shoulder. He could tell that Spain was surprised by the way he reacted to the pain. He grimaced and his knees seemed to buckle. Mexico knew that he had him off balance, and he pushed hard enough to get Spain away from him. He made sure to put particular pressure on the wound, so that he'd have more leverage. Spain lost his footing and fell.
Once he had made distance, Mexico managed to scramble to his feet. Standing up made him feel dizzy, but he would not allow himself to show it. For the moment, he had the advantage.
He caught sight of his swords, which had not flown too far when he fell. He wouldn't have time to retrieve them before facing Spain again, but he was glad that they had not ended up in the bay.
He turned to face Spain again, and raised his fists to defend himself. Spain did the same, though Mexico could see that his left hand had a slight tremor. That shoulder must hurt terribly.
Mexico was about to strike when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked next to him. He turned to see the captain with a pistol in hand, with it trained on Spain.
Spain glanced from the mortal to Mexico and seemed to decide that he was outmatched. He gave Mexico one more withering look before turning and fleeing back to his own ship.
Mexico let out a long breath. Once the adrenaline of facing Spain started to wear off he realized that the ringing in his ears had not completely stopped. He also felt a very uncomfortable awareness of the boat's movement in his stomach.
He bent to recover his swords. As he bent down, he realized how dizzy he really felt. He staggered as he straightened up, and the captain said to him, "Are you alright?"
Mexico wasn't sure how to answer the question. He could feel his side bleeding, and he was sure that the shirt was ruined. His head was painful, and it took some focus to keep the world from blurring at the edges.
He countered with the more important question, "You should have just shot him. Did we win?"
The captain nodded, but something about the look on his face said that he was still concerned about his unanswered question. Mexico nodded, and said, "Good. I'm going to bandage my wounds. Tell me when we reach dry land again."
Once he was alone in his cabin he tried to center himself. The pain in his head had faded, but he still felt strangely disoriented. He could have taken the moment to lay down and rest, but he refused to. He had too much to think about, and too much that he needed to deal with.
The wound to his side was the first priority. He retrieved a roll of bandages. As he moved he felt the ship move, and lost his footing again, and had to put his hand out to steady himself. He breathed deeply and tried to orient himself again.
Once he felt centered, he pulled up his shirt and began to wrap the bandages as tightly as he could on his own. It was not perfect, but it would stop the bleeding long enough for it to heal.
As he worked, his mind slipped back to what Spain had said during their clash. He should have guessed that the spy who had told Spain about Guerrero would also have told him about Tlaxcala.
He did not think he had done anything to equal Spain's brutality. He had not cut down the man where he stood, though the thought had crossed his mind. Spain would have never hesitated; he would have killed the man on the spot.
He finished wrapping the bandages and tucked the end in so that it would hold. With that dealt with, he turned to his hands. When he looked at them he realized that they were caked with blood. It did not surprise him after such a brutal battle. He knew that he had touched his own bleeding wound, and made Spain bleed as well.
He poured water into a basin, which he knew had been provided because of his status as an officer. He dipped his hands in the water and watched as the red began to float off. He couldn't put his mind completely at rest as he looked at his hands.
It was his own blood, and it was Spain's and his own, but he also could not help but think that it was also Tlaxcala's blood. He had condemned an old man to a slow death. It was a cruel decision, and not one he would have made if he had taken a moment to consider it logically.
Perhaps the man had remorse for his role in the conquest that he had never had the chance to express. Mexico rubbed his hands together, trying to get the blood off. The water quickly turned murky and red. He realized, with a sinking sense of guilt, that Spain had lied to Tlaxcala too. He had used everything that he could to secure his victory.
Mexico pulled his hands out of the water and began to wipe them off. He could see that there was still blood under his nails, and he began to work at cleaning under them with the edge of the cloth.
He felt like a fool for not knowing better. He had more experience with Spain's charm and his ability to lie than anyone. He should have been the first one to give the man a chance to speak. His heart felt heavy as he had the thought. He should not have done what he did, but there was no way to turn it back. He had already severed the man's connection to immortality, and had no power to give it back.
