Untitled 1

His dreams turn sour. The smell of burning thatch roofs and black smoke billowing about him; clinging to him like wet silk. Each night is different but each dream, in due time, comes to the same ultimate conclusion. The realization bubbles forth, his mind sluggish and thoughts tattered.
He is dying.
He is dying, and the woman is watching.

He falls to his knees before her and sees laughter in her eyes.
The babe at her breast sleeps at ease as she looks down at him from her cowel of blue. Her smile is coy. There is pity in the corner of her mouth. She is sorry for something, but not for this. "How could I fall before you?" He thinks. "What God are you who has broken me. How did this happen?!" He opens his mouth to demand an answer and the blood runs crimson between his teeth.

He dies with a question and blood in his mouth.



Untitled 2

"Two types of men inhabit this world." The Head Priest's voice crackled like the firewood that burned in the pit between the two men. "There are men who play at being animals and just as those exist so too are there animals that play at being man." His voice echos up with the wood-smoke, filling the golden chamber before dying to a pleasant hum. A smile cracks the red-stained lips, his age bleached eyes holding only well-mannered amusement. "But this confuses you." Across the fire his student exhales quietly, he had gotten used to his master knowing all his thoughts.
"It does."
"Things usually do."
The Head priest selects a few choice berries from the dish at his side, sampling them between sentences. "You are of the rare few who a God has gifted with the power to change shape. You can, when you wish it, become something else other than human." The student nods but does not speak, simply watching as his master plucks another berry from the dish. "In donning your vestments you are no longer human, is this true?"

"No."
"No you are, or no you are not? Speak clearly."
"No, I remain human." The master smirks, popping another berry into his mouth.
"And how do you know this?"
The young man spends a moment gazing into the fire, shifting his sore legs to the sound of popping knees. Finally comfortable he speaks, unsure in himself.
"Because I still feel like myself. I have my memories, and I think much like I do when I am not, cloaked as an animal." Sensing hesitation, the master's eyes glint and he points a gnarled finger across the fire.
'Ah! But you stall, at the last moment you use the fancy term of 'cloaking yourself'. Don't fool yourself boy."
Across the fire the younger snorts in frustration.
"So I am an animal then."
"You do not look like an animal."
"You just said I was!"
"I said don't fool yourself, and don't raise your voice at me either."
"Forgive me Master, I am simply.."
"Confused, as usual." Dusting his spidery fingers the Head Priest rises to his feet, far faster and with far more grace than expected, given his heavy feather and gold ornaments. "Walk with me. There is someone you should meet."

Across the dusty steps and through the glittering gem of the temple complex they walked. The servants and other priests knelt, laying their foreheads to the stone as they passed. The Head Priest demanded the highest of respects, and even his student ranked head and shoulders above the other faithful. He had been selected after all. They had not.

Student and Master arrived at a large vaulted entrance way where they were greeted by the ever present temple staff, who proceeded with the required formalities due such esteemed visitors. The price of going wherever one pleases, never being allowed to just show up. At length, formalities aside, Master and Student parted ways and the younger found himself led through more gleaming gold halls. Now the student was not afraid, no harm would befall him he felt, but was unsure of himself maybe even more-so than he had been under his Master's scrutiny. This feeling of tension was not relieved when he, upon questioning whom he was meeting, discovered his guide, pretty as she was, had no tongue. The girl simply smiled politely, eyes downcast and bowed him through a hanging curtain.

