Gabriel Bautista (xochipilli) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2017-05-15 09:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | freyr, xochipilli |
'like all good fruit the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin'
Who: Gabe [Xochipilli] & Rafe [Freyr].
What: A wandering Nord finds his way to an Aztec pyramid.
Where: El Tepozteco, in its heyday.
When: Here and there and everywhere.
Mountains etched themselves into the horizon, green giants embedded in clouds of fog that descended from on high.
One such peak was more geometric than the rest, though it was nearly lost from sight in the haze. The closer one approached, the more it seemed to push through into visibility; then, as a visitor drew nearer, the clouds would part, sun raining down in a tight circle that centered itself just around the structure hovering on the edge of a precipice. Tall, twisted trees, their roots circling down into the rich, brown earth, filled nearly every conceivable space, and among them, vines twisted into a makeshift hammock, lay a man only whose feet were truly visible to anyone approaching the temple. A twirling spire of smoke emerged from deeper within the hammock, both of which moved in a slight breeze that seemed perfectly set for the man's pleasure; not too fast, not too slow.
What could be seen of his ankles were wrapped in anklets of feathers and ribbons, the beginnings of tattoos visible enough to make a guess that they were plantlike in nature. Otherwise, the scene was calm; sun in the sky, a gently winding path leading supplicants to the temple at the top of the hill. Whether prophet, priest, or peasant, the man seemed undisturbed by any who might approach.
What approached him was none of these things, though he looked a bit of each: a man of sun-kissed skin wrapped in spun gold, and a full, dark beard that spoke to long months spent wandering. He paused at the edge of the trees, amber eyes passing over the sunlit clearing as he took its measure. He smiled at the sight of the hammock and its smoke, wondering at the figure its comfortable curves hid.
"Pardon me." His voice was brightness and subtle warmth, like dappled light made audible. He stepped out amidst the trees, breathing deeply of the sweet smoke that carried on the wind. "I don't wish to disturb you, but I would be grateful if you would tell me the name of this place."
Two hands emerged, wrapping around the edges of the hammock to pull the contents of the seat up; a feather headdress nearly fell over the being's eyes, but the action merely made him grin. A hand released itself, pushing his crown back to show a clean-shaven face, bright and eager to see who had stumbled upon him and this place. A stick of something green jutted from between slightly off colored teeth, but the vision was not displeasing; it was earthy, well used, welcoming.
"You find yourself at Tepozteco; most who wander here know what they're looking for, or... at least they think they do. They know the physical building, at bare minimum." Gold fingers with brown ringing the digits reached for the seeming branch burning betwixt his molars, plucking it free as he leaned forward with interest toward the visitor. His crown slid askew again, but he did not reach to adjust it. "How do you find yourself all the way here and not know where you are?"
A bright blue butterfly detached itself from the branches of the tree from which the feathered man was currently hanging, floating down and landing gently on the visitor's head. The visitor felt it alight on him; eyes like liquid amber looked upward, trying to see the creature whose small, soft feet sank in his hair. It paused for only a moment, and then took off, flying toward the structure only a faint distance beyond them.
"I cannot say," he answered. "I only go where my ship carries me, and it seems to carry me to strange places more frequently of late. It has not been altogether unpleasant, at least. There are many less enjoyable uses of time than sailing into unknown lands and meeting unknown people." He moved closer, drawn forward by feathers and smoke and the very expression on his unwitting host's face.
"I am Freyr, and my home is called Álfheimr. Is Tepozteco yours, then?"
"No, it is the people's," the man replied, bringing his burning stick to his mouth once more and taking a deep drag; his legs swung slightly in his self-made seat of vines. He dispelled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke, which clung to him for a moment before rising upward. "I am Xochipilli, and all but none of this is mine. I linger here because it is easier for those who need me to find me, that's all." He leaned further forward, head canting in curiosity at the stranger. His brows drew together across his handsome face.
"How did a ship bring you here? There's no above ground water for miles, despite what the trees might tell you."
"I have been walking for some time," Freyr answered. "But Skíðblaðnir brought me to a river I did not recognize. I saw no-one there to ask after it, though I did see a trail, which led me here. I passed no others on the way." Overtaken by curiosity, he moved to stand just in front of the faintly swinging hammock. "Who is it that comes to find you? The same people to whom this place belongs?"
Xochipilli nodded, his sway moving him closer to his visitor. To and fro, back and forth, toward and away, his grin seemed cheshire-ish in nature, and yet there was nothing malicious in him.