As he put aside the cloth, he thought about what he could do to set things right, something that Spain would never do. He had to see Tlaxcala before he died, and express his regret to him. He could not let the man think that he was numb to what he had done. He had to make it clear that he felt regret, and for his own future he had to face the consequences of his actions, so that he never acted so quickly out of anger again. With the decision made, he let himself slowly sink onto his bunk, so he could rest until they reached the docks.
Mexico changed into riding clothing and paused only briefly to check the bandages on his torso. They seemed to be holding, so he decided he didn't need to change them before he left. With that, he intended to go straight to the stables and take his horse to see Tlaxcala.
But, as he crossed the hall he heard a familiar voice, "Are you going somewhere?" Santa Anna was striding across the floor towards him. Mexico had hoped to sneak away without an explanation, but the man's presence made that impossible. Santa Anna continued, "I hope you are not. I was planning to celebrate the victory with you."
Mexico appreciated his enthusiasm, but he did not feel like celebrating at all. The feeling of guilt was far too strong for him to put it aside for the night. His heart was set on making everything right as much as he could. He replied, "I must. I have something that I have left unfinished."
He didn't feel like he owed the man any other explanation, and he hoped that Santa Anna would not ask for more. All the mortal asked was, "Does it have to be tonight?"
Mexico nodded, "I'm afraid so. It cannot wait."
Santa Anna shook his head like he was deeply disappointed, but his answer was, "Very well. I trust you to do what you must."
He paused for a moment before adding, "And come back soon. I'll miss you while you're gone."
Mexico couldn't help but smile as he replied, "I will."
It was a long ride to Tlaxcala, but it gave him time to think through what he was going to say. It would be strange to walk into the home of a man who was dying because of him, but it was better than ignoring the problem. He knew that the last words to the man had been callous, and he wanted to end things on a better note.
Perhaps it would be no better if he expressed himself, and he would be thrown out immediately. But, even that would feel better because it would give him the chance to express himself. It would also give Tlaxcala the chance to express anger that was very well deserved.
Mexico ignored the way that the movement of the horse made his head ache again. The blurring in his peripheral vision had faded, but he could still feel the dull ache in the back of his head. He tightened his hands on the reins as he felt another wave of rage at the thought of Spain.
If not for the underhanded push, he would not be in pain. Spain was dishonorable, and he should have expected as much. But the unfamiliar environment had been enough to catch him off guard. If the fall had succeeded in knocking him unconscious, the consequences would have been terrible. Being at Spain's mercy could have had dire consequences, but he had recovered fast enough.
It made him deeply angry, but he tried to repress the feeling. For the night, he had to focus on the guilt festering in his gut. He gritted his teeth and hoped that the anger would fade before he got to Tlaxcala. Anger was the emotion that had gotten him into this trouble, and he refused to walk into the conversation angry.
As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, he began to realize how long the ride would be. He had no desire to rest for the night, since he was certain that the feeling of guilt would only worsen when he closed his eyes. If he slept at all, it would have been uneasy and troubled. He had no desire to do that in some unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar place. If he rode through the night, he would reach his destination by morning.
He decided that it would be best to get there as soon as possible. He leaned forward and patted the horse on the neck, and said, "I'm sorry that I'm going to do this. But we're going to keep going." He set his gaze on the horizon as the sky darkened and continued.
The sun was rising as he reached the house in Tlaxcala. As he had entered the city he had realized that he did not know exactly where he was going. He had decided that he would trust his gut and what he knew about his kind. Countries often chose to live in the heart of their capital, and it wasn't difficult to find.
Mexico also trusted his gut to tell him that he was in the right place. It was not logical, but it was usually right.
As he stopped his horse outside of the courtyard, he wondered if this had all been a terrible idea. Had it been worth it to ride through the night to be told that he was hated and thrown out?
He pinched the bridge of his nose. If the dull ache would go away, then he could think clearly about what he was doing. His heart told him that it was right, and that it would soothe the feeling of guilt either way. If he turned away from the uncomfortable feelings, then he was no better than Spain. He needed to know at least that he was better than Spain, otherwise the feeling would haunt him.