Reclined quite comfortably on one of the rooms several couches was a man. That is to say, he looked like a man. The instant Queze saw him he knew otherwise. Maybe it was his demeanor, or his smell, or maybe even just a feeling but the young priest knew what his Master had meant. This was an animal playing at being a man. It looked up lazily as he entered and sighed;
"Usually underlings bow when entering my chambers." Hazel eyes narrowing. "You are either a very stupid servant, or something far more interesting." Queze knew he should bow but every instinct screamed not to. Don't show your soft little neck to this man, do not.
"I am not your servant."
"But you are one I think." The man smoothed the wildcat pelt over his knees affectionately. "You are God touched, not a common occurrence."
"We all serve the Gods."
"Those don't sound like your own words, are you merely your Master's parrot?"
Queze narrowed his eyes but said nothing, instead he took in the man's appearance. The man was a warrior, exposed skin covered in scars and gold jewelry, bare as Queze save his animal pelt garb. "What are you thinking, little Parrot?"
Emboldened by his annoyance, not willing to be toyed with, Queze sat on one of the unoccupied couches.
"I wonder, why my Master would want me to meet someone as arrogant as you."
"Maybe he think some of my arrogance will rub off on you. You could do with more self-confidence."
"What did you say to me?"
"I said you need to have more conviction, nobody will respect you otherwise."
"My convictions, are resolute. I serve Quetzalcoatl without hesitation." He took small comfort in the sound of his deity's name, it steeled him. "I need not bow to you."
The hazel-eyed priest smiled, something feral in the way he slouched on the arm of the couch.
"Boy, I could make you bow. If I wanted."


"His name is Ocelot."
"Fitting." Queze plastering the gooey salve on his jaw and neck, suppressing a wince. "He is quicker than anyone I've ever fought."
"So you two did fight. This is good."
"Yes, we fought." He recalled the flurry of fists and knees. Table and couches tipped back and from the rather nasty gashes on his feet, several of the crystal dishes had also fallen victim. No lasting damage, not surprising for a bare knuckle brawl, even with both men trained warriors.

Queze kept to himself his suspicions that his Master had known this would happen. It didn't matter, and he didn't care to become involved in the tangled and confounding web of inter-priest politics.
"It is good you did not lose. That would have been most shameful, such scuffles can not be undertaken lightly."
"No my Master."

Feeling his already swollen and very tender jaw Queze could understand this.
"However I am quite pleased, Ocelot is the pupil of an old rival and friend of my own."
"So you set us against each-other like dogs then, for your own amusement."
"I have every such right, boy. Besides, you learned your lesson did you not?"
"The lesson of animals and men, yes, I have."
"Good. Oh, and next time he offends you, be sure to break his nose. That would be most pleasing."
Queze could not help but smile, the prospect quite pleasing for him as well.


Untitled 3

He couldn't remember when exactly but at some point he had stopped watching Ocelot.
It was not until he heard the man's voice from behind him that he looked up to see the couch empty.
The realization of this shook Queze to his foundations because it meant he trusted him.
That should not have been allowed to happen.

Somewhere, between the fights, sharp words, and rivalry...all this was absurd.
They were pieces opposite each other on the board of higher powers, set against one another and meant only to touch in violent clashes.
There was no room in war for trust between enemies.

"So?"

Ocelot drapes himself across the sofa and pulls a strip of meat from the bone in his hand. Queze busies himself carving his own meat from the spit.

"So."

"Hah, Parrot you.." Queze's eyes snap up.
"Do not call me that." Ocelot watches him plunge the carving knife back into the roasting meat, measures the slow unwinding of his fingers from the hilt until they return to his lap.
"Something set you on edge, hm?"
"You know."
"I do not."
Queze just glares and the silence stretches on between them until Ocelot snaps it like a tendon.
"You are concerned because you fear what happened between your master and mine will happen to us, correct?"

Another loaded pause then a slow exhale.
"You say it as if it was nothing."
Ocelot laughs with his usual well-mannered venom, smirking twisted lips across the fire.
"I wouldn't call it nothing. Two warriors, bound to become Gods in their own rights. It's only natural. Conflict breeds familiarity and that breeds, well..!"
Ocelot cackles again and Queze saws off another slab of meat, not because he hungers but because the moment calls for some form of violence.
"How has no one killed you for that mouth of yours?"
He watches as Ocelot runs lazy fingers over his deformity of an upper lip, a tongue flicks filed teeth.
"Why haven't you?"
Queze plunges the knife through the roast and scowls.
"That.." He worries a piece of skin between his teeth. "...is a very good question."


Untitled 4
Warning: Gore, Cannibalism.

