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Jabber Wonger had never been favored by the gods.
He'd been born to a second son in a royal line, never truly meant for the crown— though he didn't think he would want to be Tlahtoani in the first place. He was perfectly happy as a pilli. But everyone told him how unlucky he was for it, and surely he and his father must have felt robbed by the firstborn and his daughter who would inherit the title.
He had been a rather sickly child. His mother called for all kinds of healers, filled him up with all kinds of teas and medicines and draughts, lathered him in salves and chewed up leaves and oils. He wasn't sure if that all worsened his ailments or if they were the things that kept him from death. At the very least, he was much healthier now, his body more resilient after so many years fighting to survive.
He had lost his mother in the prime of his adolescence to battle of childbirth, leaving her to become a cihuateotl. In the same timeframe, his father was off in battle and had been captured, returned to Jabber and the Tlahtoani in pieces just days after his mother's passing.
So Jabber was taken in by his uncle, by the Tlahtoani. That part wasn't so horrible. He liked his cousins. He was given all kinds of lessons. Languages and fighting and war strategy and politics and was allowed to study alongside his cousins. As he grew up, his uncle allowed him a lab of his own to experiment with all sorts of things, discovering what was healing and what was deadly— a residual fascination from his youth.
He discovered that he was unusally unaffected by the effects of his experiments, accidentally killing a highly respected temple servant with the same serum which simply relaxed him and made everything rather funny. He had been certain it would be grounds for his own execution, but his uncle seemed to find some merit in his hobby. He warned him not to use any of it with servants or his cousins or, frankly, anyone that wasn't Jabber himself. So long as he agreed to that he could continue doing as he pleased.
It seemed a turning point for his life. Like the gods had finally decided he had suffered enough. He excelled in everything he did, becoming one of the top warriors in their military, learning enough to become a high priest should he choose it which would make him second in command to the Tlahtoani, and he had become one of the best healers for his people.
He was a good fighter. He imbued poisons and toxins in his darts, his arrows, and had even fashioned a set of rings that could be triggered into claws in honor of the jaguar god, Tezcatlipoca, for close range fighting. He was powerful, and he was resilient. Despite the enemy's attempts to hurt him, to trick him, he was always a step ahead. Even their poisons were weak on him, though they managed to debilitate his troops.
He had grown up to be someone important, someone powerful but without the responsibility of the Tlahtoani, someone who genuinely enjoyed life and what he did, right down to the fighting.
And then the peace treaty happened.
It should have been a blessing, a cause for celebration. Masochistic tendencies aside, it could have been.
If not for the fact that Jabber had become a pawn within it.
He had been drinking with his cousins, celebrating the end of the war, when his uncle came in, gaze immediately finding Jabber. There was something solemn in them, something hardened.
"We need to talk," he'd said. His cousins had shared a look before standing up and leaving them alone.
As it turned out, part of the treaty meant Jabber had been traded off like a spoil of war.
Their enemy had agreed to peace under the condition of a union of their bloodlines. His cousin Cthoni could not be offered seeing as she was next in line to become Tlahtoani. His cousin Momoa could not be offered because she was meant to be a cihuatlamacazqui, a priestess. Which left Jabber as the last living person with royal blood.
Oddly enough, he would not be marrying the princess seeing as she was already betrothed. Instead he would be marrying a son.
While that didn't bother Jabber, he didn't understand how their union would ensure peace for longer than the next handful of decades. It wasn't like they could sire children of both cultures to promote peace into the next generation.
Then his uncle had simply ignored the question and asked if he needed help packing up his lab equipment. After all, he had to continue his studies, even in foreign land. Maybe that land would lead to new discoveries that would… impress his new family.
And then Jabber understood.
So he ended up on a ship for months with no knowledge of this new land he would be in, no knowledge of the family, no knowledge of marriage customs, the most basic grasp of the language, and a terrible homesickness emphasized by the stagnant nature of having nothing but the ship to explore.
It was almost a relief to finally dock.
Until he saw the way people looked at him.
He realized with a start that there wasn't a single person who looked anything like him. Everyone's skin was pale, some even painted to look as white as possible. Their hair was either done up in intricate shapes with shiny decorations or left flowing in straight, flat strands. No feathers, no braids, no curls. And everyone wore clothes made out of soft looking, shiny fabrics, cinched at the waist and flowing in a way that had to make it difficult to get anything done.