He took a deep breath and prepared himself for whatever was about to happen. Then, feeling as centered as he possibly could, he turned his horse and entered the courtyard. As he dismounted, he still felt slightly off balance. It must have been some lingering effect from spending time on a swaying ship.
He gave the horse a few loving pets to the mane, because he knew that he had ridden the poor creature harder than he should have. He said, quietly enough that someone wouldn't hear unless they were very close, "You did very well. You can rest now."
He wasn't certain whether he would be back quickly, since it depended on Tlaxcala. But, he hoped that his horse had the chance to rest.
As he turned, he realized that the door had already opened. In the early morning, the sound of hooves must have been quite noticeable. He took it as an invitation that Tlaxcala had not immediately closed the door and locked him out. If he had not wanted to see Mexico, then it would be easy enough to keep him out. Mexico hoped that he had drawn the right conclusion from the gesture.
As he walked closer, he realized that the person standing in the doorway was not the old man he had spoken to before. There was a woman looking at him, and he couldn't read her expression. Perhaps he had come to the wrong house after all, though his heart told him that it was not.
He also could not shake the feeling that he had met the woman somewhere before. Her face felt so familiar, but he could not think of a reason why.
He pushed all the thoughts away and tried to focus on the reason he was there. He said, trying to sound polite, "I'm sorry to bother you. I am looking for Tlaxcala."
He spoke in Nahuatl, though he hadn't made the conscious choice about the language. It came naturally to him, and he chose not to question it. Her eyes widened slightly when he started speaking, and for a moment he thought she would not understand him.
But, that worry was assuaged when she responded, "My husband? He is here, but he is asleep."
She sounded shocked, but Mexico was too focused on the word. He didn't know the man was married. He felt even worse knowing that he had killed a man who had a spouse who would mourn him. If they had children, his guilt would be even more terrible. He knew what it was to lose a parent.
He tried not to betray the thought as he said, "I would like to speak to him if he is well enough to see me."
He did not know what state Tlaxcala would be in, since he didn't know how long it took an immortal to die. It felt far too forward to ask whether he was still capable of carrying on a conversation. It had felt like his father had faded very quickly based on his limited memories, so the same may happen to Tlaxcala. He also wanted to give her a reason to politely decline him if his presence was too uncomfortable.
The woman nodded and answered him, "You can see him, if you would like. He won't be expecting you."
Mexico could not help but wonder if she knew who he was, because it felt like an understatement. He expected Tlaxcala to neither be expecting him nor be happy to see him. He could not think of a single person who would be happy to see his killer.
She stepped aside and said with a slight smile, "Please come in."
It felt strange to step over the threshold. He felt like an incredibly unwelcome guest. He didn't know why she would look at him so warmly, unless she had no idea what he had done. It made him feel like she would notice at any moment and throw him out, as she had every right to. Perhaps it would happen once she spoke to Tlaxcala and he made the whole situation clearer.
She led him to a comfortable kitchen, and then said, "You should sit, and I will wake him."
Mexico found the welcome entirely too warm, but he was not going to question it. He made himself as comfortable as he could at her kitchen table. Much to his surprise, she placed a cup of coffee in front of him, and gave him another smile. He found it hard to smile back while being so aware of his own guilt.
After the long ride and the sleepless night, coffee seemed very welcome. But, he felt like he could not take a drink of it, because it would be taking something from a dead man. To drink the coffee would be to accept the hospitality, and he could not do that.
He put his hands around the cup and felt the warmth, but he would not allow himself even a sip. She left the room, and he was left alone with his thoughts and a coffee that he didn't feel he deserved. He stared at the surface of the coffee, and tried to collect his thoughts.
He had not thought through what he was going to say to Tlaxcala. The important part was that he said he was sorry, and Tlaxcala could react to it however he wanted. He was uncomfortably aware of how long the woman had been gone, and he began to wonder if they were trying to decide to tell him to leave.
He tapped his finger on the table, trying to force himself to be patient. He could feel the nervous energy building up in his body. Remaining sitting felt too uncomfortable. He felt far too nervous to be alone with his thoughts.
He pushed the cup to the side and stood up. He intended to pace, to do something with his nervous energy. He would have thought that the night would have exhausted him, but he still felt awake and anxious.