The days before the end stretched on, riddled with the restlessness of impending action but held fast by the restraints of time. Processions marched through the streets, strong men and healthy women, their necks festooned in flowers, led along like the white bulls in Delphi. They packed the wide open air courtyards, the aromas of fear and hopeful apprehension rising off them like steam. The understanding that as individuals they held no chance of victory, but as they gorged on their fellows they united in the illusion that they could, as a part of one being, be of some blood stained, glorious importance.

Skulls are shucked and ribs sundered. Arms and legs struck off and grilled over deep coal pits. Nothing goes to waste. The feast draws to a close with the setting of the sun, servants clear the gore and those who remain return to their beds. The next day they will feast again, and the day after that, until they grow fat on the courage and strength of their neighbors. Eventually there will be only a handful, the priests each receiving one such soul-heavy offering. One body laced with the strength of all those he consumed, one last meal for the Gods.

The first raw mouthful assails the senses, a heady perfume that muddles the mind in a fine red mist. From there it's roasted flesh slathered in chili tomato paste, garnishes of wild greens and flat-bread to sop up the gravy. The priests eat alone, the dishes their only companion. He does not leave the table until the bones are stripped clean, hunger and duty both sated.


Untitled 5

He dreams of the pit again. The ground sundered in a single grand chasm, red fire and steam rising up from a river he feels is there but that he can not see.
He dreams of the pit often. It follows him into his days, a red ribbon fluttering in the breeze will catch his eye and set his heart racing. Everywhere he sees it and eventually he hears the roaring of the bloody waters, feels the hot smoke on his face and chest.
His father takes him to the temple, hands his fever-damp body to the priest. The boy cries as his father leaves him.
Even his tears are hot.

There is only the pit now. The boy knows there was once a waking world, where the wind was cool and did not scorch his skin. He knows he had a father and mother but their faces have been burned away by the angry red all around him.
He stands on the earth at the edge, feeling the warmth bleed into his bones and his feet stained red with clay.
He sits by the edge and tries to remember how he came here.
He lays down, resting his tired head on his arm.
He no longer thinks of leaving.

He wakes.
There are men with faces of bone and red hands around him.
He is afraid but they hold him fast, inspecting his eyes, teeth, the muscles of his belly. One, with milky eyes presses him down and listens to the frantic racing of his heart.
They talk amongst themselves, ignoring the boy as he draws his legs up to his chest and cries.

Queze jolts awake with a deep hissing breathe. Cool night air greets him and the stars twinkle down at him through the jungle canopy.
He still dreams of the pit, despite being a man he is always the crying little boy when he dreams.
He pulls himself up, slipping the snarling mask over his eyes and on fleet hooves runs, as if fleetness could free him.


Untitled 6
Warning: Violence

There is nothing more unwavering or as patient as death. It will sit on its' haunches just outside the firelight, no grin, no glare, just an expectant stare.
Some of the boys, in hushed whispers after the lamps are doused, talk about seeing it; a great snake coiled in that place just beyond sight.
Queze knows they are lying.

There are hundreds of other boys in the temple complex, each showing some sort of promise, some fever dream or birthmark setting him apart.
The test is devilishly simple; live.

The first attempt came as a lanky, frenzied boy with a stolen ceremonial knife. Queze had been sure to clean and return it to it's proper resting place.
Having heard of the first boy's spectacular failure, two plotted to smother him in his sleep. He cracked their skulls open on the flagstone wall.
For a while the stories kept the others at bay but eventually he could no longer be avoided.
He killed warriors in duels, he wrestled back stabbers in hallways, he strangled poisoners, and heaved archers to their death down the temple steps.
With a frightening swiftness, he realized there were no others left.
Like him, none of the boys had names. That concept had been stripped and left behind alongside friendship and family.
He might not have known their names, but he knew every single face.

Years later, when Queze asked the Master about the trial the old man had laughed;
"You were gloriously patient." The young priest scowled and looked down at the hands that rested on his knees. "It did not really matter anyway. I knew from the moment I saw you that it would be you. The others were.." He swayed his hand dismissively. "A formality."
At that Queze knew there should be a sickening in his belly, a twist of shame or regret but he could no longer lie to himself.
He would have killed them regardless.