The escorts from the ship with his things guided him to a huge wooden chair on wheels with two large sticks poking out of it. He sat down and watched in confusion as another person began to pull him forward by the sticks, down the road of several strange looking dwellings. People gathered on the road with their odd skin and odd hair and odd eyes and whispered in their language. Some pretended not to stare by tipping the brims of their wide hats or covering their faces with round papers with pretty designs.
They weren't fighters, but Jabber felt uneasy and defensive. He found little solace in the familiarity of the scent of the ocean in the air. Things here were more cluttered, the fruits and vegetables in different shapes and sizes. He knew what he was meant to do here, but what certainty was there that he would get a chance to return home? That these people wouldn't riot against him as a foreigner? The plan his uncle had was not a simple one. It would take time. Years. How was he to go without home, without the temples, without the food, without his cousins?
Truly, he had never been favored by the gods.
When he arrived at the palace, grand and impressive but nothing like their temples, Jabber was immediately escorted into a room where a man in a strange hat sat alone, apparently expecting him.
He spoke in Jabber's language, though butchered and clumsy, like a baby who had not yet learned the dexterity of their tongue or the point of a certain order of words.
"Welcome. You bring great honor to your people. I hope you can soon consider our country your home. I've arranged a group to help you customize—" Jabber assumed he meant accustom, "better to our culture and your new role. You may use our home of baths—" what? "and servants will help you dress. The it will be time for the First Look, the omiai—" Jabber assumed that word was in his native language, "when you will meet your future husband."
Jabber nodded. The man inclined his head and the two warriors flanking him bowed and nudged Jabber awkwardly to leave. They guided him to a big room full of water and gestured for him to go in.
He shed his clothes and noticed the two shift awkwardly, expressions suddenly hardened as they stared at his body. One of them stepped forward, repeating something that sounded like a protest, gesturing for Jabber to step away from the water. He rolled his eyes and moved away. The warrior pointed at the ink on his skin and shook his head vehemently.
"Military accomplishments," Jabber said in their language. The two blinked in surprise. "Good fighter." He pointed to himself then the tattoo. "Reward. Honor."
The idea seemed to mystify them, and they spoke between each other faster than Jabber could hope to understand, both looking distressed by the fact that they couldn't explain something to him.
Then they turned to each other and began to act out a fight, one pretended to stab the other with an invisible weapon before looking afraid. The one being pretend stabbed fake died before looking sterner and suddenly restraining the other. Then he pretended to write into the attacker's shoulder while the other pretended to writhe in pain. The one who was fake dead and also maybe a law enforcer made an X with his arms at the attacker who made his best impression of a miserable person.
It was an impressive little act, and Jabber might have laughed or clapped if not for the realization it gave him. He looked at the ink on his skin which had been celebrated and bestowed on him with pride. It seemed here the ink would suggest he was some sort of criminal, an outcast moreso than he already clearly was.
He sighed and looked at the water. "So…? I can't bathe?" He wasn't sure if they understood the words, but they understood the questioning lilt and the way he pointed at the bath. They seemed unsure before they nodded and nudged him along before turning their backs to him.
Maybe it was fine since he was alone. Whatever the case, he wanted to wash the grime of the last few moon phases on the ship. His skin felt sticky and dry and coarse. He wanted to cleanse his hair and with it his own spirit.
The water was a relief, but he couldn't help but wonder just what other customs had entirely different meanings between this land and his own.
Once he felt clean, he stepped out of the bath and dried himself before the two funny warriors led him to a nearby room. A great deal of cloth was folded neatly on the ground beside a mat and he poked at it with his foot. The warriors had left and when they had, two women with intricate hairstyles came in, looking skittish and uneasy. They wouldnt look at Jabber, but they moved quickly around him, taking the cloth and draping it over him.
He was dressed in about three different robes with long sleeves, cinched at the waist with one left open at his chest. They were different colors and patterns that Jabber wasn't really impressed with. The women seemed to hesitate with his hair, murmuring to each other.
One bowed to him voice delicate and soft and she spoke words he didn't understand and gestured to his hair. She pointed and tilted her head as she nodded.
It seemed polite of them to ask to touch it. Clearly no one here had this type of hair, so he didn't resent her curiosity.
He nodded, and she smiled, taking one of the long, twisted locs by his forehead in her hands, caressing it with her dainty fingers. She said something to the other, reaching out, and suddenly a blade was slicing through his hair.
Jabber acted before he could think, feeling sick to his stomach and panicked. He twisted her around her back and shoved her down, unfazed by the other woman hitting him or their screaming as he kept a knee at her spine. The clothing made it hard to move as easily as he wanted, but the women were not like the warriors he had fought.