He began to pace, thinking about the words he wanted to say if he got the opportunity. He wanted to sincerely express that he was trying to learn, though he knew that was little consolation to a dying man. It was all he could think of to say, and he was not certain that he would remember any of it when he was faced with the conversation.
He paused by the door when he realized that he could hear voices on the other side. He knew that should not listen to Tlaxcala speaking to his wife out of respect to both of them. But, he could not resist the temptation of knowing if he was about to get anger from either of them.
He leaned close enough that he could hear the voices. All he could make out was Tlaxcala's voice saying, "You should tell him. He'll feel better if you do."
He didn't hear the answer. He had no idea what they could be talking about. He dared not push the door open to hear better. Instead, he turned away, feeling ashamed of himself for even listening. He heard the sound of her footsteps returning, and decided to sit again so that she did not know he had been wandering.
She returned and said, "He's ready to talk to you."
Mexico swallowed his nerves and responded, "Thank you. You've been so kind."
He felt like he should say it in case he was about to get castigated and have to leave in a hurry. If Tlaxcala threw him out, he wouldn't have a chance to thank her, and she did deserve thanks for all her hospitality.
Tlaxcala was laying in bed with the curtains drawn so that it was bright enough for Mexico to see him clearly. He looked like he was ill. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked older than he had the last time Mexico had seen him. He had very distant memories of his father looking faded when he died, and Tlaxcala looked much the same.
He had thought of so many words to say, but he wasn't sure what to say to start the conversation. To his relief, Tlaxcala met his eyes and said, "You are a surprising guest."
Mexico replied, "And I am sure that I am not a welcome one."
He felt like it was better to open the door for Tlaxcala to tell him exactly how he felt. It felt better to allow the possibility of rejection, so that it did not feel like such a blow when it came.
But, the old man didn't have any anger in his face as he answered, "That depends on why you are here. If you want to gloat, then I will ask you to leave. But, judging by your face, I do not think you are."
Mexico settled into a chair at his bedside, because he felt like he had just gotten the permission to stay and talk. He replied, trying to say what he had been thinking about, "I am not. I wanted to speak to you because I am sorry for what I did."
The words felt heavy in the air, like they could never be enough. He watched Tlaxcala's face as he spoke, and tried to judge the reaction. The man's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't look upset. Mexico couldn't help but continue to voice his thoughts, "I was angry about so many things, and I took it all out on you. But, I should not have hurt you for what Antonio did."
He could think of more words to say about how he had taken his pain out on the person he could hurt, instead of the one who was threatening him. But, it was better to hold his tongue and give Tlaxcala a chance to respond.
The old man took a moment of quiet before he said, "It makes me glad to see that you have reflected on it."
He adjusted himself in bed with a groan, so he was sitting up and looking directly at Mexico. He finished his thought, "I want you to look at me, and remember this. Your actions have consequences. You have more power now than you ever have, and you must be more careful with your temper."
Mexico felt like this was an oddly measured lecture for what they were discussing. He leaned forward and said, trying to make himself clear, "You do not have to forgive me. I do not expect you to."
He felt particularly uneasy with the idea, and wanted harsh condemnation. To his great surprise, Tlaxcala leaned forward and took his hands in his own. Tlaxcala sounded like he was speaking patiently to a child when he said, "Listen to me. I know that I do not have to, but I never wanted to be your enemy. These old grudges have to end. This cycle of conquest and revenge and pain has to end with you."
Mexico felt like he was a foolish child, and he didn't know what to say. He simply nodded, hoping it was clear enough that he understood. He could not quite comprehend how someone could not resort to anger, but it felt like a skill that he should learn.
He felt absurdly like he might cry, because the relief was too strong and he could hear compassion in the old man's tone that he had not earned. Tlaxcala held his hands a little tighter, and said, "I knew from the moment you were born that you would represent something bigger than any of us. I want you to take this as a lesson. Be a better ruler than your mother. Be better than Spain."
Mexico found his voice again and said, "I am so sorry. If I can do anything to make you more comfortable, please ask."
He could feel moisture welling in his eyes, but it felt wrong to cry when he was the guilty one. Tlaxcala gave him a pained smile, and said, "You've already given me peace by coming here. Now I would like some rest."