Untitled 7

“So, what is it like being a God?”
The question itself coming from anyone else would have been flaccid but from Ocelot it held an eager, intent curiosity. That eagerness was one of the things about him Queze had always found unsettling. The larger man rolls his shoulders, shrugs the question off. “I’m serious, Queze-tzalcoatl.” He bastardizes the name like it means nothing and for it Queze breaks his nose, or better yet his neck…but that is another lifetime away down a different path. Queze makes a different choice this time. He watches the steady rise and fall of Ocelots continued breathing and allows himself a smile.

“Why do you want to know something you will never understand?”
“Because unlike you, I am not so easily satisfied.”
“It is nostalgia.” Ocelot soaks up the unintentional cryptic answer, gives the slower man time to string his words together. “I live again, again, again, again and still I find myself in the same places. Not always, but this room, you, asking me this always happens.” Queze holds up a hand and silences Ocelots insolence. “You are going to ask me ‘what am I going to say next’ because you always do; you always say the most outrageous things Ocelot. Always.”
“Well maybe if you pushed back a bit more often I wouldn’t walk all over you like this.”
“Last time you asked me I snapped your neck.”

They sit; the fire blazes between them a painful reminder, keeping them apart. Ocelots yellow eyes dilate all brash egotistical insanity. He’s hunched, elbows on his knees intently leaning closer. His voice quivers;
“What was it like?”


Untitled 8
Warnings: Gore, Exploration of Sexuality

“You will take others to your bed, of course...”
Mortified; the boy who would become a god hung his head. Repeating in his head, mantra-like, he questions why the High Priest, why. Why did it have to be him? Of everyone why...
“Stand.” He does.
“Walk with me.” He does.

The room is heavy with pink smoke, black grooves in the floor over which the boy steps. On a stone table lays a man; eyes heavy and breathing shallow. Drugged. There is another man in the room, a priest who the boy bows to, deeply, for he is not yet a God. Years later this man will slaughter for the honor of bowing to him.

The table stands too high for the boy to see the wound, so the knife disappears into the man’s chest like a magician’s trick. Red runs down, filling the grooves and makes a labyrinth of blood on the floor. The imagery of these tendrils will stay with the boy the rest of his life.

“The heart of a man is made of four vessels, look here. This one…” His Master clasps the boys hand in his own claw-like fingers, makes him feel the cooling tissue. “Is filled by the love of your God.” His index finger is led to the next slick chamber. “This one, by love of a man.” The boy’s face flushes, remembering the embarrassment that led him to this vital lesson. “This one, a woman…see how it joins the last?” He nods, feeling the answer more than seeing. “That is from love of your children.”

They leave the room behind but the boy takes the feeling of that heart under his fingers, the blood on the floor, and the words between them away. Months later when asked what he will take for his skin-mark; he recalls the red tendrils on the floor. The High Priest smiles as the artist begins, the boy flinching at the intrusion of needle into the skin of his shoulder.


‘Let’s Not (But Pretend We Did)’

His wife was chosen for him.
The process of selection begun, his master said, from the time he was fourteen years old. In the days up until the wedding, Queze often found himself wondering what the life of a God-bride-hopeful was like. He tried to mirror it to his own, blood soaked tests and triumphs but could not move beyond his own profoundly masculine experience. The female world was entirely unknown to him, a fact that surfaced relentlessly in the hours before his wedding.

She would be beautiful of course, and fertile. The High Priest of the Serpent had assured him that any inability to sire would be her fault, she would in death attempt to remove the stain of dishonor she had created. She could be replaced; there could always be new wives. This comfort did nothing to help Queze’s now suffocating anxiety.

The ceremony was perfection. In a moment of immaturity Queze wished someone would slip, fall, shatter a crystal platter; anything to alleviate the mind-numbing expectation that he could feel pressing in upon his ribs. He was to say nothing; the High Priest had explained this would aid his imposing persona. The real reason behind the choice was clear but Queze was too thankful to be offended.

The one area in which Queze’s direct participation was required was neither embarrassing, nor disastrous. It was however blasphemous and unorthodox. She had, only after much coaxing, admitted to being terrified. Tearfully she tried to explain, to apologize. He had held her while she cried and on after she had fallen asleep. Before falling asleep himself, Queze mused that this had been his first true deviance from the will of the High Priest. Looking down at the woman in his arms, at her now-dry eyes and shy smile; he could not regret the choice.


