Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

San had never truly believed that he had a destiny, something the gods had written for him before he was even born, a path he would constantly follow in life, consciously or not. His reason for being on the earth, along with supporting his family and offering prayers to those above. His reason for being San.

How could he think of himself so highly? Why would the gods spend their time on someone like him, when so many worshippers walked these lands for them, so many of higher statuses and more impressive feats? The idea that they would take the time to decide him, and his insignificant life, felt like such a selfish, prideful thought to have. 

And yet.

His feet sank into the mud with each step, the earth warm and soft beneath the fallen leaves, clinging to his ankles like it didn’t want him to leave. Vines hung from trees like serpents, coiled and waiting. Every now and then, he’d hear the sudden snap of a branch behind him and freeze, convinced it wasn’t him who had stepped on it. Perhaps just the teasing of a parrot, taunting him by mocking the sounds of footsteps.

Because he knew he would never step on a twig, even accidentally. Not in this jungle. 

He moved like a shadow through the dense vegetation, his heavy macuahuitl strapped to his back, and a tlacochtli clutched tightly in his right hand. The thick, green canopy above swallowed most of the moonlight, casting everything in shifting shades of darkness. Every sound, every rustling leaf, every distant chirp set his nerves alight. 

But he could not afford fear. Not right now.

He had finally ventured far enough from his village that if he shouted, not a soul would hear him. Maybe not even the gods themselves. So deep in the jungle that the trees could snatch him up and he would simply turn into a distant memory, if even that. The vines and leaves could snatch him at any moment, and no one would know any better. 

The jungle breathed around him with thick, humid air pressing against his skin like a second layer. The scent of moss, damp stone, and blooming orchids clung to his lungs, rich and sweet. Every inhale felt like it reached back centuries, as if the very air was old, the past of this ancient jungle and how it was all connected. He knew it was. Everything was connected, afterall. 

And one night, earlier this moon cycle before he found himself in this jungle, when San had snuck out of his family’s hut and laid under the stars twinkling above him, he swore could feel the shift, like the air he breathed in was suddenly made of something different. It was nothing more than a gut instinct, as he sat outside in his few seconds of peace after working all day, just to watch the stars he admired, start to laugh at him from above. 

It felt like the same air he was breathing now. 

And he knew then, that it was his turn. 

Sure enough, the chilam knocked on his family’s door the next morning. He told San that he tried to hold off on sending another hunter this sun cycle, but the livestock were found mysteriously slaughtered in the night, their carcasses left torn apart as warnings. It had gotten too close again, and soon, it would likely be another human carcass they found.

The gods had told the chilam that it was San’s turn to hunt. 

His mother immediately started to sob when she heard the news, but in fear of angering the gods and tarnishing their path for her only son, she sobered herself up quickly and began praying for him, searching the house for their best weapons and jewelry. His father looked so proud, that his son would finally be the hunter he was raised and trained to be, but there was something else hidden in his eyes. 

They all knew those were his last moments together. 

His father knew San was not the hunter the gods could rely on. 

San knew it himself too. 

But he kept his head up as the chilam muttered prayers into his skin in the temple, dragging blue paint across his face and arms and chest to represent the sky and the sea, and deep red to represent the sunrise, as he spoke from a codex covered in swirls and images that San couldn’t read. He kept his head up as the whole village blessed his weapons, and gave him a beautiful feast, more food than he had ever had in his life, before walking him right to the jungle’s edge. 

And he kept his head up as he stepped right into his own grave. 

He was looking for a beast so ancient and so feared, it was said to possess the ability to shift between the form of a jaguar and a man, and it sent shivers down his spine at the thought. San had been told the stories as a child, just like everyone else in his village was. Around the fires while the elders purposely tried to spook the kids, either out of teaching them self preservation, or rather just for fun. But they always felt distant, like whispers on the wind—there, but not real. A tale for children so they would behave, so kids wouldn’t run into the jungle alone, to keep them away from the edges of the trees, because it hunted down anyone foolish enough to play with it.

Did that make San a fool now?

San still watched how at least once a year, hiding behind his mother’s legs as a young boy until his father scolded him to act like a man, as a hunter from his tribe would be paraded around in blue and red warpaint and given a feast in his honor, before being sent into the jungle to save them all, to finally be the one to end their village’s curse.

Yet, they never returned. 

Ever.

The chilam always decided who was sent next, well, because the gods told him so. The jaguar spirit—the Nagual, the elders always called it in hushed voices as to not provoke it—had lurked along the outskirts of his village for generations at this point, and they had never found a way to defeat it. They had to keep trying though, to defend their home and their people. 

It was a killer, but not in the way San was, when he hunted to provide food for his family. Not in the way he was a killer now, searching for the curse to free his people. No, it was a killer still, but rather a spirit of vengeance, hunting not for food, but for fun. 

For bloodlust. For nothing else than simply because it could.

His heart drummed in his chest as he thought of the lives lost as he stepped over a massive tree root—the hunters who had ventured into the jungle, only to disappear without a trace. No one had ever returned. Not a single soul, dead or alive, no bodies found either. The jungle had swallowed them whole. And with it brought fear that had spread through his village, like a sickness no one could cure, for as long as San could remember, long before he was ever born. Before his parents were born, or his grandparents. 

And now it was his turn. 

It was an honor, they had told him. He was strong. Skilled. A natural hunter, even if San would highly disagree. For years he had been regarded as one of the greatest they had ever seen, his aim precise and his strength unmatched. He had led countless men in pursuits to protect their people against other villages, always returning victorious and alive, always fulfilling the will of their gods. If anyone could succeed, it would be him, they had said.

But he had seen the looks in their eyes. The unspoken goodbye. They did not believe he would return either. 

So he had to. To prove them all wrong.

He pushed forward, gripping the tlacochtli tighter, his breathing slow and controlled, and absolutely silent, the only noise around him the wind in the leaves and the gentlest of footsteps. He had trained for this his whole life, unknowingly of course, but no amount of hunting or preparation could quiet the unease crawling up his spine. The jungle was different at night, it was different when one was alone. It breathed around him, the trees stood taller with every inhale, the roots reached out like grasping fingers just to tease him as it sighed out. He had grown up in these lands, but he had never felt them like this before, like something ancient was watching. 

Waiting.

San adjusted his stance, forcing his thoughts to steel themselves. He could be scared, he couldn’t change that, but he couldn’t let it control him. He had to succeed where others had failed. He had to do this, he told himself, trying to drown out the rising panic. He had to protect them, his people, his family. And quite honestly, he had no other choice. 