Mexico nodded. He understood that this conversation had been everything he could have asked for already. He said, "Thank you for hearing me out."
He was holding back tears as he left the room. He could not understand how someone could be so understanding. He leaned against a wall and felt a new wave of guilt and uncertainty. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself.
He felt like he was losing someone he had never known, but who could have supported him. The strange grief and guilt mixed to feel like something somehow worse.
He felt the soft touch on his arm. He opened his eyes to see Tlaxcala's wife standing in front of him, looking oddly concerned for him. For the briefest moment, he thought that she looked like his mother if Aztec had ever been able to grow old. It made him feel even stranger.
She said, "Are you alright?"
It was the same question that the captain had asked him, and he still did not know how to answer. He said, "He was very kind. I am just tired."
It was the best answer he could give to avoid discussing the turmoil in the chest, and the ever present ache in his head. She said, "You were in a battle, weren't you? At sea, I would guess."
He had no idea how she could have made such an accurate guess. He replied, too quickly to be fully polite, "How do you know that?"
He had changed out of his uniform, so it could not possibly be that obvious. She put a hand to his forehead and said, "I saw this."
With that, she pulled something out of a spot near his hairline. He winced at the pain, and was utterly confused until she held up a long, bloody splinter. She said, "You brought part of the ship with you."
It must have happened during the broadsides, but he had no memory of it. He felt a droplet of blood forming where the splinter had been. She pulled out a kerchief and offered it to him, saying, "Press on it and it'll stop bleeding."
He took it and followed her instructions, but he was confused. He voiced the thought, "I am very grateful. But I do not understand. I am causing your grief. Why would you want to help me?"
He pressed the cloth to the spot that was bleeding, and began to wonder if his side had also started to bleed again. In these strange circumstances, he was not sure what he would do with an answer.
She took a deep breath and answered, "You are young, and you made a mistake. I'm not going to punish you for that. If you learn to do better, then that is all any of us can hope for."
He wished that someone would just be angry at him. It felt like the kindness was unwarranted and unearned. She made it worse by saying, "You can sleep here. We have extra rooms, and you seem quite tired."
Mexico stared at her for a moment, trying to comprehend. The whole day felt utterly strange and he found himself wondering if he had slept after the battle and this was all a very lucid dream. People were usually only so kind in his dreams. But, given the pain he was still feeling, that was impossible.
He answered, "I could not possibly do that. You have both been incredibly kind, and I have asked for enough."
He was absolutely certain that he would not sleep in the same house as a man who was dying because of him. He guessed that offer was what Tlaxcala had urged her to tell him, to let him know that he was welcome to stay. But the idea made him feel no better. Even the thought of laying down and attempting to sleep brought another wave of hideous guilt.
He shook his head, and added, "I think I have been here long enough, and I should go back to Veracruz." He felt deeply uncomfortable with how long he had been in Tlaxcala's house, even if no one was being unkind to him. His own deep awareness of what he had done felt like it was wearing on him.
She looked like she wanted to say something else, and he hoped that she would not. He said, hoping to stop the conversation, "Thank you for everything. If either of you need anything, please do not hesitate to write."
He was back on his horse and riding away as quickly as he could, despite his fatigue. His racing thoughts and volatile emotions were enough to keep him awake through the night. No matter how much he thought about it he could not make sense of the whole series of interactions. It had violated all of his expectations about people, and he could not decide how to react.
Even as he returned to Veracruz, he could only think that he should take Tlaxcala's words to heart and keep closer control of his temper.
It was late afternoon when he returned to his own room in Veracruz. He needed time to sleep and think through what had happened, since he could feel the way that the exhaustion was starting to set in. As soon as he reached his room he flung himself onto the bed, fully determined to sleep.
But, his hand hit a note that had been left on his pillow. As soon as he saw Victoria's handwriting, his heart sank. He could already guess that it was an invitation to a meeting. When he opened it and saw the word "tonight" he groaned at the prospect of yet another night with little sleep.
He could not possibly choose not to go. If he wanted to keep his word to Victoria about supporting the republic then he would need to accept secret meetings when they happened. He read through the rest, because he would need the details.