'Passing On'
Warnings: Brief mention of cannibalism.

Watching the ancient old husk of a man, Queze wondered how he could have ever been afraid of the High Priest. Alone with the body, the new High Priest was left entirely to his own devices. Unorthodox, this intimate little ritual; no public fanfare for the masses just the one of them, together.

He was struck by the sudden conundrum of what he should refer to the dead man as, now that he was no longer the High Priest. No, Queze had inherited that title and it sat like a lead weight in his gut alongside the heart. There was no longer a title, no name that fit…but maybe that was it. Gods never really die.


Untitled 9

The day that Queze finally figured Ocelot out was the day he set a girl on fire. It was after that when Queze realized how dangerous assumptions concerning Ocelot could be.

“Didn’t know her really. Seen her once or twice, pretty.”
“You’re lying.”
“You think anything you can’t comprehend is a lie, Quetzal.”
“I know you are lying because you knew her.”
“Mmno, no I can’t say that I did. If I did that, then I would be lying.”
“Fine. Why then?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course not, that’s what’s keeping you awake at night.”
“You do not keep my sleep from me, Ocelot.”
“I’m not trying hard enough; obviously.”
“There had to have been a reason.”
“Why? Because that will make it all ok?”
“Yes.”
“Fine; I did it because the Gods told me to!”
“No.”
“She deserved it?”
“No.”
“You really are horrible. Are you going to keep asking until I give the answer you’re looking for?”
“I need to hear it from your tongue.”
“It sounds like someone has been whispering in your ear, hm? Oh let me guess, the High Priest, your High Serpent. He’s been talking about me hasn’t he? Is he worried? I bet he is.”
“…yes.”
“Goood, smart man.”
“I still want an answer, Ocelot!”
“There isn’t one, Quetzal. I just did and nothing can change it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”

Title: 'Run Backwards...Queze Laments'
Originally Posted: March 12, 2009

The snow and cold of winter had finally left the forest, replaced with the warm breezes and smells of spring. The ground below Queze's hooves was spongy and moist. There were plenty of sweet new shoots to nibble upon and Queze expected that closer to the old bridge, the mushrooms would be especially tasty. Breathing deeply, his nostrils flaring, he took in the forest around him. The rich aroma of moss and rotting wood from a log nearby mixed pleasantly with sweet berries of The Bowl.

Also on the breeze were the mingled scents of other deer. Snapping to attention Queze's ears swivelled trying to pick out a familiar voice. Nothing. Only the bellowing of bucks and the playful moos of fawns, none of whom Queze knew. Casting a heavy sigh Queze trotted back towards the rocks, "A quick nap and then…perhaps a run is in order." He nodded to himself. "Yes, a good plan."

"Queze" The stag's eyes moved restlessly under their lids as his dream took him.
"Queze...where have you gone?" The stags brow twitched, knotting in concentration.
"Mienya"
"There you are! You've almost slept the day away, their patience is wearing."

Queze's eyes drifted open, blinking as the sun shone down over the shoulder of the figure standing over him.
"Mienya?"
"I should hope so! Had you said another's name I should have need to worry." The woman's laugh was clear, and rung like a bell was hung at the back of her throat.
"But Mienya, how did...how have you come here?!" The woman's laugh rung again.
"I know this must surprise you, love but I don't actually need your help to get to my own garden." She offered her hand and Queze allowed himself to be dragged to his feet.

He blinked owlishly and looked at his wife. She was short and stout, healthy belly over jutting hips, and Queze felt joy flood through him. Scooping her up into his arms he lifted her easily off her feet.
"Ah! Have me down, you great oaf!" Her glare was fierce but lacked true anger. She laughed again and beat playfully against Queze's shoulders and neck. "I knew my mother was right about you. A fine warrior, yet naught the brains for anything but."
Queze dropped her to his waist and looked into her eyes, his expression one of hurt. "Do you actually think that?" Mienya sighed and pulled at his earlobe, as mothers do with a misbehaving child.
"You should not trouble yourself over my mother and what she thinks. She is neither a great warrior nor a great thinker."
Smiling and reassured, Queze spun them both in a circle causing her to squeal and hug him tightly. "Ah! Enough of this boyishness Queze, you'll drop us both!"
Still smiling, Queze lowered her back to the ground and kissed her forehead.