"Those to whom we gave everything, and thus they give everything in return," he said. Two more butterflies moved from the trees, headed in the same direction as the first. Xochipilli's eyes were drawn by them, but his gaze returned to Freyr just as quickly.
"Is that not how yours come to you? Or do you have to go to them, in your Skíðblaðnir?" The word was repeated vowel for vowel as Freyr had put it, and yet it sounded (and tasted) strange in Xochipilli's mouth. On a sudden whim, he held out his burning stick to his guest. "My apologies; if you would like, feel free."
Never one to turn down hospitality, Freyr reached out and took the proffered object. He looked down at it a moment, held between his fingers in the same manner as his host. Then he took a long, deep breath, inhaling as the butterflies alighted on his bare shoulders. He held the breath a beat too long; the butterflies were unseated as he coughed into a balled fist. By slow degrees the coughing turned to laughter, and he shook his head at his own foolishness. Xochipilli joined him, though his laughter was markedly quieter; more of a soft chuckle than a true belly laugh.
"What an unusual thing," Freyr said, handing the tightly rolled, still burning object back to its owner. "An acquired taste, perhaps. It suits you, though." He smiled, almost apologetic. Xochipilli waved away such sentiment, taking the stick easily.
"As for our worshippers, they pray wherever they are. They may not join us in our sacred places until their honorable deaths." He did not speak of Hel; this did not seem a place for such things.
"Ah, well, ours do; they create these places as if to better garner our attention," he replied, sticking the smoking stick back between his teeth and waving his guest up toward the temple. "Here, let me show you." Xochipilli guided Freyr up the rest of the winding path, over tree roots and stones embedded in the dirt, under low-hanging branches, until they reached the stone steps of the temple. There they did not stop; Xochipilli brought the man further up, and up, and up, as though they might ascend into the heavens themselves until they finally found placement on a flat plane of stone between the sky and the earth.
The room was empty but for two objects; a stone altar, sitting directly within eyesight of those who had just entered, and a well, pushed into the corner off to one side. Unlike the rest of the room, which was clean, nearly bleached-white stone, the altar was dabbed in a darker color that did not encompass the whole surface equally. It grew darker in the middle, ebbing out lighter until one could nearly make out a reddish color.
"Is this like your sacred spaces?"
Freyr withheld his opinion for the time being, content to observe the place before him. He approached the altar, one sun-browned hand outstretched to touch its red-hued edge. Color flaked off on his fingers, light as rust. It hummed with an energy the god knew well, though it was not an offering he himself preferred.
"Somewhat," he said. "Though our blood is spilled on battlefields, not altars. In our home itself we tend to spill more mead than blood. Both have their time and place. I would argue one is far more entertaining than the other." He looked back to his host, curiosity in his eyes. The macabre place before him did not match the brightly twinkling, sharply observant gaze of the one who led him here; but Freyr had long ago learned that appearances were deceiving, and this dissonance only made him more intrigued.
"And do these bloodlettings and these buildings indeed garner your attention?" Freyr asked.
Xochipilli inclined his head. "They do; and one is not precluded from the other. Though one might say our forms of violence are closer kin to ecstasy than anger." He closed the distance between himself and the other god, fingers moving over the edge of the table to wet brown-tipped pads with what little was left of the wet red. Around them, sounds swirled -- ecstatic laughter, the beating of drums, flutes spiraling through the air as feet stamped the ground. The bloodletting was not for sport nor for honor; it was for the loyalty of the gods, repayment in kind for all that had been bestowed upon the mortals who lived below them. Smoke filled the room, similar to what Xochipilli held between his teeth and yet something more that left the mind reeling.
"They come and they give for the joy of it. Is that not entertaining in itself?" The hand moved from the altar, rising to cup Freyr's chin. His thumb pressed a print to the other man's lower lip, drawing a small line of red like a blessing. Freyr's lips parted beneath his touch, held there by the taste of flesh and blood and something else, besides.
At last he withdrew, though not far; he could still feel the latent heat of him, the intensity he was not certain how to answer. His tongue touched his lip, tasting the mark made on his skin. "Many of my kin would agree with you," he said. "I cannot say I understand. My sacraments take a much different form, and end in life, not death." He raised his hands between them, palms out. Warm fingertips brushed soft on bare flesh. "I do not intend that as a judgment. Only an observation."
