IT STARTED WITH A PULP FICTION COMIC
― Right, this isn't exactly a stroll in Hyde Park but I've gotten into worse. ― He announced, conversationally. There was no reciprocation. ― What? You're just gonna sit there and say nothing, mate? That's messed up, y'know? We both are to blame here. You're as guilty as I am.
The man to whom he was talking was as tall as a wardrobe. 6.2'', shoulders like two helmets (both in toughness and in shape), the body hard-forged into the apex of human physical athleticism, he stood silent and unmoving. In spite of his build, he was still clad in his "armour". It consisted of a skin-tight suit of a fabric called GraSSiT (made of graphene coated spider silk, interwoven in a braid with threads of twaron, in a 3:1 proportion), dyed dark grey, with hard scales of carbon-fibre polymer on his forearms, shins and knees, dyed pitch black. He lost his helmet during the crossing over.
― Y'know, I find it very ungentlemanlike. Yes, that's a word in case you didn't know. I thought you'd behave more like a human and less like a chiroptera.
The man barely moved. The only way to notice he was alive was his chest moving when he breathed. He was apparently meditating or something.
― Bah, nevermind. ― The Englishman gave up. ― Wanker! ― He cursed, loud enough to be heard but not as loud as to actually make the man lose his temper.
The blond man moved a hand inwards instinctively, but his hand found nothing to tuck itself on. He was wearing only a blood-stained white shirt, his favourite black tie (all his tie were black, anyway), khaki pants and black shoes. The raincoat had been obliterated.
― In the beginning I was just in it for the amusement, ― He tried again. Perhaps an amiable approach yielded better results... ― because it was different and mysterious. I think I was trying to escape. I wasn't poor, y'know, it's just that I never really fit in. The underground came and go every day, bringing and taking people with the same faceless familiarity, the same mediocre prospects in what they called "life". It was never life to me. No one's ever showed me what life really was. They only experienced simulacra, never having the smallest nibble at what a life truly is, too afraid to do it.
Then dark-haired man turned around, facing the confessions of a guilty man. He still had the hardest look on his jet black eyes, judgemental and stern, but he was surrendering his attention nevertheless.
― It started with a pulp fiction comic. Can you believe it? ― The man chuckled derisively. ― For some reason, I can't seem to remember any names on it, just the background: it was a guy who was the descendant of a powerful Celtic druid and he had inherited all his powers. The bloke, the druid descendant, he had the mission of facing a mysterious secret society of Roman legionnaires, but in the 1800 century. They were like Roman Illuminati or whatever. The druid man could shape-shift and control the forces of nature, but in London he didn't have much nature to use, so he was often in trouble and had to outsmart his opponents.
― The name was Garreth, the Green . It was a story in Phantastic , with ph, not f, Tales. Alf... hmm... my step-father had a full cardboard box of those.
― Yes! Exactly! Garreth, the Green! Fuck me, I've tried to remember that for decades! I really thought it was some sort of curse I had, that I'd never be able to remember anything about it. Thank you! ― John added, patting his interlocutor on the shoulder.
A confused (yet not aggressive as he'd expected) look was the only thing he got. It could've been way worse.
― Anyway, it was Garreth, the Green, was the responsible for my interest in magic. If any of that was true, I thought, I had to know it. I just had to drink from that pool and make that a part of my existence. So I ran away from home and went to the only place in the world I believed I could find anything magic at all: London, of course.
Without any sort of invitation or signalling, both men sat on the floor - which was no more than an invisible flat surface -, simultaneously. Time for a little sharing, maybe?
― When I arrived in The Smoke, I only got a briefcase in shambles with two shirts and the pulp fiction magazine in it. So, obviously, the first thing I did was to go to the exact same places Garreth visited in the magazine. The only thing is that most of the places weren't like in the magazine, except for the names. Can you imagine that the Piccadilly Circus was an actual circus and the Roman Illuminati used it to kidnap children to use as slaves?
― Yes, I can. I've come across something like that, once. ― Bruce replied, suddenly thoughtful.
― You mean the whole Grayson's deal, right? Nasty stuff, if you ask me.
― I didn't. ― He cut dryly.
The British had taken a step further than he should've. He felt like he was hunting a deer. A very touchy and startled deer. The faintest noise he made would send the elusive animal running into some very dark woods. John couldn't say why, but he decided he enjoyed this game. He wanted to play some more.