Returning to the village alive and without proof of the Nagual’s death would result in San’s own. They would shame him and use his body as penance to the gods, tearing him apart in agonizing pain to apologize for San’s cowardice. He was a warrior and a hunter, so showing fear or giving up would be the highest offense. Unthinkable. They would tear off his head and throw his body into the depths of the cenote they used to rid their village of those who insulted the gods, and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen to his family for raising such a coward. 

So either he died, or the jaguar spirit did. He had to return home.

Because if he didn’t… His sacrifice would mean nothing. It would be the same cycle over again, just with one less hunter in the village. He would never get to see his father’s weathered face again, or feel his mother’s embrace. He would never get to see his sister have her first child, or his grandmother’s final days. No family of his own either, growing old with his partner and finally becoming one of the elders of the village, eventually teaching the new generation how to hunt and fight properly, and passing down the stories of their people. 

His father told him those stories, of the greatest hunters they had ever seen right before San had to leave—his ancestors, those who had faced down the impossible gods and spirits, who had brought victory to his village. San was their descendant, so he was meant for this. He would come back home. It was meant to inspire him, to give him a little confidence. 

And the chilam said it was his destiny. 

But… he had also said that about every other man who was sent off to never be seen again. How many of those men believed it was their true destiny too?

Would someone find him, the village’s chosen savior, generations later, as nothing more than a few bones on the jungle floor? Or would the Nagual take all of him, and he would be lost to time? Lost to just the words of his family, until they too would no longer remember what he looked like? Who he even was? Till his family passed too, and he would be nothing to this universe?

San wouldn’t let the spirit take him the way it had taken others. He wouldn’t let the jungle claim him, not like it had for so many before.

He would do anything it took to stay alive. To find his way back home one day, as long as it took.

San’s arms pressed forward through the thick underbrush, moving palms aside and taking care to not step on any stray roots or sticks. Each step felt louder than the last, though he was hardly making a noise. No more than a coati running through the branches. 

His breath stilled as he came to a rest. His footsteps were cautious, his senses alert to everything around him. The silence in the jungle was suffocating, even if it wasn’t truly silent. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves, every flicker of movement made his heart race faster. Was it an animal, or was it the spirit?

His fear was at least justified, because San knew he was the one being hunted. 

San knew the beast was behind him, following him. It had been for a while. And something deep in his stomach told him the beast knew that San knew too. 

He knew that the second he stepped into this jungle, weapons in his hands and vengeance in his heart, that the Nagual had its eyes on him. He felt it on the back of his neck, catching glimpses of dark fur for just a second between the trees, toying with him. Letting San know it was there, watching him. Waiting for him to make a move.

It made every bone in his body chill with fear, but there was nothing that could be done about it. After all, how does a hunter catch another hunter?

He becomes the prey. The trap itself.

So, San made it very easy for the spirit to find him, not that he doubted the spirit couldn’t find him even if he tried his hardest to be elusive. That was the point, because if he was to die either way, this was his best shot at getting close enough to challenge it, if he lasted that long. He knew he could never track down the spirit, it would only show itself to San if it wanted to be seen. 

The cursed spirit would eventually get bored and try to kill him, and San would use that very moment to do the same back. Hopefully.

He briefly wondered if this was a tactic any of the other warriors had tried before him. Did they simply set into the jungle with no plan? Was this tactic already tried, and proven to be nothing more than a waste of time prolonging one's own death? San supposed every tactic had been in vain if no one had ever returned. 

But he had no other plan, so this one would have to do. 

Bending down, he stopped to pretend to check tracks on the dirt floor. After all, he had to play the part of hunting it down, even if they both knew it was an act. If the Nagual was watching him right now, he wanted to appear like he was confidently closing in on the beast. Sure that these stupid tracks would lead him right to the cursed spirit. 

Perhaps if his life wasn’t on the line, it would be a fun game. Or maybe, sickeningly enough, that was what made it so fun. 

Oddly enough, San hadn’t spotted the Nagual in a while, since the sun had set. He had been out here for a quarter of a moon cycle, and so far, and not once had he lost sight of it for more than an hour. Constantly catching glimpses of it in the trees as he walked, lurking just outside the ring of his firelight at his makeshift camps as he rested against the hollow of a large tree, just to watch him jump in fear before it snuck away again. Honestly, he expected the beast to gut him in his sleep, and was unsure why it hadn’t.

That first night in the jungle, he was too anxious to close his eyes even for a second, positive that the spirit would rip his throat open the moment he fell unconscious. He watched as the sun came back around, giving him one more day of life. But by the second night, when darkness settled over the world and exhaustion had him unwillingly dozing off, he woke up the next morning to bright sunlight, and was very much alive. A third day to live. 

He then realized on the fourth day, after another full night of sleep, that sickeningly enough, the Nagual was enjoying this game too. Taking San out in his sleep defeats the chase of the hunt, the fun. San found no problems sleeping the next few nights after knowing that. 

Though not seeing it for so long had loud alarms ringing in San’s ears. It likely meant that it was getting bored, and that San’s performance was coming to a swift end. So he decided to push his luck, trying to keep it entertained, by exploring the jungle at night like only an idiot with a death wish would, which is exactly what he was, because while he still feared he wouldn’t wake up tomorrow morning if he let his eyes shut for more than a sec—

His spiraling thoughts stopped as a guttural scream ripped through the jungle. 

The hair on his neck and arms bristled, a deep, primal fear crawling down his spine. 

San knew that it wasn’t a cry of pain. The cry was frantic and full of terror, like the kind of sound that only came from something that had truly seen death staring at them. It was the sound of prey, of something that had mere seconds left to run. And it was horrifyingly human.

It was a human’s scream. 

He was sure of it, no animal could sound that genuine, and everything human in his own body knew it. 

And if there was one thing scarier than an animal or a cursed spirit in the deep heart of the jungle, it was another person. 

San knew better. No one else would be out here, and definitely not at night. The creature was toying with him, curing its boredom with something new, something to scare him even more. It was probably enjoying how high it could raise San’s heartbeat. 

It was working. 

San quickly disregarded all of his parents’ teachings—if you hear your name in the jungle, run the other way—and ran as quietly and quickly as he could toward the screams. It sounded like whoever, or whatever, was yelling was now doing it in self defense. He heard clapping with the shouting as he got closer, like they were trying to scare off their attacker. 

If the Nagual wanted to put on such an act to lure San in, well, he would let it.

He came to a halt when he saw a figure through the foliage, backed against a large ceiba, panting hard and hands pressed between the massive roots on the smooth bark. Definitely human looking, and so unassumingly so that San was almost convinced it was one. Two hands, five fingers on each, long, dark hair, a prominent nose. As human as one could get, almost.

The Nagual, though San had only seen it briefly as a jaguar, could also take the form of something very human, something man-like, according to the stories. San couldn’t risk thinking that a stray human in the middle of the jungle was just a coincidence. What were the chances of some lone, helpless man being here, the very night San had decided to stay up to finally end the hunt?