"What did you do!" he shouted. "You miserable—"
Suddenly there was a long blade at his throat and heavy hand on his shoulder. "Let. Her. Go."
It was said in Jabber's language, which was the only reason Jabber listened. He let the woman go and allowed himself to get pulled back.
The blade weilder spoke in his own language and the women blubbered over each other with enough audacity to wave his hair around.
The man cut them off and then asked in Jabber's language, "What happened?"
"She asked to touch my hair then cut it off," he spat. "My hair is my soul. It's proof of my strength, of my victories, of my abilities. And she just…. She just cut it!"
There was a sigh before he said some sort of dismissal that made the woman leave. The sword was sheathed and Jabber was let go, turning to see another warrior, this one in metal armor and a helment that shielded most of his face, the rest covered by a protective cloth.
"She didn't ask to touch it, she asked to cut it. She thought you agreed. Men here wear their hair short now. I will speak to them."
Jabber touched the one short piece, now barely reaching below his eye.
"I apologize for the confusion," the warrior said. "It was not their intent to upset you. Come, it is time for the First Look."
"Omiai," Jabber recalled as he followed behind him.
"Hm. Yes," the warrior said, sounding a little impressed. "You know Japanese?"
"Very little. Enough to get by if spoken slowly. How do you know my language?"
"I was a general in the war. I had to learn it to survive. Though you keep it well hidden without a proper writing system."
"We have a script, it just isn't like yours," Jabber said sharply.
The warrior didn't answer for a while. Then he asked, "Do you speak the Western tongue?" This question he asked in a differently language, one that slurred and which Jabber had always found annoying to learn. His people called it the Invader tongue.
"Yes," he answered.
The warrior didn't respond, but led Jabber back into the room he had first come to. As he took his place beside the old man, he said something to him, and the old man beamed.
"Welcome back!" he said in the Invader tongue, which he seemed to speak almost perfectly. "You almost look like one of us!"
Jabber held back the urge to sneer. He glanced toward the person kneeling on the ground at a small, low table at the man's feet. Someone in blue robes with a wide brimmed hat like the ones he saw outside, head tilted down.
"Yes, this is my son, your future husband. You will address him as Nijiku-san until the wedding." The man gestured for Jabber to sit.
Jabber did, glancing at the items on the table. He was unfamiliar with the material, with the scent.
"You may lift your gaze, my son."
The man in front of him looked up, meeting Jabber's eyes. His expression was stern. His hair was a bit lighter than most of the people he'd seen so far. He had slits in his narrowed eyebrows. Pale skin. Angular eyes. Jabber supposed he was handsome. Different from what he was used to, but handsome all the same. He certainly wasn't… upset at the prospect of marrying him.
"Your hair is very long and strange," Nijiku-san said.
Jabber sneered. "You are too pale and have strange eyes."
Nijiku-san flinched back in surprise, eyes wide with fury.
"Come now, let's not begin this union with animosity," the old man said. "You will have a life together. Best to find the… positive qualities."
Nijiku-san looked down his nose at Jabber. "The soldiers tell me you have tattoos."
"They're proof of my victories. Battles won."
"Then why were you so expendable?"
Jabber suddenly couldn't wait to fill this man up with toxins. "I would think your empire would rejoice at having someone of royal lineage and high rank among you. If you'd prefer a commoner, I'm happy to go back."
"You have much to learn about your place here," Nijiku-san said.
Jabber only smiled. "So what am I to call you after the wedding?"
He was the picture of perfect composure now. "You may call me Goka once we are united. The particulars will be discussed later."
Jabber nodded.
"Very well then," the old man said. "Preparations will begin tonight! How wonderful that our people could agree on peace. In the meantime, you will join the group who will help you acclimate." He gestured to the warrior beside him. "Go on, take him. Be sure he is comfortable and prepared in time for the wedding."
The warrior bowed before moving beside Jabber and kneeling, head lowered to the ground. "I will be your guide and teacher," he said.
Jabber caught a scoff from Nijiku-san. Frankly, if the man didn't like this warrior, that was enough reason for Jabber to consider him a favorite.
"I appreciate it," he said. "Can I know your name then?"
The warrior came up from his bow and tilted his head up enough to meet Jabber's gaze.
His eyes took his breath away. The color of the ocean on hot days. The color of the clear skies. The color of Quetzalcoatl's feathers. Eyes unlike any he had ever seen.
"Nijiku Zanka," he answered, voice still muffled by his cloth. "You may call me Zanka."