― Aaanyway, I eventually ran into some pretty interesting people. I met a girl named Yohanna, though she had this strong eastern European accent I never knew where she actually came from, who taught me how to perform true prestidigitation and helped me to survive the first two years there. After that came Lord Sir, a wino who insisted to be called by his allegedly titles but knew absolutely everything about wards and charms, and Boris, a guy who somehow trapped himself in a dog's shape, well, a talking dog anyway, and taught me the principles of summoning.
― Seems like a nice gang. Did you have fun?
― Absolutely not! It was bloody terrible. I was ravenous most of the time. I slept outdoors countless times, raining or snowing or sleeting. I even got a situation with fleas and ticks twice! But I did learn stuff. Y'see, learning never comes from having fun. It's not just that you have to read the principles or listen to someone teaching you whatever you want to do; you have to understand it. Truly and thoroughly understand it. That's why people associate a wizard with a scholar. Anything you read or study, any new knowledge is nothing but a set of letters arranged in a particular way. Mastery, true mastery, comes when you take those letters and words and sentences and make it become as real as you are. As tangible as your own body.
― What's you point, Constantine? ― Batman asked impatiently.
John had this cryptic, almost mocking smirk on his face. The deer had raised its head and stared the hunter full in the eyes, realizing the aim locked in its forehead centre. It's now or never. John had to take the shot and he wouldn't miss this opportunity. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.
― I don't know how we got here. I cast something; I have no idea how or why or what. We are completely trapped here. If time affects this dimension, we'll die eventually. If it doesn't, we'll spend eternity here. How does that sound?
Bruce Wayne exhaled noisily. He looked tired for the first time.
SO BEAUTIFUL AND SO TERRIFYING AT THE SAME TIME
Eons had come and gone. And didn't, altogether, naturally. That's something that's bugged me for a long time. The passing of time, I mean. Everyone has longings and desires, wishes and obligations, dreams and fears... Yet what amuses us most is wondering about time.
We are often shocked to know that this or that war has happened unbelievably three years ago. Could it be that long? It is almost a lifetime!
However it is perfectly fine to acknowledge the Black Death struck Europe in the 13th century... or was it the 14th? Nay, you're delusional, it was when the Moors invaded Spain. Or were that the Mongols? Well, whatever, it's sometime around that...
Yes, the passing of time. Wonderful and dreadful.
Anyway, I digress. Let's get back to the important bit, shall we?
It was an atypical year. Although it was Tepeilhuitl, the rain hadn't come yet. On a cool, clear night, Meztli was born under the whitest, roundest moon ever to gaze upon the earth. That little thing barely had the strength to cry, putting an enormous effort to make its tiny scrawny hands reach his mother's.
Meztli's family wasn't particularly rich. They lived in the city of Tlaxcala. It was from time to time harassed by the Aztecs from Tenochtitlan. Their sworn enemies loved to cut their trade routes denying them things such as salt and cotton, and making ambushes in specific spots along the valley. Cowardly as Tlaxcallans considered this tactic, it was still impossible to get rid of the Mexica given their vast numbers. The foes fought for many years. Sometimes Tlaxcala emerged as the clear victor; those victories would bring respite and respect. Sometimes Tenochtitlan was victorious, and those times were the times when everyone would pick up anything they could to fight back against a surely invading force. Those were times of terror and lost hope. For some inexplicable reason, they never did invade.
Then came the big drought. The wrath of the gods. And the flowery wars. After that, things kind of settled down. Hunger was the common foe.
The wars were frequent, but much less deadly. It was a time of display of courage and combat prowess. Whoever went to war and came back was regarded as a hero.
The years passed and Meztli became a stout young man. His clay-coloured hair stood out among the other men, which was exactly what drawn Itzel's attention.
At first, the lovebirds would meet under an avocado tree near a water fountain. Meztli wouldn't dare to touch her. Itzel wouldn't dare to ask him to touch her. Still being around each other was everything they needed. Meztli loved how the smell of copalxocotl lingered in her hair. She, on the other hand, appreciated how sensitive and intelligent he was.
Wasn't he a commoner, they'd surely get married. But he was.
She was the eldest daughter of Xicontencatl, the Elder. It wasn't expected of her to marry anyone but a great warrior and member of the nobility. Everything that Meztli wasn't.
In 11 water, according to their calendar, Meztli decided to join the flowery war. If that's what it took to finally be with Itzel, so be it.
