Chapter Text
There is a battle raging in the shallows near his home.
Attuma frowns from his place near the Atlantic sandbar, turning his attention toward Talokan and grimacing when he feels the reefs quake under the destructive power mortals seem so keen to wield. It’s yet another in a long line of the wretched beings fighting each other and ravaging their surroundings, just as they were wont to do when their greed called louder than their sense. The bodies falling into his domain are an annoyance, and for a moment, he’s tempted by that quiet, vicious part of him to call upon the power of his father’s storm and throw the seas into chaos. If nothing else, it will protect the innocent in his kingdom. His people are weary from war, and their waters deserve respite.
But he won’t.
For now, his kingdom would tremble under the rattle of War.
Namora’s aura casts a heavy pallor over the skies, filling the air with her brittle rage and grim wrath. The screeches of battle are accompanied by the screams of the dying, and it’s not just War that has come into his domain. The Death God’s chilling presence brushes against his own with every soul he claims for Xibalba.
Attuma scoffs. Mortals and their fickle penchant for violence. They forget— for every battle they might claim as a victory, the only true victor is Death.
He quells his temper and keeps his silence, allowing the tide to carry him back to his home and letting his fellow gods carry out their work in peace. This was not the first battle that’d raged in these waters, nor would it be the last.
Yet, this one would change everything.
.
.
.
He’s halfway to Talokan when he feels her fall into his domain.
Her soul is a spark, bright and blinding— a fierce flash of searing heat against his essence as she falls deeper and deeper into the Caribbean Sea, crying out all the while. She’s but one among countless others, drowning and drowned, all waiting for Cizin’s embrace. Their calls for help and rescue will go unanswered.
Hers will not.
The warrior’s cries spur his body into motion, and he’s twisting through the water before his mind can fully comprehend what he’s doing. He has no explanation for his actions; there is no familiarity between them. He’s never met this mortal in this life or any other. There is only a deep yearning and an inexplicable sense of dread coursing through his veins, urging him to get to her before it’s too late.
He finds her near the edge of the chasm he calls home just as her body gives in to the sea.
Blood clouds the waters around her, the bright red of it making her torn battle attire nearly indiscernible. The angle of her shoulder is wrong, and her right arm hangs limply at her side. Her eyes slip shut, and she goes still.
Like the dead.
Not yet.
She is dying, though. That much is true. Yet, he can hear the warrior’s fervent prayers as if they’re coming directly from her mouth. The vestiges of her consciousness echo through his mind, fiercely clinging to what little life she has left. Determined prayers for strength quickly become desperate pleas for salvation as her body begins to sink, and again, he moves to answer the call before he can think too hard as to why.
Attuma swims closer, imposing his will upon the current and reversing its flow so she begins to drift toward him rather than away. Once she’s close enough, he pulls her in carefully, drawing her broken body into his with all the gentleness of the shallows. His sight is clear despite the depths and debris, and he finds her to be a vision achingly close to perfection— her head is shaved and covered with angular tattoos, her lashes are thick and dust the tops of her sharp cheekbones, the set of her nose is wide, the bow of her lips is deep, and if she is this magnificent under the depths, Attuma can only imagine how glorious she must look in the sunlight. The flash of heat he’d felt when she’d first entered his waters pales in comparison to the all-encompassing warmth he feels surrounding them now, and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was a star.
An ethereal piece of the divine heavens— fallen just for him.
But stars aren’t meant to fall into the sea.
Nor are they meant to die without spectacular regard.
His warrior’s cries have faded into near-silent supplications, slow and weak. The bright, brilliant spark of her soul is fading along with them, and he can’t bring himself to let it happen.
He is the god of the sea, born of the storm, able to bend the depths in one breath and hold back the tides in another—his fury could drown the world. And while his power might be as immense as the seas, there are still things in this world out of his reach. Immortality is not his to grant at will. Should Cizin claim her soul before he can intervene, Attuma will be powerless to get her back.
He snarls at the thought.
She is His.
No matter who she was before or whatever may come for them after, she will always be His.
What belongs to the Sea will always return.
A thousand and one curses leave his lips as his spark flickers like a dying flame, and he knows if he means to restore his fallen star to glory, it must be now.
He wishes it were as simple as granting her the Breath of the Sea and taking her to Talokan, but her lungs are full of water, and her body will not survive the pressures of his home in this state. No, they will have to surface. Then, he will do all he can— and then more.