He leveled his spear at the figure and crept closer, who was pretending to not have noticed San yet.

“Is this your final trick?” San hissed at it, making the man jump with another scream, nearly falling over on a root near his foot. His own feet moved silently as he got closer, stepping over a large rock without taking his eyes off of the man. 

The man flinched back further, wide and watery, dark eyes darting wildly toward him and his weapon, his body trembling like a deer that had already seen its neck between carnivorous jaws. His long hair clung to his sweat-drenched skin, his clothes torn and filthy, barely hanging onto his frame. He was the perfect picture of prey.

He gasped out when he watched San, choking on a scream, his voice shaking so hard it almost cracked, barely understandable. 

“Who—wait—it’s behind you—”

San didn’t move. He wasn’t that stupid. He’d turn his back, and the man would shift, teeth and claws sinking into his spine before he could even scream. The hunt would be over, so quickly. He couldn’t let it.

“You can drop the act,” he growled, his spear not lowering a centimeter. “I know what you are.”

The ‘man’ looked at him like it was confused. San glared at it, unrelenting, but his heart beating wildly inside of him. This would be it. Either his final hunt, or the Nagual’s.

“Behind you,” it pleaded again, a shaky hand pointing over San’s shoulder slowly. Another tear spilled down his red cheeks. “J-Jaguar.”

Jaguar? 

San didn’t believe him so easily, but he then heard the faintest shift of branches from behind him, almost silent if it weren’t for his hunter ears. Something was there. And if it weren’t for the rustling of leaves, he would’ve never believed the man in front of him.

Slowly glancing over his shoulder, not letting his spear fall from pointing at the man, his heart stalled. He almost worried it wouldn’t beat again, he felt so much dread and fear in that one second. 

Shimmering, feline eyes were watching him through the bushes, the ones San had just walked in front of. 

It was then San felt it, that presence and those eyes he traveled with for the past week. He had walked right up to the very beast he thought was following him, who was apparently busy hunting someone else, not him. The air thickened, or perhaps his lungs began to fail. 

“I—” his voice caught, unsure of what he would have even said. He quickly spun his body around, turning his tlacochtli away from the man and towards the jaguar. The same one who had been watching watch him all week. 

The Nagual. 

It had gotten bored with San, it had disappeared, because it had other prey to toy with. Prey that San walked right up to and jumped in front of, unknowingly sacrificing himself for. Had he known, he would’ve used this to his advantage, but it was much too late. 

Perhaps this was the spirit’s plan all along, perhaps he truly was the fool. 

It stepped forward, its massive frame emerging from the darkness like a demon created from the jungle itself. It was bigger than any jaguar San had ever seen before—its shoulders broad, its muscles rippling beneath a sleek, golden coat that shimmered unnaturally in the dim light. Shadows clung to its form, twisting and shifting like living things, as if it was more than just flesh and blood, like it was made of all the souls it had consumed before. 

Its eyes were the worst part. They glowed an eerie gold, burning with intelligence and malice, pupils stretched into razor-thin slits that pinned San where he stood. The jungle had always been filled with predators, but none that enjoyed the hunt like this one. Jaguars don’t hunt humans, they hardly pick fight as the option, no, they run. They always pick flight. 

So this was not an animal acting on instinct, this was something cruel, something patient, something that had chosen him as his target. 

Its lips peeled back, revealing long, gleaming fangs in a stark white. The snarl that followed wasn’t a warning. It was a promise. The deep, guttural sound vibrated through San’s bones, his human instincts picturing torn flesh, shattered bones, and a death so quick he wouldn’t even have time to scream. Every primal instinct and nerve in him wanted to run away. 

It took a slow, deliberate step forward, shoulders rolling, claws flexing against the dirt with each silent press of its enormous paws. It was playing with him, savoring his fear that thickened the air, enjoying the scent of him. Listening to his pounding heart and rushing blood. 

San gripped his tlacochtli even tighter, feeling the rough wood bite into his palm. He swallowed hard, muscles locking in place as the Nagual watched, waiting for him to break.  

He heard a sniffle behind him, suddenly remembering he wasn’t the only one fearing for his life right this second 

“You—” San choked, his voice barely working. He didn’t dare look away, but he addressed the trembling man behind him. “You need to go. Walk. Slowly. I can—I’ll distract it.”

"What? Are you insane?” the man protested breathlessly, voice shaking. “It will kill you!" 

San knew he was right. But there was no time to argue.

“It will kill you too if you don’t leave.”

“But—”

“Go. I’m a hunter,” he explained, confidence lost to the fear coursing through him. “And a warrior. I’ll kill it first.”

San didn’t give him time to argue before he lunged.

He charged the beast with the last bit of foolish, human bravery in him, but was horrifyingly shocked to watch it yowl and run the other way, right into the dark vegetation. Away from him. It was fast—too fast. He’d never keep up.

“Wait—”

But he couldn’t think longer about it. He took off through the trees, jumping and running as fast as his legs could take him, trying his hardest to keep track of the beast as it leapt through the underbrush. He needed to end this tonight, somehow. He needed it to die. 

His feet slamming against the dirt, dodging vines and twisting around roots as he tore after the creature. Every step sent his heartbeat slamming against his ribs, every breath a gasp of humid, suffocating air.

The Nagual ran. So San chased.

And deep in the night, the jungle watched curiously.

How nature had somehow played its usual course, with humanity at the top of the food chain, a human chasing an animal, yet what San was running after was no animal. What he was chasing didn’t even exist on their food chain. 

He swore he heard the jungle laugh at him. 

San expected to lose the beast quickly, for it to climb a tree and disappear from sight, but the spirit was toying with him, letting him stay just close enough to catch a flick of its tail or the shadow of a massive paw before it vanished into the bushes again, staying on the ground. It wanted him to chase it. And unfortunately for the beast, humans were born for endless pursuit.

San would run until his legs gave out.

The jungle blurred around him, every step reckless, and his heart slamming against his ribs, from fear and exertion, and adrenaline. The beast led him deeper and deeper, weaving through the thick underbrush like a phantom, until—

A pained cry split the silence. The sound lit something primal inside of him. Run, danger, flee. It was the sound of something stronger and more dangerous, and all the humanity in him begged to find safety.

San recklessly skidded to a stop just in time to see the jaguar attempt to scramble up a boulder, no, a cliff, claws raking uselessly against the smooth stone. It slipped, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. It tried again, screaming at the cliff it faced, seemingly trapped, before turning back to San and growling lowly. 

But San leveled his spear at the spirit, watching its crazed eyes flick around, looking for a way out, or perhaps having led San right to the very ending it wanted. It was putting on the most convincing performance he had seen. 