The words blurred as he tried to read them, and it took substantial effort to focus. It was all very straightforward, and he was very glad that Victoria had opted for little poetic language. For a man who had trained in law, he was surprisingly talented with brevity.
The end of the letter intrigued him the most though. It said with ample mystery, "It would be best if you were there. There will be something you will not want to miss." In normal circumstances, he would find that undeniably tempting, but he couldn't help but feel like a chore. He groaned again, rolled over, and got out of bed to pull himself together to leave again.
It was not difficult to find the beautiful mansion, and as he looked at it he wondered if Victoria owned it, or if it was the home of someone who was sympathetic to the rebellion. Victoria never seemed to have a shortage of friends. He also had the passing thought that it was not very subtle, but he knew better than to question someone who had been so effective at organizing rebellion.
Mexico found the man waiting for him in the foyer, looking very pleased to see him. Mexico saw his face slightly fall when he got closer, and he could only assume that the lack of sleep was obvious on his face. The past day was beginning to blur in his mind, and he was certain that he must look exhausted too.
But, Victoria hardly hinted at it when he said, "I am glad that you are here."
Mexico smiled and responded, "Your letter was interesting. It seems like you have a surprise for me."
He had assumed it was something very exciting, like a clear idea how to topple Iturbide. The sparkle of intrigue in Victoria's eyes didn't particularly worry him. He was certain that anything that Victoria would play would be for his benefit, because the man was sincere in his patriotic convictions.
Victoria responded, "I do. Come with me. I have something I think you should see." Mexico wasn't certain why he was feeling the slightest sense of foreboding, but he blamed it on his exhaustion. He followed Victoria as he led him to one of the many rooms, and paused in front of the door.
Victoria turned to him, with a look of intrigue, and said, "I think you should go in by yourself. It will be better."
Mexico was very tempted to ask what was worth all the secrecy, but he trusted him well enough to not question him. He pushed open the door. And his heart dropped the moment he laid eyes on the man who was sitting at the table.
Vicente Guerrero looked up and met his eyes.
Mexico felt goosebumps bloom on his skin. He had no idea what to say to the man, or even if he wanted to speak to him. He heard Guerreo start to say, "Ale-"
But before he could finish what he wanted to say, Mexico turned and left the room. His heart was racing, and he couldn't collect his thoughts. He stepped to the side outside the room and tried to collect himself.
He heard Victoria approaching him, and he said, "You set me up! You both conspired to do this." He wished he could sound angrier, but he didn't have the energy. The sleepless night had rendered it impossible.
Victoria shook his head, and said firmly, "No, he didn't know either. I invited both of you without telling either of you."
Mexico gave him the best glare he could muster. He could not put into words how much it felt like a betrayal to be suddenly faced with Guerrero in the flesh again. He asked, "Why would you do this without telling me?"
Victoria seemed to have far too much confidence in himself as he said, "Because you would not have come if I told you, and neither would Vicente. And I need you both to talk. I cannot effectively lead with you two avoiding each other."
Mexico's head was swimming, but he was certain that he was frustrated. He responded, "I am supposed to decide when that happens."
He felt another spike of pain in his head, and he put his hand to his head. He couldn't sustain the anger enough to yell at Victoria, not while he was tired. He winced at the pain and said, "I cannot have that conversation tonight. I'm not ready."
He wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, but fleeing completely would make him look like a coward. He had no idea what to do, since every option would bring confrontation. Victoria sighed like he was deeply frustrated and said, "You cannot run from this for your whole life."
Mexico's voice was quiet as he closed his eyes and said, "Please leave me alone. I need to think."
He knew he was just pleading for time, but it was all that he could do. Victoria said, "Very well."
The sound of retreating footsteps brought him some peace, though he knew it was temporary. He wished that the ache in his head would fade enough so that he could think clearly. If they could be alone, he might be able to express his feelings to Guerrero, but his mind was blank when he tried to think of what to say. He pressed his palm firmly against his forehead, trying to force himself to focus. It hurt far more than he expected it to. He had forgotten that Spain had headbutted him exactly where he was pressing.