But Xochipilli was not at all offended; instead he merely graced Freyr's apologies with a wide smile, and brought his thumb to his mouth as if to taste the other god. His tongue graced his skin lasciviously, his gaze never breaking contact with his guest. Freyr could not hide the subtle shiver that traced its way down his spine.
"Each has their own way," he replied, shrugging lightly. The sounds and smells that once encompassed them were gone, and they were alone in a room that held nothing but a bloody table and an empty well. "Should I find myself in your lands, you'll have to show me your sacraments in turn. A fair trade, don't you think?"
He waved one hand, the same he'd offered Freyr and that had graced his own lips. "But none of that for now. Surely you must be tired, and hungry, after your long travels." He stepped forward, slapping an arm around Freyr's shoulders and began to lead him out through the same door they'd entered, as if to move down the steps -- except now they did not lead outside. They moved into another room, this one longer and wider than the previous, though made of the same stone. A long table sat before them, but empty. "Tell me what you would like, and in exchange, I'll have the answers you're willing to give."
At once Freyr seemed more at ease. Here was a scene with which he was familiar. His journey had been fair, but lonely, and food and fellowship were precisely what he needed. He walked toward the table, keeping close to his host's side. He leaned slightly into Xochipilli's embrace, letting himself be led, carefully contemplating what bounty he would ask for. He looked sidelong at the other god, his forehead tickled by displaced feathers as he moved. He wanted to trust his host, but he would not promise answers without first hearing the questions; thanks to Loki, Freyr had seen firsthand the dangers of doing so.
"I would like to try your alcohol," he said, "and perhaps your favorite foods. I've found the best part of travel is tasting something new."
Xochipilli laughed, long and loud; he clapped Freyr's shoulder. "And so you shall!" He waved his other arm, passing it over the table, and suddenly it was laden with many dishes. Bowls of atole, warm maize with spices, chilis made of beans, squash and peppers, spirulina, roasted insects such as grasshoppers, chapulin, worms, ants and larvae skewered on long sticks, and more beyond measure as the various meal plates disappeared into the distance. Amid all of these were cups of warm, liquid chocolate, pulque, and pozolli. Flowers were distributed everywhere, filling not only the table but also the space with their bright colors and overflowing fragrance.
Reams of smoke wound up from the table to the ceiling from tobacco tubes spaced evenly about the table. Xochipilli's arm slithered from about Freyr's form, the palm of his hand pressing to the small of the other man's back in passing, before reaching out for one of the tubes and a cup of pulque; before doing so, he dispensed of his smoking stick on the table. He took a long, fresh drag of the tobacco tube, blowing smoke in rings that wafted toward the unseen ceiling of the room; then he held out the cup of milky-white fluid.
"Pulque," he explained, waiting for Freyr to take it.
Freyr peered down into the cup, his fingers brushing over Xochipilli's as he took it from his hand. The white liquid within moved only slowly; it was more viscous than he had expected, and its smell was not especially inviting. The first taste, sour and acidic, was only slightly more so. The second sip was easier than the first, and Freyr soon found himself enjoying the strange beverage. He raised the cup to his host, toasting him as they sat at the well-laid table. Xochipilli pulled two cups toward himself -- one also full of pulque, the other of liquid chocolate -- and drank from each intermittently as he watched Freyr choose.
The choices placed before him were nearly overwhelming. Each plate boasted sights and smells the visiting god could not name. On his own plate he placed small portions from each dish within reach, tucking eagerly into them, each in its turn.
"Your hospitality is appreciated," he said, sucking a bit of spicy sauce from one golden fingertip. "And in exchange, you asked for answers. What questions do you have?"
Xochipilli sat facing Freyr, as if making a show of his companion's dinner. One hand was easily curled about his pulque cup, fingers lightly dancing along the cup's rim. He smiled, nodding at Freyr's opening.
"Simple things, really; you said you travel, via your...I assume it is a boat? From where do you come, and why did you leave it?" Though his words were easy and slow, spoken in a relaxed manner that invited calm, his eyes sparkled with curiosity that belied his tone.
"It is a boat," Freyr confirmed. As he drank from a cup of liquid chocolate -- making a pleasured little sound as he did -- he slid his hand into the folds of his golden tunic. He withdrew a small bit of folded cloth, setting it on the table between them. "Skíðblaðnir. I would advise against unfolding it here, lest all our food be overturned." He chuckled, and his hands returned to his plate. "I come from Álfheimr and Asgard. Álfheimr belongs to me; Asgard is where my kin reside. I left only for a time…" His sun kissed face darkened for an instant. Even when he spoke again it did not fully clear.