Birds chirped in the trees above.
"Mienya..."
"I'll never leave you, love..."
The stag moaned and muttered, hooves twitching as the dream faded.
"I don't...don't go...I don't, I don't understand!"
The dream faded but Queze refused to open his eyes, willing it to return. Frustrated Queze glared up at the stones around him, getting to his knees he took a deep, shaky breathe and bellowed his rage and sadness. The birds startled from the grasses and fled up into the sky, chirping angrily.
"Raaaghhh Why can I not understand!? How can I not understand!? I don't..." Flopping back onto his side he curled up into a tight ball within the ring of stone. When sleep finally came it was dark and dreamless.

Title: ‘Of Me and Mine … Queze Remembers'
Original Post: March 13,2009

When first Queze had awakened and found himself in the unfamiliar Forest, he had been driven almost to the point of madness. Racing through the trees in endless circles, seeking escape or signs of others like him. He had discovered the deer of the Forest and had, slowly to be sure, come to understand their ways and signs. It had been some time since then and he had come to be at peace here. It was not home but it was a good place, safe and protected.

Despite this serenity Queze found himself thinking more and more about the family and existence he had been parted from. It was imposable to tell how long it had been since he had been ripped from his tropical homeland and transplanted into The Forest. With no orderly days or even seasons, it was as if the Forest was apart from the world. A rock in the river of life, safe from the ebb and flow that commanded all things.

Still there were some things that remained as they had in his land and time; the three fawns hopped and wrestled under the watchful eye of the nearby doe. She sat relaxing, as Queze did, though should the fawns grow too rough he suspected she would quickly end the scuffle. From under the corner of his skull mask Queze observed the petite fawn that nestled beside him, her small head adorned gaily with flowers.

Queze stretched his great arms, rolling his shoulders with a rewarding pop. From the kitchen he could hear his wife preparing flat-bread and imaged her dark hands and brow powdered with corn flower. Sighing happily to himself he swept the blanket from the doorway and strode out into the yard. Immediately he was assailed!

"Padre!" The young boy raced up to his father, dropping his spear to wrap his arms round Queze's waist.

"Today I go with you into the jungles father!"
"All of us! You promised we'd all come!"

Showing more restraint than their younger brother, the two eldest carried with them their tackle for camping as well as nets for fishing. The eldest of all three was Tauze; not quite as tall as his father but already showing the strong arms and shoulders of a young man. With him walked Yauze, smaller and slimmer but quicker, already an apprentice to the priesthood.

"Ah there you are Miuza!" Stooping he ruffled the small boy's hair affectionately. "I was wondering when you'd be ready." Miuza pushed his father's hand away.
"But you just got up! I've been up all morning, getting ready! Tauuuze! Yauuuze! Tell him!"
Rolling his eyes at his brother's pleading Tauze scoffed.
"Your lucky padre is even bringing you. You'll only get in our way and you won't catch anything anyway." Raising a warning eyebrow at Tauze, Queze picked Miuza's dropped spear from the dirt and examined it.
"Well Tauze my son, you speak the truth. At least, he will not catch anything if he does not have this."
"Padre, give it back!" The spear was pulled just out of the boy's straining grasp. "Padre! Not fair!" Jumping quickly Miuza grasped the stick with both hands, but his father simply lifted both stick and son into the air.
"Tauze! Yauze! Look what I've caught!"

Both son's laughed as their father slipped Miuze under one arm, despite kicking feet and shrieking laughter. "Haha Perhaps mother can roast it and we can have a fine dinner!" Yauze passed his tackle and net to a reluctant Tauze, still laughing the four marched back into the house.

"Mister?"