He thought he was alone until he heard a familiar voice, "Alejandro, we need to talk." Mexico opened his eyes and saw Guerrero. He must have followed him out of the room. He was annoyingly persistent, as he always had been. Mexico knew he should have expected it.
His heart beat skipped several beats as he realized that this conversation could not be avoided. Without a response from Mexico, the mortal launched into a prepared speech, "I know that I disappointed you, but I need you to give me a chance to explain myself. I need you to know that -"
Mexico interrupted him by saying as firmly as he could, "I cannot do this right now, Vicente."
It was all that he could think of to say that would stop a deeper conversation. If Guerrero said anything too intimate, he felt like he would either cry or rage, and he could not handle either.
He saw Guerrero's face change immediately as he heard the tone of his voice, and he abandoned whatever he had planned to say. He asked, "Are you alright?"
That damned question.
Mexico replied, without thinking about what he was saying, "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
He still had no answer to it, especially not for Guerrero. The other man answered the rhetorical question, "Because you look like you've been through hell."
Mexico scoffed. It could not possibly be as bad as that, and he hoped his reaction would convince the man that it wasn't. But, Guerrero's eyes widened and he said, "And you're bleeding."
Mexico assumed that the splinter wound had started to bleed again. He put his hand to his forehead to stop it, only to find that it was dry. Guerrero said shortly, "Not there."
Mexico then put his hand to his side, and it came away red. He said, "Damn it." He had forgotten to check his bandages before he had left to meet Victoria.
He glanced back up at Guerrero and was struck by how concerned he looked. The man had curled both of his hands into fists, like he was holding himself back from doing something with them. Guerrero spoke, and Mexico could tell his jaw was clenched from the stiffness of his voice, "May I touch you?"
The question puzzled him for a moment, and then he remembered that he had told Guerrero emphatically not to when they had last seen each other. The man looked like he was hardly holding back the urge to embrace him.
The fact that Guerrero asked was enough to soften Mexico's defenses. He answered, "You can."
With permission granted, Guerrero used one hand to gently brush Mexico's hair off of his face. Mexico heard him draw in a sharp breath through his teeth before he said, "That looks painful." Mexico guessed that he was looking at the bruise from where Spain had headbutted him.
He said, trying to remedy the worry, "I am fine. It's just some blood."
Guerrero met his eyes and said, "You are not fine. Come with me."
He slipped his arm around Mexico's waist and pulled him close enough to support him. Mexico was certain that he should push him away, and maintain his anger about the lie. But in the moment, it felt good to have someone hold him. There was something about being so close that felt achingly familiar, like his heart had been craving it.
He said, trying to make it clear that nothing was forgiven, "I am still mad at you."
It didn't sound particularly convincing, and Guerrero responded, "Right now I don't really care. You need rest. You can be mad at me tomorrow."
He let Guerrero lead him back into the room, and said, with a gentle firmness that Mexico had sincerely missed, "Sit down."
Without thinking, he obeyed. In the back of his mind he wondered where Victoria had gone, but he assumed that it was a choice to give him time alone with Guerrero. This conversation had been the point of this whole charade.
He wasn't certain how he felt about any of this, but he could not muster any anger at his former general. Guerrero kneeled in front of him so that he could look him in the eyes while he was sitting. He asked, gently, "Ale, when was the last time you slept?"
The question felt like it struck too close to home, and Mexico glanced away. He answered, feeling ashamed of himself for being too careless, "Two days ago. Before the battle."
Guerrero took one of his hands in his own. It was incredibly comforting, in a way that Mexico had not anticipated. He had not had someone touch him so gently in quite some time. He felt his eyes start to sting. He had not realized how deeply he had missed this.
Guerrero asked, "What happened?"
Mexico could not remember the battle well enough to tell him what happened. After the fall, his fight with Spain got terribly blurry. The memories of the battle were a jumble that it would take too much effort to untangle.
But, he guessed that the question was about what had kept him awake all night. He tried to provide an answer, "Antonio said something and I had to make amends to someone I hurt. I couldn't live with myself if I was like him."
It was hard to explain without saying what he did to Tlaxcala, but he did not want to admit to that yet, not to someone he held in such high regard. He hoped that Guerrero would understand.
