#fem filipino | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mrs-lockley · 1 year

Text

where the spirit meets the bones

Summary: Above, a merciful Sirena roams the seas of the East. Below, a lonely king seeks retribution. Your paths cross one war-torn night when you save the life of a man from the sea with feathered wings on his ankles and ears that point to the sky. Enchanted by your siren song, the feathered serpent king becomes determined to find you, even if he must wait for half a century.

Posted on AO3 here.

Pairing: Namor (K’uk’ulkan) x Filipina (Kapampangan)!Fem!Sirena!Reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: Mentions of colonization (burning of a Spanish flag in a sea storm but nothing graphic), mentions of drowning and burning (nothing explicit), slow burn (pun not intended), mutual yearning and pining, mentions of death and the afterlife. Physical descriptions of the reader include dark hair and eyes

Tagging: @justrunamok @artsynellyyy @theatreslave @musing-magpie @lostfleurs @alathan13 @velvetmel0n @mattmurdockswife @ameliachastain

Author’s Notes: Hello my darlings! After nearly two years, I have written my first fic. Please be gentle when giving feedback and I apologize if my writing is a bit rusty. But this fic is very loosely based on the Little Mermaid with some Philippine and Maya mythology.

The reader is Filipina, but from an unidentified region from the province of Pampanga, Philippines. Kapampangan is also the reader’s first language (and my second language) and does not speak Tagalog. This is the first part of a trilogy.

Translations: Kapampangan, Yucatec Mayan, and some Tagalog is used in the fic. For smaller phrases, translations are found throughout the fic in italics. For longer sentences in Kapampangan and Yucatec Mayan, translations are found at the end of the fic (with additional author’s notes).

Namor’s monologue is in italics in respect to his language. An online translating generator was used. If there are any errors in Kapampangan and/or Yucatec Mayan, please let me know and I will correct it.

How’s one to know I’d meet you where the spirit meets the bones in a faith forgotten land?

Lubao, Pampanga, June 1827

The moon was full when you rose to the surface, the night quieter than usual. Rain clouds begin to depart as the rain lightens into a steady downpour over the calming sea. The quiet after the storm, but your burning skin and aching bones say otherwise.

On the beach, a mother cries in relief as her daughter clears the water from her lungs, her arms immediately circling around her as she thanks Apong Díos and the angels above. Beside her, the father embraces his family with a joyous shout.

You had caught the girl wandering the beach earlier that evening at the peak of the rainstorm. It was high tide then, the water lapping too close and too angry as she ran along the shore. One moment she was playing on the sand, and the next, the ocean had tried to swallow her whole.

You fought against the current in search for her, your lungs aching for air as the water screamed in defiance. Your tail cramped as you dove beneath the surface, narrowly fitting between the crevices of the sharp rocks and stones. Only slivers of moonlight guided your path through the dark stormy waters.

But you found her a moment later with her head barely above water, her arms and legs thrashing to stay afloat. Her pleas for help were drowned over the sound of the beating ocean and pouring rain, falling deaf on human ears. The girl’s panicked movements only propelled her deeper into the sea, and it was a matter of seconds before she would draw her last breath.

Softly, you began to sing to her. At the sound of your voice, the girl began to still, her movements drawing to a halt as you approached her. Her eyes fluttered shut, but her breathing slowed as her body was calmed by your song. The water around you began to bend to your will the louder you sang, enchanting the creatures and tides around you into submission.

With ease, you wrapped your arms around the child and held them in a tight embrace as you swam to the shore. Her head on your shoulder, you continued to sing softly to her to quiet her mind and relax her body.

You returned her to the surface as you gently laid her body on the sand, your hand cradling the back of her head. In the distance, the yellow lights of a nearby village hut began to flicker with shadows racing across the window. Quickly, you brushed her hair out of her face and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, your hand squeezing hers.

“Gumising na.” Wake up.

At the sound of approaching voices, you released her hand and returned to the sea.

The little girl stands and holds onto her mother’s hands as they depart from the shore, but she hesitates. You watch as she tugs on her mother’s hands and turns to her, urgently pleading for her mother to listen. The mother gazes at the sea, her expression unreadable as her eyes search for answers. The girl turns and points, but her mother shakes her head and carries her in her arms as the father shields them both from the rain, retreating into the safety of their hut.