"hmm?" Queze looked down at the flower-decked fawn who was looking up almost expectantly at him.
"What is it?" She tilted her head to the side, smiling.
"What is what, señora pequeña?" She wrinkled her nose and laughed.
"You were looking at me and smiling, and what is a seen aura?"
Queze laughed, and nuzzled the fawn before getting to his feet.
"It means little lady, and was what I used to call my youngest daughter."
The fawn hopped after Queze as he walked slowly back towards the standing stones.
"Your daughter?"
"Yes. I have two daughters! Yet it is late and my head is tired, I will tell you of them both another time."
"I'd like that!"
"As would I, señora." Queze smiled and felt truly happy for the first time since coming to the Forest.

Title: ‘Marks … Queze’s Past'
Original Post: Jan 25, 2010

Queze resisted the urge to shift and instead settles his hip back against the uncomfortably solid rock beneath him. He’s not yet ready to lull into sleep; there is something that requires his attention first. Thinking has always been work for Queze. He knows where his strengths lie and feels no guilt. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier. Notions come to him simply enough, but the moment he tries to grab one it would slither away on its belly, off back into its hole.

He let out a frustrated snort, the warm air swirling round behind his mask against the skin of his face before escaping from his false snarl to float up in the cool night air. Memories of incense and black smoke tug at his nose and his heart, calling him and with a sigh he lets himself be led away. Remembering seems to be all he ever does anymore.

Back to the sleepy haze of fever. The far off ebb and flow of heartbeat. The dizzy circling of thought, lazy vultures riding furnace-hot thermals. He lay like that forever, dreamless in a void of black so bright it was like obsidian had eaten the sun. It was there that he came to know himself, his name, his purpose. It was to that panicle of his psyche to which Queze returned now.

All he has are the words of his father, the gravely recount of his return to find the serpent curled upon his son’s chest.
“He rose up as I entered the room, slowly. He looked from the corner of his eye at me…His eye told me you were His. The priests came, made offerings until blood ran down the steps of the house. Three days later the snake dropped gracefully to the floor and left. I watched it dance away down the steps. Then you woke up.”

What Queze did remember was swinging his bare feet over the side of the bed, having the soles of his feet meet the cooling slick of red. His steps were weak and he stumbled, catching himself clumsily on one open palm. Standing there in the doorway, feet and left hand dripping, he looked down at the silky little line of red weaved through the dirt at his feet.

Looking down at the chasm of red now was like looking down at the snake track again, only this time it was no jungle vipers inch wide trench, it was The Serpent’s Mark. Wide beyond measure and deep as a hungry mouth, it belched up black smoke. That smoke was one so apart of him that Queze didn’t need to smell the sticky sweet aroma or feel the heat it carried to know it. He’d felt its’ caress thousands of times, bent double over the flames and filling his lungs eagerly as the meat sizzled and popped. The High Priest of The Serpent had told Queze, on the day the serpent left, that the Gods treat men like bits of obsidian stone.

“When they have a job that requires doing, they take a stone and hammer away at it until it breaks.” At this the old husk of a man had pointed sternly to the twin pinprick scars at his collar. “Some pieces are keen and good, those knives are put to great uses. My job is to take you and polish you, use all I know to make you shine, make you sharp. If I do this, they will wield you to your end.”

‘Clover’

On the days when the giant mushrooms come and sometimes even when they are gone, he finds himself sitting by the pond. He remembers her as she was, old and gentle and loves her for it. He loves her because she died.

In those years the endlessness of his new surroundings had been maddening, any joy had been guilty. Death did not exist here; he did not belong. She was the first and as she lay beside him, blind and crying he shared in her final, fearless moments.

Her passing comforted him, as he comforted her.

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He did not understand some of these things; he found them conflicted. Animals that bothered themselves with human concerns were not fully animals at all. What reason did deer have to bother with honor? Chivalry was a justification for self-weakness. Charity allowed weakness in others.
True animals were selfish.

He relished those few true animals. The threat of violence was what they were; they neither hid it nor hide behind it. Familiar to him yet unpredictable; around them he had to be alert. When he caught their scent or saw them passing in the distance, old muscles tensed. Dulled senses sharpened.
He could almost have been home.