His mind spins with options.
The eastern sandbar is safe, but its openness is a disadvantage. He cannot take her inland either; his grandfather might attempt to stop him. They need Refuge, and so there is only one place he can take her. He hisses another curse and summons Tabai with a sharp whistle. Attuma can only hope his sister will not be overly angry at him for bringing a mortal to their blessed birthplace. His beloved companion greets him with a gentle nudge and a questioning click. He doesn’t have many answers for her, only a location. Attuma wraps one arm around his fallen star’s waist, pulling her securely against him, and grabs Tabai’s dorsal fin with the other.
They make for Tu’ux u Yookoj.
Tabai is quick, nearly as quick as a sailfish with his blessing, and even as the sea recognizes his urgency and the currents bend and flow to hasten their journey, Attuma still feels like they aren’t moving fast enough. He counts the seconds as they cut through the water and swears at the bloody trail they leave behind. He has no worry for the fearsome predators of the ocean; his creations will not come to devour one he holds dear, but the bright red of her blood cutting a sickly swath in the deep blue of his seas is a sharp indicator of how little time he has to keep his star’s spark alight. Blessedly, the soft hills and steep cliffs of his birthplace come into view sooner rather than later, and Attuma releases Tabai and allows the tides to carry them ashore.
He wastes no time in laying her on the soft sand of the beach to survey her injuries. He’s not Ahau-Chamahez; healing and medicine are not his domain, but he will deliver himself to the gates of Xibalba if he allows his star to leave this plane without trying. She’s bleeding heavily and not breathing. Her lungs are full of sea, and Attuma clears them first, turning her on her side to pull the saltwater from them in a single steady stream. He sends it back to the ocean with a flick of his fingers and lays her flat, hovering over her, hoping to feel even the smallest of breaths.
.
.
.
Nothing is ever so simple.
.
.
.
Attuma strains his ears to listen for her pulse and breathes a sigh of relief at the weak, thready beat.
She is not gone yet, but she soon will be if he cannot stop the blood trailing down her leg. Keen eyes scan her form, finding the source of the bleeding near the top of her left thigh. He presses his hand against the deep gash and grits his teeth, willing the blood to slow from a rapid rush to a faint trickle. Still, the warmth that surrounded them before begins to fade as she slips further from him, and he curses the fragility of mortal bodies.
Ah-Chun-Caan help him; he just needs a little more time.
He keeps his hand against her leg and places the other on her heart. Mindful of his strength and power, Attuma pushes lightly against her chest, pressing a small fraction of his power and divine will into the organ— willing it to heal, to beat. The muscles jump in response, and her chest jerks up. But her pulse remains weak.
Again.
He presses power and will into her. She jerks, but doesn’t breathe.
And again.
Power.
Will.
.
.
.
Nothing.
Attuma brings his hand from her chest and cradles her head, pressing his forehead against hers. He’s praying— to whom he does not know —but it’s all he can do as his heart begins to rend.
His eyes squeeze shut.
Please. Please. Please.
His breaths are hard and fast against her face.
Breath.
She needs to breathe .
He growls a silent curse at himself for his idiocy and inhales. His lips meet hers, and he exhales, blowing Salt and Sea into her lungs. Warmth suffuses his entire being, divine and whole and right. Attuma ignores it. He can only listen for her pulse. It’s still weak, but it grows stronger with every moment, and he smiles, nudging her nose with his own.
“That’s it, in eek’e’,” he encourages in a murmur against her mouth, “Breathe.”
.
.
.
Nothing is ever so simple.
.
.
.
Her heart beats steadily for scant seconds before falling faint again, and Attuma groans in despair. The seas behind him churn, matching his frustration and desperation. Laying the warrior back down, he cloaks his hand in power and presses into her chest again.
He’s had a taste of hope.
He won’t relinquish it so easily.
His warrior’s back arcs up as it did before; then she’s back against the sand— lifeless.
“Dammit, in eek’e’... you have to breathe,” he growls, pushing his power into her for a fifth time.
Please. Please. Please.
.
.
.
Her body meets the ground yet again, and he begs audibly on his sixth attempt.
.
.
.
“Please…”
.
.
.