You ignore the sharp pang splintering in your chest before you turn, floating on your back with your arms outstretched and offering yourself to the sky. Up above, the clouds continue to depart as the rain slows into a whispering shower kissing your skin.

As you bask in the moonlight, you run your fingers over the curved surface of the golden pendant resting on your chest. It was the last relic of your past life, the only physical memory of who you were before the ocean had claimed you as its own. Tonight was far different than the last night you walked on land, but it was quieter nights like these where your mind wandered into the past. One by one, it all came back to you.

A gentle mother’s touch on your hand during a monsoon. A sister braiding your hair by the window. A father teaching you how to sail. A lover sneaking a kiss between dances.

The heaviness in your chest deepens, spreading to your neck and to your eyes as they sting with tears. With pieces of your past echoing in your mind, you look up to the night sky and beg for comfort. One hundred years you have served the ocean. One hundred years you have saved your people from drowning. One hundred years of protecting the secrets of the sea.

But it has also been one hundred years of loneliness.

You were unlike the other creatures who dwelled in the sea. While the sirenas feasted on men and dragged them to their deaths, you rescued them and returned them to the shore. The kataws walked on land and were mistaken for humans as they manipulated the water to their will, while you tamed the water to save the innocent. Siyokoys devoured mortals, but you loved your people who walked on the land and found beauty in their world. While you have the sea turtles and dolphins at your side, your heart remains heavy as they whisper behind you. You were not their kind, why would the ocean choose to have mercy on you?

Gazing at the moon with the water holding you close, you stretch your hands and pray. Why did save me? Must I always bear this loneliness?

The only answer you receive is the pause of rainfall and a full moon sighing in the sky.

Mérida, Yucatán Peninsula, July 1858

By the time you open your eyes, the last of the sun’s rays had settled under the sea with the cool ocean breeze tickling your skin. The dolphin who carried you whistles softly as you wake, its tail brushing against yours as it waits for your command.

“Dakal a salamat,” you whisper. Many thanks.

With a soft smile, you affectionately run your hands over the dolphin’s back as it clicks before disappearing into the sea.

You do not know how long or far you have traveled, but as you take in your surroundings, you realize that you have wandered into foreign territory. As the sky darkens into the blues, violets, and greens of the night, the ocean welcomes you into its soft embrace. Around you, the waves fall into a steady calmness. Just as you enchant humans with your voice, this new ocean comforts you in a strange way you could not quite understand, almost as if it were welcoming you home.

For a brief moment, you allow yourself to relax in these new waters by diving into its arms. As you swim beneath the surface, you find yourself finally able to breathe for the first time. You were far from your home in the Pacific, and you were far from the angry voices of the merfolk who haunted you.

“Alang cuenta,” the sirenas sneered at you when you had rescued stray fishermen from falling into their trap. Furious at your intrusion, your sisters lunged for you and tore at your tail and skin with their webbed claws and bared teeth. You screamed for mercy as you fought back, but their teeth and nails were stronger as they dragged you deeper into the darkness of the sea.

Either out of boredom or mercy, your sisters finished their prey upon you and left you in the cold depths of the ocean where the light of the sun did not reach. Hours passed before you were able to move and swim to the coral reefs where the dolphins and sea turtles found you nursing your wounds. With your arms covered in bites and your chest and tail in cuts, you found refuge in the dolphins and allowed them to carry you far away from your tormentors.

Rising to the surface, you push your hair back and run your hands over your face, suppressing a childish giggle at the realization of your newfound freedom. For weeks you traveled with the dolphins to escape their persecution. Despite spending the past one hundred years alone, for the first time in over a century, you feel nothing but relief. You were never welcomed by the creatures of the ocean back at home. Perhaps you could find a new home here.

You pause. Around you, the ocean suddenly grows cold as ripples slowly reverberate throughout the surface of the water. A chill descends your spine as you suddenly become breathless and frozen.

On the seashore, a man slowly rises from the water, holding a scepter adorned in engravings in one hand with his back turned to you. A golden plate rests on the back of his neck with matching cuffs on his arms, wrists, and legs reflecting the glow of the rising moon. A similar belt rests on his hips and above a pair of dark green shorts, the only article of clothing he wears. In the dim light, your eyes trace the broad expanse of his shoulders and the thick muscles of his back, arms, and legs. An air of regality surrounds him as he fully emerges from the water and stands in his full form.