The mortal seized upon the name, "Antonio? Spain was there? Is he the one who did this?"
To make it clear what he was talking about, Guerrero softly brushed the bruise on his forehead with his thumb. Mexico knew he could not avoid the question, so he answered with a wry smile, "You should see what I did to him."
Guerrero was immune to his attempt at humor. He said, "Right now I am looking at you, and you look like you were in trouble. How close did he get?"
Mexico bit his lower lip, uncertain of how he should respond. In truth, he did not know how close it had been. Guerrero seemed to understand his silence, and his grip tightened on his hand. He said, with a dangerous edge of anger, "I cannot believe that anyone let him get that close to you."
Mexico finally decided that he needed to clarify how he ended up in battle. He said, "It isn't anyone's fault. I insisted that I wanted to fight. It was my fault, and I got unlucky."
Guerrero's hand touched his cheek softly, and he felt his heart thundering. He had missed this touch so dearly. The mortal said, "Ale, my dearest, you always insist. You are too noble to let anyone fight in your place. But, you need to be protected. Did you have guards?"
Mexico hadn't even thought about it, though it had been normal when Guerrero was his commander. He shook his head. He could see the way that Guerrero's expression darkened. He was angry, and Mexico knew it; he had seen that expression enough to know.
Guerrero drew in a breath through his nose, like he was trying and failing to keep himself calm. He said, "That's how this happened. I am going to kill him."
Mexico said, with an attempt at levity, "I tried to kill Tony. It's difficult."
But, Guerrero was not amused and said, "Not him. I am going to kill Agustin. I promised you that if he hurt you, I would kill him."
Mexico remembered it clearly. He had never thought that it would come true in this way. Guerrero continued, "If something had happened, we could have lost you. And if that had happened…"
He stopped himself before he finished the thought. His hand slipped off of Mexico's and he curled it into a fist. He repeated, with his voice filled with righteous anger, "I will kill him." He was looking away like he could not stand to show how enraged he really was, and it spoke volumes.
Mexico's anger at him evaporated, because the display of concern was too sincere. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes from the days of stress and sleeplessness.
He craved Guerrero's touch, and with the man so close it was exquisitely painful. He could handle dreams of his general's comfort. But, it was too hard to deny the affection when it was so close. He knew what his heart wanted.
He said, "Chente, please."
Guerrero looked up at him again, tenderly this time. Mexico extended his arms, hoping it was clear what he wanted. Guerrero immediately understood and pulled him into an embrace. He spoke softly in Mexico's ear, "I'm here now. I will make this right. I promise you I will."
He caressed Mexico's hair softly. Mexico let himself close his eyes and put his head against the man's chest. It felt so familiar and comforting. It felt like home. He said, his voice almost shaking, "Why did you lie to me? I've missed you so much. Chente, you don't know how alone I've been."
He held firmly onto the back of the man's jacket with both hands. The physical presence was so comforting; it made it all real. Guerrero gently cradled his head against his chest and said, "I promise we will talk about that tomorrow. I'm so sorry. I should have never left you alone with these people. They don't understand how important you are."
Mexico wished he could spend the rest of his night with his head against Guerrero's chest. If only he could stay and sleep assured of the protection of his general.
The same thought seemed to occur to Guerrero. He took Mexico's face firmly between his hands and said, "Stay here. Take some rest, and we can discuss everything when you feel better."
Mexico wanted to accept the invitation with every fiber of his being. But, he thought of Santa Anna, and what the man may tell Iturbide if he did not return soon. It could put everything in danger if he stayed. Though he was not sure if Santa Anna even knew he had returned from Tlaxcala. It was possible that it would not matter, but he could not take the risk.
He swallowed his emotions and said, "I cannot stay. The commander will notice. I have to be back tonight."
Guerrero said, unwavering, "I cannot let you leave in this state."
Mexico shook his head. He was emotional and tired, but he was not incapable of riding. He said, "I will be fine. I can still ride." To make his point, he stood up again.
He realized a second too late that it was a mistake. His vision went black, and he felt his knees buckle. For a moment he felt himself falling, until arms caught him.
Before his consciousness faded out he heard, "Don't worry. I've got you."