“Now what?” he spat at it. Adrenaline causing his anger to replace his fear, suddenly faced with the beast his village had been tortured by for generations. 

This was what had his people killed for eons? This was what took so many members of his community, so many fathers and brothers? This, he wanted to spit at it, to curse at it, had caused him to put his life on the line? It wanted to kill him back? 

For what? For simply being a human? 

This beast he had cornered with such little effort? What was he to do besides feel rage?

“Had enough fun? Got me where you want? Are you finally going to try and kill me now?”

The spirit glared, bearing its long, shiny fangs again. Teeth that could puncture right through San’s neck without any effort. He barely had a second to react before eyes wild, teeth bared, as it leapt.

Right at him, faster than San could process. 

This was a demon. A creature born of the jungle itself, stronger than any beast, more cunning than any man. And it was going to kill him.

A blur of golden fur and golden eyes, it crashed into him with bone-crushing force, so quick he couldn’t even swing his tlacochtli to defend himself, knocking the breath from his lungs. The impact sent him slamming onto his back, the damp earth swallowing his body as massive claws pinned him down, ripping into his skin. 

Any form of thinking had escaped him, and he narrowly avoided his skull being crushed between its jaws by shoving the handle of his tlacochtli in the open mouth of the cat, holding him back with strained muscles. If this was a test of strength, San would lose shortly enough. 

He felt the macuahuitl strapped to his back digging into him painfully, and his fingers clawed uselessly at the wooden handle as the beast loomed over him, it's hot breath fanning across his face. Moonlight caught the gleam of its fangs, curved like sickle blades around the wood. 

He cried out loudly as he felt the claws press into his skin, right over his sternum, pain shooting through him. His arms shook where they held the beast back, the spirit screaming at him and trying to bite around the stick. His chest was warm and burned, blood pooling as the Nagual held him down with its weight as he screamed out in pain again. 

This was it.

The realization settled in his bones like ice, numbing him to the searing pain where its weight outmatched his mortal body’s.

He had always known he would die in the jungle. Whether by beast, blade, sickness or hunger, or if he was lucky it would be old age, it had always been a truth for him. But knowing that did nothing to dull the terror clawing up his throat as the jaguar pressed its weight down, its muscles rippling with power.

His mind didn’t break so much as it dropped out, like his humanity ran right off a cliff with no bottom in sight. Somewhere safer.

No words. No memories. No thoughts. No promise.

It arrived as instinct, cold and all consuming, slicing through him faster than any blade or claw could. His vision tunneled until all he could see were those golden, furious eyes that were somehow alive, intelligent, wanting him gone from the world.

For what, being human?

And all San felt was the feeling of an animal that wanted to live.

His world shrank to that heat and weight and pain, with his own heartbeat detonating in his ears like war drums, his chest refusing to expand under the jaguar’s crushing paws. The reek of its breath flooded his senses, wet and iron-sweet, and the pressure of its fangs clamped against the wood of his tlacochtli vibrated straight down his bones. His muscles shook. His grip slipped. He was holding back a god with trembling, mortal hands.

The claws dug deeper. His legs kicked uselessly against the soil. Every breath felt stolen, scraped out of him by force. There was no technique left, no training, no plan. Only the blind, desperate need to keep that jaw from closing around his throat.

He wasn’t a hunter anymore. He wasn’t even a man.

He was prey. He always had been. 

His fingers burned. His arms screamed. The spirit pressed down harder and the earth beneath him felt like a grave being dug with his own back. A tremor raced through him full of fear so sharp it felt like grief, like sorrow for a life he hadn’t finished living. 

Nothing mattered except the next second.

And the next.

And the next.

Survive. Survive. Survive.

Even as the jaguar’s hot breath washed over his cheek, even as the handle in its jaws began to splinter, even as the edges of his vision went white—

He kept fighting. Because the alternative was letting go. Because some animalistic part of him refused to die on its back in the dirt. Because if this was the end, he wanted the spirit to have to take him.

Not watch him surrender.

And oddly enough, he didn’t think about dying in that split second. He thought about the possibility of death, maybe even the reality of it, but never of him dying. 

Because he wondered why the beast didn’t just shred his chest open with its claw, it would be so easy. Why did it insist on fighting this way, why didn't it realize the easier alternative? 

Maybe, at the end of the day, this might be a god, but it wasn’t human. 

But San was. 

And San thought of his mother, of the last time she touched his face and gentle fingers traced over the blue paint decorating him right before he left. He thought of the river he played in as a child, the way the water sparkled under the sun. He thought of the sky at dawn, when the world was quiet and his sister would force him to wake up early just to watch the sunrise because she loved the pretty colors, when the jungle and weather had not yet decided whether to be merciful or cruel that day. He thought about the stars, possibly his favorite thing in his existence, as they shifted into new patterns every night above him. 

And how fleeting it all was. How absurd, that a life full of moments, of memories, of things, could end in an instant beneath the weight of a hungry god.

Was this what it meant to be human?

San gasped, struggling and instinctively using his legs to try and kick the wild cat off, but the weight was unbearable. He had fought before, killed before even, but this was different. This wasn’t an enemy he could overpower. This wasn’t an opponent he could outthink when its strength was the whole jungle itself.

This was mortality. Life and death, and the cycle of it. 

In the millisecond this went through his mind, in the brief second of battle between them, the jaguar tensed. San squeezed his eyes shut as his hands subconsciously tried to keep him alive by shoving at the immobile beast. His body was fighting when his mind couldn’t. He didn’t want to see it when it ripped him apart. 

The jaguar shifted, power gathering beneath its golden hide, and San felt the change in the way the weight on his chest tightened, claws hooking deeper, anchoring themselves in his flesh as if preparing to tear. Its growl vibrated through his ribs as he screamed out in pain in harmony, low and final, and every instinct in him understood.

This was it.

His legs kicked again instinctively and in reaction to the pain, wild and useless, scraping for leverage that wasn’t there in the dirt. The earth gave nothing back. The beast was too heavy, too strong, too divine. His grip shook violently, the splintering tlacochtli handle shaking between its jaw, his arms were burning, nerves screaming, muscles seizing in frantic refusal to lose, but the spirit pressed closer, its breath hot at his cheek, so close he could feel the tiny flecks of spit hit his skin as it snarled.

He had seconds. Maybe less.

Hold. Hold. 

The jaguar lunged downward with all its weight, jaws clamping, and the force slammed San’s head into the dirt so hard stars burst behind his eyes. For a heartbeat, everything went white and his arms weakened. Sound disappeared, breath was stolen from his lungs, a numb quiet humming in his skull like the first moment after death.

