Piltzintecuhtli lounged above the valley of the Black Giant, sipping leisurely from a cup of mushroom tea offered in his name. From his place in the heavens he watched—delighted—as the nearby villages shifted and changed, their lives blooming with new colors, fears, and joys. Every so often, he felt the eyes of his divine acquaintances flick toward him, sharp and suspicious.
All of them were tense.
All of them were waiting.
Each god watched the others for even the slightest misstep, ready to pounce at the first opportunity. The paranoia of the new era choked the air like fog.
Piltzintecuhtli only laughed.
Why couldn't they simply relax? Why couldn't they enjoy the mortal plane the way he did?
His phantasmal form drifted lazily through the night sky, radiant and translucent. The waning crescent moon mirrored his smile, reflecting the soft glow of his divine presence. He felt increasingly youthful with every burst of laughter, every fleeting joy rising from his people.
Below, his worshipers gathered in a raucous celebration. They danced barefoot in the dirt, chanting his name. Smoke curled upward in fragrant spirals as they shared pipes and drank the sacred mushroom tea. His chosen led them in merry prayers, their ecstatic devotion filling Piltzintecuhtli with buoyant delight.
While they celebrated, he strengthened the shifting border of his domain. A hallucinogenic mist coiled outward, blurring sight and dulling intrusive thoughts—both mortal and divine. His pleasant haze shielded his people from prying eyes.
He wanted no part in the coming clash between gods. Let the others posture and glare, their tempers simmering like hot coals. Already the weight of their collective vigilance pressed on him, draining his enthusiasm.
The youthful god exhaled a soft sigh, letting it ripple into the clouds.
The new era had barely begun, and already he felt exhausted by it.
-
Mictlantecuhtli glared at the swarm of minor gods lingering like flies. This dark bay had remained hidden for ages—even a light god had once cloaked it successfully. Yet all that effort had meant nothing in the end. The fool had only drawn its enemies straight to its izcalia tlali. A pitiful display. To vanish so quietly—
Truly shameful.
He crossed his thickly muscled arms, the motion stiff and uncomfortable. Now that their domains had partially reconstructed themselves, his alliance of gods could begin anew—gathering faith, gathering souls, enticing the lingering threads of memory their worshipers still held.
But every breath on the mortal plane suffocated him.
His phantasmal form was only a fragment, a restraint forged to keep his deathly divinity in check. Even so, the illusion of flesh that clung to his bones disgusted him—soft, heavy, warm. An insult wrapped around his true self.
The mortal plane remained locked behind the laws crafted by the First Gods—parents to the ancient ones, the firstborn of this existence. What lay beyond this world was shrouded in only speculation and ignorance. Even the gods themselves knew nothing of what existed past the veil.
Yet these lesser beings in front of him strutted and bickered as if they understood anything at all.
Mictlantecuhtli snorted. A plume of noxious miasma spilled from where his lower half should have been, swirling around his exposed spine before dissipating into the air.
-
Rafael flew alongside the ship carrying many of his devoted followers. Their faith—steady, reverent, unwavering—was strong enough to sustain a small domain around the vessel, strengthened further by the sacred relics stored aboard. He felt his brothers and sisters drifting near, their voices echoing through the storm winds as they spoke with him in soft divine harmonies. Their shared song wrapped every boat in good spirits despite the raging sea.
Below, the deep stirred. Vast shadows moved through the water, kept at a respectful distance only by the combined divinity of the gods accompanying him.
The hymn eased Rafael's anxieties, though not entirely. His thoughts drifted—again and again—to the many new lambs rescued from savagery. Mortals who had lived in fear, trapped in a land that had festered far too long beneath the influence of forgotten gods. Leaving had been painful, necessary, and heavy on the soul.
Unfortunately the mainland had suffered their absence far more than expected. So together—he, his siblings, and their faithful—had managed to seal away the wicked deities that infested those lands. Their relics now rested deep in the sea, their combined power shaping a vast garden of coral and light beneath the waves.
At least… that was the hope.
Hope, fragile and luminous, was the root of his unease.
To return.
To witness what had become of the garden they had created.
To see whether the sacrifice had truly meant something.
He could still sense the faint, trembling thoughts of the people they had left behind. Their minds—so delicate compared to the storms of divinity—reached out to him even now, calling in their need.
Rafael closed his radiant wings around himself as though embracing his flock from afar.
He would answer.
He would guide them.
He would heal the broken.