notapaladin

“I still have to get your permission to court you, after all.”

Acatl was absolutely sure he could not have heard right. Maybe he’d hit his head in the fighting and was just now realizing it. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and this was a dream. Maybe he was dead. But the city spread out below him was still lit by torches for the funeral vigils, and there was none of the acrid smell of Mictlan in his nose. He stared out at the light reflecting on the canals, felt a breeze ruffle his cloak, and tried to form words. “You want to what,” he managed, through numb lips that didn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him.

Teomitl was still looking at him, and still smiling like the dawn. “You heard me.”

He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth.

Now, it wasn’t unheard of for priests to marry; they were not allowed children, and were still prohibited from unions that could result in them, but for two men or two women to marry was an acknowledged...well, not precisely a loophole in the vows, but certainly a long-established and permissible bending. His own mentor’s husband had died before Acatl had met him, but the man had worn the single red-wrapped braid of a married priest until his own death. Still, it was one thing to know in theory that it could happen, and another for it to be happening to him. He was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. He dealt with rituals, and his temple, and the bodies of the dead. He did not—had never even thought he might, no matter his most secret desires—deal with the bodies of the living. And now Teomitl, the bright and beautiful youngest brother of the Revered Speaker, was casually bringing up the idea of courting him as though it didn’t turn his world upside down.

He took a breath. Good, he could still do that and not feel like he might faint. “...Why?!”