The tlacochtli nearly slipped from his hands in that millisecond. 

But life snapped through him, desperately. His fingers clenched so hard he felt something ache in his wrist, pain lancing up his arm, and he almost let himself fail again. He shoved back with a shout of agony, not with strength, but with terror, with the last thrashing scrap of will that hadn’t been crushed yet.

The handle lodged a fraction deeper between the jaguar’s teeth.

A fraction.

Enough to steal one more breath.

The beast gathered itself again, muscles rippling and San forced his eyes open, forced himself to see the death barreling down on him.

And something in him refused.

Just past the face of the beast he held back with a measly piece of wood, was the night sky. Somehow, they had ended up in a rare clearing where the canopy above allowed the stars to sparkle down against his skin. He watched them every night, and now they would get to watch him as he died. 

How lucky he was, to see this before his end. What would he see afterwards?

San closed his eyes, arms unwilling to yield, body still fighting with everything in it, but his mind had resigned. He would not win this. He couldn’t. 

And yet.

A scream. High-pitched, raw with anger. Not his, and once again, very human and very close. The same scream he heard earlier.

The crushing pain suddenly vanished.

San’s eyes snapped open just in time to see the beast jump away from him, its round ears flicking toward the sound, and a rock bouncing off of it. And then it was crouching, back against the boulder again, a slow movement of muscle and shadow, watching as a man crashed through the underbrush, the same voice that had called out. 

The same stranger he told to flee. 

San gasped, choking on air that flooded into his lungs in horrific pain, realization slamming into him like a second impact. He rolled over as his body and chest burned, desperately steading his tlacochtli though his mind was empty and his body felt ripped apart. The curse’s eyes whipped back toward him at the movement, trying to watch both of them at once.

Another rock pelted the jaguar in the side, a pathetic throw and maybe San would’ve laughed if his own life wasn’t slowly realizing it still existed, if his body wasn’t trying to give up, clutching his weapon tighter. The wild cat jerked its head back the other way, towards the stranger again. 

“Come on, you dumb cat! Over here!”

San’s head jerked up just in time to see the stranger—the idiot from before—standing a short distance away, waving his arms wildly. The jaguar turned toward him, growling low. San’s heart stopped. No—

It lashed out like the cornered animal it was, faster than anything San had ever seen, muscles shifting as it sprang toward the man. San didn’t even think.

His fingers curled around his spear as he scrambled to his knees. His body moved before his mind. He threw it.

The impact was sickening.

The spear struck just as the beast was mid-leap, piercing deep into its ribs. A horrible, choked yelp tore through the air as its body twisted from the force, the thunk of it landing deep in it’s body, thrown slightly off course.

Instead of sinking its fangs into the man’s throat, it crashed violently to the ground with a heavy thud right next to him. Its legs scrambled helplessly in the dirt for a split second before stilling. 

San cursed as he scrambled to his feet, heart hammering as he staggered toward the still form, pain flaring across his body, the cat giving one last pathetic yowl as it laid on the ground, San deeply hurting at the pain it sang out, as it wheezed out one last breath. 

His own breath caught. It wasn’t moving anymore. His spear was buried straight between its ribs, in its heart.

It was dead. It wasn’t moving. It had died. 

San had killed it.

San had killed the Nagual. 

His legs wobbled, and he staggered back, barely keeping himself from collapsing onto the dirt below him. 

He’d killed it. 

He had taken down a creature so much stronger than him, a beast that had terrorized his village for years, for generations. A creature that belonged to the jungle, where he wandered into to slay it. He should’ve been celebrating, or he should’ve felt a sense of triumph, of relief.

But he didn’t. All he could feel was panic, and pain. 

The reality of it hit him hard, like a slap to the face. This wasn’t supposed to be easy. No one had been able to do this before. The way the Nagual had crumpled so effortlessly… something wasn’t right.

He was supposed to be the one laying on the jungle floor, as just the remains of a life before his death. 

Was this the work of the gods? 

How smoothly his spear had glided through its ribs? How it impaled its heart with the most half-assed throw San had ever managed in his life? It shouldn’t be possible, but there it was. The Nagual, dead at his feet. 

Was the chilam right? Was he the chosen one?

His breathing grew shallow, chest tight as he backed away from the body further. 

It shouldn’t have happened like this. 

He couldn’t stop the thoughts from spiraling. How did it die so easily? He should’ve had to work harder for it, should’ve had to fight with his last breath for it, or chase it further, dodge its claws, feel its breath on his skin as it nearly ripped his throat out. 

It hadn’t been easy, his chest that had been sliced open and his aching wrist was proof, but it shouldn’t have happened so quickly.

This had to be a trick.

There had been almost no real fight. Just the weakest of struggles, in which San just laid there, paralyzed with fear. Just a sharp strike, the sound of the spear piercing its flesh, and then the silence.

The Nagual was dead. San had freed his people, and was the only one who could ever say that. 

San had killed it.

He swayed, vision spinning. His entire body felt like it had been set on fire, his chest aching where claws had torn into him, shallowly at least, but deep enough for him to feel warm blood trickle down his chest and for each inhale to burn painfully. Enough for his ribs to ache with the soon-to-form bruises from the weight of the beast. He tucked in his wrist that was throbbing. 

He killed it. It was dead. 

A buzzing noise overtook his head, painfully loud and getting louder, only snapping out of it when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. A voice cut through the haze as the adrenaline slowly left him, rooting him in the aftermath. He didn’t make out any of the words.

“Huh?” San asked, hearing slowly coming back to him. He fell to one knee, everything shifting around him. 

Did the Nagual curse him as it died? Why was he feeling so weak suddenly, so panicked? Was it the wounds on his chest, or was he going to die too, for taking its life?

A man appeared in front of him now, breath heaving. San blinked in confusion. His mouth was moving, but for some reason, his ears wouldn’t pick up what words he was saying. That hand was still on him. 

“You’re bleeding—”

San jerked sharply at the voice, eyes locking onto the stranger’s, wide-eyed and shaking. The man from earlier knelt down with him, a hand reaching for his chest. 

San jerked and smacked the hand away instinctively.

“You—” San snapped, rage swelling up to hide the fact that his hands were still trembling. He grabbed the man by the front of his silk robes and yanked him closer, glad to realize his arms still worked. 

“Did you—want to die?” he rasped out, throat hurting from his screaming. “Why the hell would you follow me?”

The man let out a startled yelp, hands flying up to grip San’s forearms, trying to pry him off. “Why the fuck did you chase after a jaguar?” he shouted back, his voice also hoarse. “Who does that?!”

“I had to!” San shouted, but the words felt weak now. 

