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Kinich woke in a full-body sweat. Everything was damp, his hair, his skin, his face.
Cold. Everything was cold.
With trembling hands he wiped away the sweat that lined his brow, then the rivulet that had traversed down his cheeks. A cloying heat clung to him. He tossed the sheets off of himself.
Outside, it was raining. He could see the slivers of water hitting the windowpanes and sliding down the glass. Some were slow, some were fast. Fast, like his footsteps when he ran from his father.
“Get back here, you little bastard!”
The raindrops fell off the glass and into the dark. Just like his father had on the day Kinich turned seven. He too, had gone down in the dark.
He closed his eyes, unable to forget the aggression in his father’s voice. No matter how hard he tried, it lingered like a stain he couldn’t remove.
So instead he called to mind a different sound.
“Little cricket!”
His mother. Oh, how he wished he could remember the features of her face.
“Always face the Sun. She is there to guide and to nurture.”
And yet the Sun killed the taro vines, the ones he needed to weave the baskets. And yet the Sun dried up the springs he needed to water his crops. And yet the Sun spoiled the pulque his father loved to drink, a source of his short temper. And yet the Sun dried his father’s corpse like a prune, leaving him in an accelerated state of decomposition for little Kinich to find.
“Mom…” he wanted to say. “The Sun has been unkind to me.”
And it had been, back then.
He opened his eyes once more, and his heart dropped to his stomach. Blood covered his naked body, darkest near his chest where an Abyssal blade had pierced right through him. His body ached. He was drenched, in sweat and blood and tears. His vision grew blurry, and the tears refused to fall.
He was frozen in place. He wanted to scream, yet his mouth wouldn't move. Agony gripped his soul as a bleary image of a woman appeared. Black hair, tan skin, but her face was blurred out. Even without any defining facial features, this woman looked too much like him.
“Mom?” He called out.
“Little cricket, are you having trouble falling asleep?”
“Mom…”
"I’m sorry, my child. I wish I didn’t have to say goodbye so soon.”
“Please, don’t go…”
“I wish I could take you with me. Get you away from this life. But I have to go my own way. I have to be free.”
“No… no…”
“Take care of yourself, Kinich. I know you can.”
“Mom!”
A gentle touch on his shoulder grounded him, helped him remember where he was. “Kinich, are you okay?”
A breath left him in a strangled huff. He forced his head to the side, her name on the tip of his tongue and stuck in his throat all at once. She sounded so close, yet so far. Her hands were callused like his own, so used to wielding a blade. Her fingers were gentle, combing through damp strands of black and yellow and green. Flaxen blonde framed her round face.
“Are you okay?” She asked again.
He shook his head.
“Don’t worry.” She pushed the hair out of his face. “I’m here.” She placed a cool hand on his brow. Was the Sun always this cold? “I’m right here.”
He inhaled sharply, hand shooting out to catch her wrist in his grasp. She invited it, pulling his lax body into her embrace.
“Is there blood on me?”
“No.”
“Is my father still alive?”
“No, he’s not. You’re safe with me.”
“And my mother?”
“I don’t know. I wish I knew.”
He wished he knew, too.
Kinich cried. The tears that had refused to come were now flowing down his cheeks. He weeped with what little strength he had left as the wind howled and thunder clapped. The Sun held him in her arms, warm and strong and kind. Gone was her cruelty she'd shown in the past, now here she was, offering her nurturing and caring touch to him in his darkest hour.
The Saurian hunter must press on by the time the sun rises. But having her here, being in her arms, will make that act a little easier come the dawn.