"There is more in the Nine Worlds than I have seen, and it is not right for a god not to know what lies beyond." He gestured to Xochipilli, and to the feast he had prepared for them. "This is part of my exploration."
Xochipilli was in the middle of biting into a prickly pear, the juice running over his chin; a pink tongue quickly chased after it, cleaning his lips as he nodded, grinning.
"I wager there's plenty for you to explore here," he replied, a hand running nonchalantly down his chest; fingers caught drops from the fruit, bringing them back to be sucked off by his mouth once more. Then he reached for his pulque cup, pausing before drinking; his eyes fell to the folded cloth between them. "Amazing. You will certainly be unfolding that for me later." His widening grin implied something else being displayed, but he continued on with his questions.
"So you wish to bring this knowledge to...who, or what? The people who worship you? What do you think they'd do with such things?" The cup finally completed the distance between his hand and his mouth, tipping more liquor down his throat.
His host's questions distracted Freyr thoroughly from the earlier innuendo. The folded cloth remained on the table between them, as unassuming as any ordinary napkin. He resolved to show the ship off at some later time, pleased with the gift. For the time being, he focused on the answers he had agreed to provide.
"They would want to sail here," he said, "almost certainly. They are great explorers and adventurers, my people. They have seen much of the worlds, at least those parts allowed to them. But I have not yet decided if I will share my travels with them. For now, these things are for my knowledge alone. There are some, human and otherwise, who would misuse this new information. I will take my time and decide how and with whom I will share it."
The other deity nodded, finishing his drink with another swallow, and placed the empty cup on the table between them.
"A wise decision," he replied, with a smile. "I should think there are many who might abuse such knowledge. It only takes one thought to go from adventurer to conqueror, after all..." He shrugged, fingers closing around a skewer of roasted grasshoppers. "But that is not my concern. For now.
"Where else have you traveled?" His gaze turned away from the food, the insects nearly springing to his mouth as he took a careful and delicate bite of the first on the stick. It landed back on Freyr's face, Xochipilli's eyes nearly glowing from the sight.
Warmed equally by liquor and that steady, observant gaze, Freyr smiled and reached for an insect-laden skewer as well. Feeling particularly adventurous, he crunched two of the things between his teeth, wrinkling his nose faintly at the feel of their legs on his tongue. When the bite was gone, he blinked, and allowed himself an unexpected admission: "I actually think I like those."
He washed the bite down with a drink of molten chocolate. His tongue passed over his lips, sweeping up the sticky sweetness. "Thus far," he said, "I have only visited one other place I did not recognize. I do not know its name, as my hostess said it was everywhere. But her people were called the yaoyorozu no kami, and she was quite hospitable." He reached across the table for a kind of flatbread, pulling the plate toward him. "And she, Uke Mochi, had been to yet another place. She attended a wedding there, with a being called Eris."
Xochipilli repeated the names. "Uke Mochi. Eris." His tongue did its best to wrap around the syllables, but both were equally foreign to him.
"Neither sound familiar; or, perhaps I should say, both sound as familiar as you, Freyr. My people have not seen your kind before, nor heard of what you speak. They are not as adventurous as yours, I imagine, though I think they might be curious all the same were I to tell them about our conversation. As you yourself have said, I will have to think on such things." He chewed another grasshopper, swallowing before speaking again.
"But my questions are satisfied, for now. There's only so much that words can express that eyes and ears and tongue and fingers can find out better for themselves." He gave Freyr a wink. "I'd like to offer you a bed, if you're so inclined, and perhaps in the morning you can show me your boat."
"I would like that very much," Freyr said. "I am quite tired, and it has been a long journey." He plucked the folded paper from the tabletop, returning it to some hidden fold of his low-hanging robe. He studied his host for a moment, ignoring the food in favor of committing this journey and all its fine details to memory. When he smiled at his host, it was like the sun breaking from behind a cloud. "And should you visit me in Álfheimr, you will be greeted as hospitably as I have been."
He raised his dwindling glass of pulque in toast, smiling brightly at his new friend. Xochipilli's smile matched the other man's, though there was something underneath it that could not be adequately described by words. The two continued their feast, time a passing but unknown thing inside the temple where they resided.