Lightning crackles above, thunder on its heels as clouds gather. A storm gathers quickly, waiting to rain down his fury. Colossal waves crash against the cliffs on the western side of the island, and Attuma wonders if he’s brought death to this sacred place.
Her heart continues on its weak beat, and lightning strikes the Ceiba grove. He doesn’t care. Attuma will brave every ounce of his sister's icy fury if the warrior under him will just breathe.
He’s desperate when he pushes another breath into her. It’s forceful and hard, and he feels her lungs fill with Salt and Sea. The warmth is back, along with the steady, strong beat of her heart. Attuma pulls back, listening intently, begging softly.
“Come on… come on… you’re almost there… just a little more… please… please…”
.
.
.
.
.
.
Her heart does not maintain its rhythm, and the sky flashes electric grey with lightning.
The clouds boom in answering thunder, and Attuma’s howls of unexplainable grief are lost in the wind.
His hands cradle her face, and the seas rage as their god begs a mortal woman.
.
.
.
—as their god mourns his fallen star.
.
.
.
.
.
.
“You won’t save her.” Cizin’s deathly rattle is heard over the howling wind, and his words still him in place.
A shiver trills down Attuma’s spine.
He bristles at being told his efforts will amount to nothing and raises his head to look Death in the eye, defiant as the seas he rules.
“You have no place here.”
Cizin concedes, inclining his head, then looks down at the warrior. “Even so, when I leave, I will take her with me. Slowing her bleeding has only slowed her death. She will not live beyond this night.”
“She will,” Attuma insists, looming over his star’s body to protect her from Death’s baleful gaze. “She will.”
“You cannot change what will be, Attuma. Most of her life’s blood is in your sea, and what little is left will soon join the rest. Her heart will stop, and her soul will leave this plane. Your lover will die tonight.”
The calm certainty in Cizin’s voice ignites Attuma’s rage, and his face twists into a snarl. “Her heart still beats! I won’t let you steal whatever life she has left!” He leans down and pushes more power than he ever has before into her chest.
It leaps, and her heart stutters against his palm.
Nothing changes.
Cizin starts to speak again, but Attuma ignores him.
.
.
.
He presses. She arcs.
.
She falls. He pushes.
.
.
.
“Stop this!” Cizin commands, fury bleeding into his voice. “You prolong her death for your own selfish greed. Let her die!” The god of Xibalba kneels next to him. “I swear to you, I will deliver her soul to Osiris myself. She will never know the trials of my domain.”
Osiris?
An Egyptian god.
An Ancient Egyptian god.
His thoughts race with possibilities.
If his warrior kept the ancient ones, then there was a chance. An impossible chance— but a chance no less. He and Sobek had parted on friendly terms the last time they’d met. Perhaps Attuma could petition him to heal her, maybe keep her alive until she had a chance to die under the skies of her home. Or at least ensure she met a more honorable end than the watery grave she’d been destined for. Perhaps he can convince the Crocodile to petition Ra so she can rest among the stars.
Cold fingers touch Attuma’s arm and shock him from his rambling thoughts. His gaze leaves his fallen star’s to look into Death’s face again.
Even if he could petition Sobek, she wouldn’t survive the journey. Not like this anyway.
Why would you stray so far from the land of your gods only to die, in eek’e’?
“I will guard her soul; you have my word.” Cizin’s words are ice in his veins. “Let her die, Hun-Nal-Ye.”
.
.
.
Nothing was ever so simple.
.
.
.
Lightning strikes the beach near them at the utterance of his True Name, turning sand to glass and causing his form to flicker. His divinity has been called upon, and his head hangs heavy with the weight of his own helm. Yet Cizin has provided him with a reminder:
He is the god of the sea, born of the storm—his waters will purify; his salt will preserve.
Attuma pulls his arm from under Cizin’s touch and reaches for the teeth lining his helm. His hand is slick with his warrior’s blood, but it doesn’t stop him from breaking off a tooth with ease. The god of death flinches back from him as Hun-Nal-Ye breaks off a piece of his divinity, but he has no thoughts to spare for Yum Cimil. He palms the tooth and leans over his warrior’s prone form, resting his forehead on hers again.
“Sa'asik in, in ki'ichpam eek'e'.”
Attuma whispers a fervent prayer for forgiveness against her mouth before pressing his lips to hers and shoving the tooth into the wound on her thigh.