He had chased the beast because it was his duty. Because it was the only way to prove he was a real warrior, the best warrior. But looking down at the man in front of him, this fool, he realized that if the Nagual had been just a little faster, if San’s aim had been just a little off, they both would have been dead.

But if the man hadn’t distracted the Nagual, San would be dead. 

He let go with a frustrated exhale, shoving the man away roughly. “Are you hurt?”

The stranger glared, rubbing at his neck where the robes had pulled, but kept his distance. 

“I’m fine, I was asking you that before you freaked out,” he muttered rudely, then glanced warily at the beast’s unmoving form, and back to San’s bloody chest. “Are… you…?”

San let out a scoff, about to answer when his body, adrenaline slowly fizzling out, decided that now was the best time to remember the damage his body had taken. His breath stuttered as his chest ached. 

He glanced down at his own torso. Blood stained his skin and tunic a deep, slick red, and he was scared to see what the wounds in his flesh under it looked like. His vision swayed, though he knew it could’ve been much worse. He was fine. He deserved this, a permanent reminder of his murder.

He killed it. Now he just had to survive.

“Shit,” the stranger hissed, scrambling to his side as San wobbled slightly, but he didn’t know why. It didn’t hurt that bad. He’s been in worse pain before, thinking of the time he had dislocated his shoulder and had to bite down on a leather strap while the ah-men set it back. Or the time his back was sliced open by a rival tribe’s warrior. This was nothing. 

“You—you’re bleeding everywhere.”

San clenched his jaw, leaving only exhaustion and the raw, pulsing pain in his ribs. He glanced down again and saw that his whole body was slowly turning red.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, and it was true. The cuts weren’t deep enough to be worrisome or deadly, likely just permanent scars that would take a little care to heal right. Just a forever reminder of how he almost lost his life to the spirit. But he didn’t. 

“Come on,” the man said, inching closer. A gentle hand rested on his shoulder blade, keeping him upright. “I’ll help—”

“No.” San’s voice was strained, but firm. “I’m fine.”

“Are you being serious right now? You’re about to bleed out.”

San forced himself to stand up again, eyes unfocusing slightly, feel unsteady. “I can make it back to my village. It’s not as bad as it looks.” 

Hurts like a bitch, yeah, but manageable.

“No, you won’t!” The stranger let out an exasperated breath, stepping right into San’s space. “If you try to walk around like this, something else is going to get you.” The man gestured wildly at the jungle around them. “If you don’t collapse from blood loss first.”

San’s breath was starting to shallow, every inhale a sharp stab against his ribs so he settled for less air, at the cost of dizziness. He knew the stranger was right. The jungle never truly rested on its hunt. The scent of blood would draw scavengers, other predators, or worse, insects. He wasn’t in any condition to fight off another attack, and couldn’t do anything about disease, especially with how his lungs burned worse and worse with every breath. 

“My home is nearby, let me clean you up and you can rest there for the night,” the man offered, large hand under San’s bicep to keep him upright. 

“No,” he muttered out as his head started getting fuzzy. “No, m’fine.”

Following a stranger to his home? That was another kind of risk. He had done many foolish things tonight already, and he didn’t want to end up walking right into an enemy tribe’s village. If it sounded too good to be true, it simply was. 

“You’re not fine,” the man tried again. “Let me help you.”

San shook his head, frowning when it made his skull throb, remembering how it had been slammed on the dirt earlier. “I don’t even know who you are. You could kill me.”

The boy scoffed, folding his arms and letting San almost fall over. “And I don’t know you, but I’m still offering to take you to my house even though you’re traipsing around my land with weapons. I just watched you kill a jaguar with only a spear, and I’m all alone in the middle of the jungle with you. If one of us should be scared of the other, it’s me.”

San hesitated. The stranger was young, unarmed, and dressed in robes far too fine for a hunter, skin far too smooth to be a warrior, and wasn’t exactly a threat by the way he threw those stones. If anything, he was an idiot for even still being here. For offering his help.

Why would he offer to help San?

He should have left the second San foolishly chased after the Nagual, to get back home safely. Sometimes idiots should be feared more than enemies. 

“I’m wounded,” he wheezed out. “You could—take advantage of that—”

The stranger rolled his eyes at him. “I have no need to mislead the man who saved me. And if I really wanted to take advantage of your wounds, I would’ve already. Or I could just leave your ass here to die.”

There was something in his expression, something steady and brave, despite the way his fingers trembled slightly at his sides. San did owe him a part of his life; even if he wanted to flee and never think about this moment or this jungle again. 

How badly he wanted to be in his own hut, being comforted by his mother right now. 

San exhaled slowly, swaying on his feet. He hated this. So much. But he was also bleeding through his tunic, his head was starting to get dizzy, and if he passed out here, he probably wouldn’t be waking up again. 

And besides, if this stranger did lie and kill him, San had already fulfilled his destiny. What would it matter now?

He just wanted to be far away from the curse’s corpse. He figured he either died here, died trying to get home, or possibly died in the hands of this man, if he wasn’t being genuine. The odds weren’t great. 

“Fine,” he grunted out. “But just until I stop bleeding. Try anything, and you’ll end up just like that.” He tilted his head to the dead beast, hissing when it made him nauseous from the movement. 

The boy smirked, though there was relief in his eyes like San hadn’t even threatened him. “Of course, jaguar slayer.”

San scowled but didn’t protest when the stranger slipped an arm under his to help him walk. Until his lungs stopped burning, until he could walk straight again, he would accept this. Just for now.

Just until he could learn to ignore how his heart ached with the life he just took, and he could go home and act like everything was fine again. 

Like he wasn’t a killer. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃮☽⋆⁺₊✧

San barely registered the journey, his body heavy against the stranger’s side as they pushed through the jungle. The pain in his chest was a dull throb now, lost beneath exhaustion, but every step still sent jolts of discomfort through his ribs. He focused on keeping his footing, on not showing just how much he was struggling. The man kept reminding him to apply pressure to his wounds through the cloth of his tunic. His hand turned sticky and warm with the blood covering it.

When the trees finally gave way to a small clearing, San squinted through the haze of his dizziness, expecting some modest huts or a crude shelter of woven leaves, since he knew of no other villages this close to his own. 

What he saw instead made him stop short. Nothing like that of a few hermits or an enemy village he imagined. 

And it was just one house. 

Not just a house though, but a sprawling, multi-leveled estate of smooth stone, standing impossibly out of place in the wild trees growing around it. The structure loomed high, bathed in moonlight, its edges softened by the vines that curled along its walls, the thick foliage that half-concealed it from view. Torches flickered warmly along the outer walls, and the faint glow of lanterns seeped through the intricately carved windows.

A palace. 