'The Guest Nobody Invites'

Once, Kaoori had asked him, in her polite and perhaps a little uneasy way, why he had not been present for the births of any of her children. It was difficult for him to explain because she did not know him as he knew himself. She knew so little of him that at times like this, he felt guilty for it. She must think I do not care for her, or that I care in the wrong way, that the offspring offend me.

He settled for rubbing the top of her head with his chin.
“Death watches me closely and He is close enough at those times already.”

'Ruin'

There is a dark joy to this place for Queze. In amongst the crumbling pillars weeds have overtaken the stone floor. He strides in with the rest of the green, hears the crunch of colored glass under his hooves. He takes a moment, grinds it into the dust.

These were the men who killed his family.

That was one of the absolutes; the choices he made could never prevent it or avoid it. The Spaniards would come; they would fight, and he would lose. The time and place, the way, those could be changed but what did that matter. Death would always come.

It had come for these men too.

The ruins stood empty, the sacred ground trampled. Deer would scale the altar and sit, like it was of no more significance than the boulders of the Playground…and why not? What did deer care for the religions of men? They had their Twins. Queze would never understand these Forest deities.

What were Gods if no one died for them?


'Lovers'
Warning: Same Sex Romance

He looks at Walter and he thinks of Ocelot; despite trying to stifle the similarities, he can no-longer deny. For the first time he lets himself question if perhaps the reason he loves the old man is because of how much he reminds him of Ocelot. Walter holds that same egotistical disregard, the mad-dog unpredictability of a true animal that he’d loved in Ocelot. That manic sharpness had been such a surprise in a land of peace and tranquility.

Walter had been like a hand reaching back from Queze’s own world. His existence screamed there is Death, Hate, Pain, and War here! His existence reassured Queze, even if there was just this one, guttering ember left he clung to it. His only familiarity in a new place that’s complacency he couldn’t understand. Still, there is more to it than that, maybe not much more, but the more is there.

When he’d still been unsure about what he felt (never entirely confused, this was after all his third time in love), he had urged Walter to slow, to calm. It had been out of a fear of losing him, because Walter for all the similarities was not of his people and his soul would not be The Serpents’. Slowly the realization had come that it was not the calm, paternal face of Walter he loved; it was the mad demon who drummed out along the warpath, till death.

But there hadn’t been death for Walter had there?
It drove Queze to madness, the possibilities this presented. Was Walter a Priest like him, a God, cursed, gifted, blessed, tormented…was he reliving his path after every death here under the endless trees, only to return once more? Was Walter Ocelot? Queze did not know and was not sure if he should ask. The answers were so tantalizing but what if the truth breaks the spell, like a dropped clay vessel. If that happened, if Walter really did die; would his memories be worse than this uncertainty?

Would Walter still love him if he killed him?
Ocelot had.


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Authors Note: I’ve always considered that when a player logs out and their deer falls asleep, the deer has died. Before a deer wakes up after first running the program, they are not breathing. I’ve chosen to include that as the main In Game logic behind Queze’s multiple lifetimes.

This forest was to keep him sane. Queze understood that now. It didn’t matter what had transpired in the jungle but he couldn’t seem to stay angry here in The Endless. To hate over things that had happened …well time was impossible to measure for him now. A handful of centuries eroded even the most heinous betrayals.

His days were lifetimes, full and complete. Every night a little death. Still, there were dangers in that. After the first death of his daughters, Queze had hurled himself backwards, back with a vengeance and a fury that shook his infant frame, balled his tiny fists. He’d killed the man responsible dozens of times, but by then it was hard to remember. The here and now had become so similar to all those lives before, like they bled together, veins in too-thin skin. A stain of violence.

He’d crawled back to the cool, calm forest. Mind-weary and feeling truly, for the first time, ancient. He had been scared to go back, thinking that maybe it was best to leave the burning ghosts behind for good. He’d fought to stay awake, childish, the man on his deathbed who plans out his weeks and months. So much to do. What shall I do tomorrow?

He’d gone back and that time he’d let the man live. He broke his arms and legs, but he’d let him live. Watching his daughter grow up, seeing her have sons and seeing them have daughters of their own. It had been the happiest day of his life.