The young man was a rather unremarkable figure in the frontline of the war party, aside from his distinctive hair colour. It was the only thing he had in special. Other than that, Meztli was reminded that he was indeed no one, just like his inability to marry his beloved one suggested. To make it worse, the enemy mocked the Tlaxcallans wearing long eagle feathers, beautifully crafted wooden helmets and striking jaguar pelts over their bodies. Meztli had a worn jute-fibre shirt and his plain wooden shield.
The young Tlaxcallan decided that those feathers would make an excellent present for Itzel and a proof of his bravery.
Meztli hacked and slashed with his macuahuitl, the obsidian bladed baton he himself had assembled, incapacitating dozens of Mexica.
He found Itzel and presented her with many feathers, just like he intended. The noble girl brought it before her father and Meztli made a formal proposal of marriage.
Her father, Xicontencatl, wasn't very happy with it but he could clearly see that a very strong feeling was behind those two. If his daughter was to marry one who wasn't noble, he'd better be a truly god-sent warrior.
Meztli's quest was to engage in thirteen flowery wars. If he returned triumphant, then he could earn the ruler's daughter's hand in marriage.
It took about six years of fighting to finally reach his last war. He was a very respectable warrior then. He'd assembled a full Jaguar armour from captured enemies. Although he wasn't noble to be able to wear one of those, he'd gotten it through his own combat skills, which was more than fair to let him use it in battle.
That morning both parties waited for a surreptitious rain to pass. It was unexpected and it caught everyone by surprise. Was it a good or a bad omen?
With the battlefield all soaking, the battle went much different from the usual. The movements were stranger, unnatural, sluggish. Meztli's macuahuitl seemed heavier, wearing him down with every blow he dealt.
Soon enough, he saw himself surrounded by five Mexica, two of them being Jaguars. One of them had bloodshot eyes. That one looked viciously hungry.
Meztli managed to fend off one blow with his shield, descending his baton onto the arm to maim the enemy with fierceness. He did feel a gash opening on his lower back but he was so frenzied that no pain ever crossed his body. He could only tell it because the fabric of his Jaguar pelt started to get sticky and dark red immediately.
In desperation, he spun and caught one enemy on the throat, making blood come out in powerful gushes. His vision was blurred by the blood that caught his eyes. Then a sharp pang flashed behind his leg. His leg subsided and he fell to the ground, feeling his right foot no longer responding to his commands. The bloodshot Jaguar's grin was the last thing he saw before passing out.
Meztli was taken care. For a flowery war prisoner, it was only expected that he would be kept in good health. His big tendon was clean cut, it'd take forever to heal, if ever, and he was helpless before the situation. Of course, his fate was already sealed.
On a warm Izcalli day, Meztli was placed on a rectangular stone slab. Before him, an astonishingly dressed priest, in colours Meztli never thought he'd see in his life, sat a bowl with clean water in it.
It was so beautiful and so terrifying at the same time. The captive wondered if that's what meeting a god felt like. Being both so amazed and so scared before such grandiosity.
A second priest, equally magnificent, washed Meztli's body with a cloth dampened in the bowl. While the washing was made, a rhythmic and mesmerizing hymn began to be sung. The first priest started the hymn as a hum, elevating it when a myriad of people joined the sacred song, making it rise above every noise there was.
When the music had gathered a life of its own, the priest produced a knife made of flint. It was wicked sharp. Though the priest held it gently, it still made trickles of blood where it bit on his hand.
The priest eyed Meztli. His expression was stoic, a proper mask of stone. Meztli hardly noticed it. A beautiful, giant full moon was right behind the priest's right shoulder. It seemed only proper, the Tlaxcallan thought.
Raising the flint knife above the captive, the priest dedicated the sacrifice to Chalchiuitlicue, to her mercifulness and her gift of the rain.
Meztli didn't feel the knife penetrate his abdomen. Neither the opening of it, ascending from the navel to his sternum. He was so drunk with the moon, so lost in its majesty. He asked not to feel anything. He asked Matlalcueitl, which he knew it was her true name, not to scream and be afraid. The god answered and he was thankful for that.
All he could feel was the smell of copalxocotl in the air. The smell of Itzel's hair.
In a second, all his strength was gone. The only thing left was his heart, still beating, still warm, dripping blood and emanating the power of a great warrior who was no more.
The priest laid it into the bowl and stared at it for a while. Death was a truly powerful thing. Perhaps the most, among all things. No wonder the sun rose everyday by its power!