San stiffened, suddenly hyper aware of how vulnerable he really was. This wasn’t some lonely hermit’s hut, apparently this man had wealth, and that meant he had power, even if not physically. He had no idea who this stranger was or why he lived so deep in the jungle, seemingly alone, and in such a large estate. 

San wondered if it was too late to turn back now. 

The stranger—who had yet to give his name he realized—must have felt his hesitation. “Doing alright?” he asked, voice light, though his grip on San’s arm remained firm. “Almost there, c’mon.”

San grunted, unwilling to admit anything, but matched his pace again. 

“Please don’t pass out here, I don’t think I can carry you up the stairs.”

“I’m fine.”

The boy just shook his head in exasperation, leading him up the stone steps, through a grand archway, and into the cool, dimly lit interior. The air inside smelled of smoking herbs, faintly sweet and ashy, a sharp contrast to the damp dirt scent outside. The walls were lined with intricate tapestries and shelves filled with things San didn’t have the strength to focus on as his brain was currently concerned with not losing consciousness. Small statues, bowls, books, all carefully arranged.

They climbed a wide staircase, San’s legs barely cooperated by the time they reached the second floor. How had he lost his strength so quickly? Surely he hadn’t lost that much blood? The blood now traveling down and staining his pants said otherwise. 

The stranger guided him to a spacious room at the end of the hall, weirdly enough without a door, to reveal a bed draped in soft-looking furs and silks, a small table, and a low-burning lantern casting golden light against the walls.

“You can rest in here,” the stranger said, lowering San onto a cushion in the corner with surprising gentleness and strength given his smaller frame. “Give me one moment.”

The stranger left for a moment and returned with a wet cloth, crouched beside him, and pulled open San’s tunic and dabbed carefully at the marks embedded across his chest with a cloth soaked in some herbal-smelling liquid. Four red marks aligned, right over his heart.

San hissed when it stung, his vision getting spotty. His hand instinctively gripped the stranger’s bicep to stop him, fingers digging in tight. His head started to dip down, ready to pass out.

“Ah, it might hurt,” the boy muttered after the fact, more to himself than to San. He gently pried off San’s hand. “You have to let me, it will help.”

San gritted his teeth as the cloth pressed against an especially raw part of his wound. “Didn’t ask for your help,” he said, voice rough and strained. “I would be—fine—if—if you just leave me here…”

“No, you’d be bleeding all over my floor.” The boy gave him a pointed look before reaching for a small clay bowl beside him, dipping the stained cloth in again. “You’re lucky it's claws didn’t go any deeper.”

San winced as the cool liquid seeped into his wounds. “Lucky,” he echoed dryly. He hadn’t decided if he was yet. 

“The wounds are still deep enough that they won’t be able to heal on their own, wait here.” The boy got up and left the room quickly, returning a moment later with a small dish that he placed next to the blood soaked cloth. 

He pulled out what San recognized to be a bone needle, much smaller than the ones that had been pierced through his skin during ch’ahb’, slender and curved and San wondered if it would even be strong enough to break through his flesh. He eyed it curiously, watching as the boy dipped it into the herbal liquid a few times. 

“I didn’t have time to prepare, so this will have to do.” As he spoke he reached up and pulled a hair from the crown of his head. San watched as he slid the long hair through the hollow bone, pulling it through the other end and bringing the needle to the skin just over his heart. 

The boy stabbed through the skin just below his wound and twisted the needle until it pierced through the flesh on the other side of the bloody gash, making him jerk and yell in pain. It was immediate, searing through his skin and down to the tips of his fingers. San felt his head spin, having to bite down on his cheek to keep himself balanced. The stranger pulled the bone through the other end, repeating the motion over and over down the length of the wound, stitching it up, and tying off the hair, the thick black strand holding his flesh together. San had never seen anything like this before, never even heard of a practice like this. 

“Are—are you a healer?” He asked finally, focusing on the boy instead of the pain blooming across his chest. Every blink was getting slower and his mouth was painfully dry. 

“Healer?” The boy repeated, his brow furrowed. 

“An ah-men? You must be, I’ve never seen anything like this. Though I haven’t seen much, because our healers don’t typically tend to the wounds of the hunters.” San felt his tongue getting loose with the stinging of his skin and the heady scent of the herbs that he assumed were helping to clean out his wound. 

The boy looked confused now, pulling his gaze away from the needle and staring up at San as if he had just said something unimaginable. 

“You’re a hunter, this can’t be the worst wound you’ve ever gotten, and you’re telling me that no one tends to your injuries?” 

San shook his head. “They mostly serve the nobles and royal family. My mom—she wrapped my bandages when I was little—“

“So why do you, as a hunter, not learn how to treat your own injuries?” The second stitch burned along his skin, and he leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes unfocus on the ceiling above. 

“I was not chosen to learn,” San says obviously. He winced as he finished up the second clawmark. 

“Chosen?”

“Only those chosen by the gods are deemed worthy of learning to heal another. I am nothing more than a hunter and sometimes a warrior.”

The stranger stopped, trying off the final stitch on the third gash across his chest and bringing his eyes to meet San’s, a tough and sincere look rooted within them. 

“Who says that you weren’t chosen?” 

“The gods?” he croaked out.

“Why must you be chosen to learn?”

San says nothing in return, he was too tired and couldn’t think of a better answer. Just watches as the boy retrieves another hair from his own head, starting the process on the last claw mark. The gods? The chilam? His own soul?

This stranger wasn’t understanding him, and frankly, San didn’t understand his confusion in return. 

The man worked in silence, stitching up the gashes with another pass of stitches until they were nothing more than thin stripes of bloody skin held together by the hair of a stranger who San owed more to than he was willing to let himself admit. He focused on the cool stone against his back rather than the burning fire that was the wound on his chest. 

The boy reached for the rag that was tinted deep red now, dipping it back into the bowl of liquid before dabbing at the closed wounds, cleaning away any last bits of blood that remained before he brought a different cloth to his face. 

“Can I?” He asked hesitantly, gesturing at the blue paint that San knew to be still streaked across his face even after the many nights spent in the jungle chasing down an immortal spirit. Only tonight he realized that that spirit might not have been as indestructible as he once thought. 

San closed his eyes and let his mind try and piece itself back together, willing away the nausea and dizziness. He felt the rough cloth clean away the prayers on his skin, the one under his right eye is mother blessed, since he didn’t need them anymore. They had worked. 

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft dripping of liquid back into the bowl. Then, as if the weight of the night finally caught up to him, the boy exhaled loudly. San blinked his eyes open carefully. 

“What were you doing all the way out here anyway?” the man asked quietly as he wiped down the paint of San’s arms. 

San let out a breath, but was scared that if he breathed too hard, his stitches would snap back open. “Looking for that jaguar.” A half truth for now. 

“The one you found?” San nodded. “You killed that jaguar.” His voice was hushed, almost disbelieving. His hand found San’s knee for support. “You saved me.”

San shifted slightly, feeling the dull ache in his ribs throb at the movement. “I didn’t save you on purpose, I just had to kill it. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Still…” the boy didn’t meet his eyes as he cleaned San’s arm. “I am in your debt. I don’t know how you managed to slay it, but… Why did you need to kill a jaguar? Is this some sort of competition, or did you need its pelt?”

“It… it wasn’t truly a jaguar,” he muttered. 

“Right.” The boy stilled, cloth hovering just above San’s skin. His eyes blinked up at him inspecting his face for any kind of humor, but found none. He frowned. “… Then what was it?”

“A Nagual,” San admitted in a whisper, the name still scaring him too badly to say. Even if it was dead now.  

Of course the man didn’t understand him. He tilted his head curiously, long, black hair flopping with the motion. San winced as a deeper breath tugged painfully, shutting his eyes briefly. 

“A cursed spirit, it had been preying on my village for ages. I was sent here to kill it.” He forced his eyes open again, focusing on the expression twisting across the stranger’s face. “I didn’t think I… could.”

The boy looked shaken. His fingers dropped the cloth as he pulled away slightly, brows furrowed deep in thought. He quickly picked up the bandages instead, starting to ready them. He dutifully lifted his arms when the boy instructed. 

“A cursed spirit?” he repeated, as if trying to make sense of it. “Here? Why?”

San nodded, watching him carefully pull the rest of his shirt off to wind the bandages around his torso. “I don’t know.”

“How… how did I find it, if you were the one hunting it?”

“I suppose it was hunting you,” he shrugged. “Or using you to get me to show myself. That’s why I figure it was circling you, even though most jaguars are known to run away from humans. You might be dead by now if I hadn’t heard you. I might be too.”

The boy swallowed hard, setting the leftover bandages down beside the bowl. He stared at San for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, finally, he exhaled and stood, moving to a nearby wooden chest.

“I—” He hesitated, voice softer now. “I didn’t know it was so… I thought it was just an animal, and I had unluckily crossed paths with it.”

“Then don’t go out into the jungle at night.”

San said nothing else when he got no response, merely watching as the boy rummaged through a chest, pulling out a set of soft, pale robes. He turned back and pressed them into San’s hands.

“For when you wake up,” he said. “Your clothes are disgusting. Leave them by the door.”

San took the garments, fingers brushing against the finely woven fabric. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m going to anyway,” the boy interrupted, meeting his gaze with surprising intensity. “I owe you my life.”

San blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

“No, you don’t,” San tried. He hesitated, staring at the clean clothes he had been handed. He could feel the weight of the boy’s words, the unspoken gratitude that lingered between them. He didn’t want it. Accepting his gratitude would be like accepting that he actually had killed the spirit.

“I have to go back to my village now, so don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t let you leave in this condition,” the man said sternly. He crossed his arms and stared down at San. “I don’t want to have to drag your corpse off my land because you’re too stubborn to accept a little kindness, or learn some patience.” He glared at San’s pathetic and exhausted form. “Whoever you are, just let me help you.”

He wanted to argue further, he really needed to, he wanted to be home with his family so badly, but something in the stranger’s eyes stopped him. A weight that suggested he truly felt indebted.

San wanted to snap back. He didn’t need help, he just killed the Nagual, for god's sake. Every argument gathered on his tongue like stones he should throw, hard. His village needed him. He needed to prove he wasn’t useless, he wasn’t like the previous hunters. He needed to keep moving before fear settled into his bones and made the memory of teeth and claws too real to face again.

He didn’t need help. 

But when he looked up, ready to spit all of that out, the words withered.

The stranger’s eyes weren’t annoyed the way his voice was. Not pitying, not mocking. No, this was something else. Like the man had already accepted responsibility for him, whether San wanted him to or not.

And San suddenly felt so tired.

His ribs throbbed. His skin burned where claws had forced it open. His legs trembled under him, not with fear now, but with sheer exhaustion. His chest felt hollow, scraped clean after coming so close to dying. The idea of walking all the way back through the jungle, through the heat and night, through the memory of that golden-eyed monster still breathing against his cheek—

He didn’t know if he could.

And he hated that. Hated admitting weakness, even silently. Hated that the stranger was right.

And beneath all that hatred and frustration and stubbornness was something simpler, almost humiliating in its honesty: He didn’t want to die out here. Not after surviving all that. 

San sighed in reply.

“San,” he said quietly, offering his name. His wounds stung as he shifted, but the sting was nothing compared to the strange pull of discomfort he felt from the situation. This was so far beyond even his imagination. Perhaps this night was a dream, and he was still sleeping on the jungle floor, about to wake up to try and hunt down the Nagual again. 

“My name is San.”

The other smiled. “Wooyoung.” He leaned back against the chest, watching him with a gaze that was intense, yet oddly gentle. 

San carefully stood, hissing at the pain, and set the clothes on the bed, the soft fabric a stark contrast to his torn and dirtied tunic on the floor by them. As he stood back up painfully, he couldn’t help but study Wooyoung again, really look at him for the first time.

Wooyoung was slender, with an almost delicate frame, though his presence felt anything but fragile. His hair, long and dark and layered and swept back, framed his face in messy strands that gave him a wild, untamed look, along with his torn clothes. 

There was something ethereal about him, like he didn’t fully belong to the world he was in. It matched his house. His features were sharp, his dark eyes bright and too keen, like they were searching and always thinking ahead. His skin even carried an air of careful elegance, completely unmarred from life or signs of struggle. His expression was unreadable, but there was an undeniable warmth to him, like someone who had learned to survive and yet still carried a piece of gentleness within.

It made no sense. Nothing about this night or place did. 

San shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts. He wasn’t here for friendship, or even kindness. Not to get tangled in whatever this was, in his suspiciously genuine help and odd riches, yet no one around to be richer than. He’d only come for safety, and he would leave when the sun rose again.

“I didn’t do it to get anything in return,” San muttered, shifting uncomfortably under Wooyoung’s gaze. “I was just trying to kill the spirit. That’s all. You just happened to be there.”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he gave a slight nod. “Still,” he said quietly, “I know that I said it already, but I really do want to thank you… for slaying it. More than you might think.”

San grunted, not sure how to respond. “I don’t need your thanks.” After all, Wooyoung had saved him too. 

The boy held his stare for a moment longer before stepping back. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll check on you in the morning. Don’t die overnight, alright? It’d be a pain to clean up, and a waste of me trying to help you.”

And with that, he turned, slipping out of the room and leaving San alone with nothing but the steady flicker of the lantern and the distant echoes of the restless jungle outside.