This man is not human, you realize as he walks along the beach, the water yielding to his presence. He is a man of the sea.

Your brows furrow in confusion as he kneels on the sand.

Wings. There were wings on his ankles.

Something inside of you whispers to swim closer to the shore. With the waves beckoning towards you, you have no choice but to obey.

Holding your breath, you submerge yourself deeper into the water and hide behind a rock to avoid being seen. On the sand, the man with the winged ankles speaks softly in a language you don’t recognize.

“Jach tak in wilech,” he whispers and lowers his head. I miss you.

His movements and words are gentle as he places a white flower on the sand, his voice soft and low as he continues to speak. Your heart pounds in realization as you watch him revere someone who could not be seen. This was a grave.

Guilt consumes you as memories of your past life flood to the surface, your pendant weighing heavily on your chest. Turning away from the shore, you close your eyes to force down the tears that threaten to spill. How silly of you to think you could run away when your family rests at home across the ocean. Here, the water belongs to another. Who were you to leave your home behind and reside in a place as sacred as this?

Wiping at your eyes, you turn back to the shore and find the man speaking to the spirits. Even in the dim moonlight, you catch a glimpse of his face, his dark eyes full of emotion and grief.

Slowly, you reach for the sampaguita flowers in your hair and cradle them in your hands. One by one, you sing quietly to yourself as you place the flowers in the water. You linger for a few moments, your fingers running over the pendant on your chest as the water guides them to the beach.

“Patawad na,” you breathe. I’m sorry.

With a final prayer, you return to the sea.

On the beach, a soft hand reaches for the jasmine flowers. Dark eyes look to the horizon in search of the one who brought them, but the only answer given were the quiet waves lapping at the shore.

Gently, the man with the winged ankles places the white flowers on the sand, creating a trail from the grave and towards the spirit’s old home before disappearing into the water.

The only evidence of his arrival is soon washed away by the rising tide of the ocean.

Philippine Sea, near Manila, August 1894

Tonight was much like the last night you walked on land.

The air was laden with tension and uncertainty. Word from the fishermen and villagers had gone around that the conquistadors were having trouble with their colonies in the West. On the surface, you often found the land-dwellers running through the shadows of the trees in the jungle. The islands seemed to hum in anticipation at the whispers of a possible revolution.

In times like these, you turned a blind eye to your sisters drowning the oppressors on the beach. But your hands weren’t clean and bloodless either. As your sisters feasted on their flesh, you were the one to sing to them, distracting them with your sweet voice and innocent smile.

(You would do it again in a heartbeat, you soon realize. With each conquistador that steps into the water, another revolutionary returns safely home.)

But tonight was different from those quiet nights of revolutionaries lurking in the shadows of the jungle. Tonight was a war.

Lightning strikes through the stormy sky and fuels the flames licking at the near abandoned trade ship drowning in the fury of the summer typhoon. The white sails darken into ash as the Spanish flags fade into dust.

Around you, your sisters call to them with outstretched arms, promising to save them from a violent death. You do not sing to invite them further in, nor do you move when your sisters feed on their flesh. You watch silently as your enemies fall and drown to their death, your skin heated by the scorching fires of their sinking ships. With memories of your last night flashing through your mind, you gaze at the burning flags in contempt. It is only fitting that the last thing they see is your face before falling to their demise.

Suddenly, one of your sisters screams and points to the sky.

Aswang!*

The sirenas shriek and recede into the water as the remaining men on deck scream in terror. Lightning illuminates the sky once more and reveals the silhouette of the figure flying in the air.

Your breath stops in your throat as you glimpse at the figure, your eyes falling to their feet.

The man with the feathered wings on his ankles.

You look up at him, your heartbeat mirroring the resounding claps of thunder. The man with the wings pays no heed to your sisters retreating into the safety of the water. Instead, his gaze is focused on the colonizers clinging onto the debris of their sinking ships.

He raises his spear and strikes.

The ocean thirsts for violence as crimson stains its waters. With each strike of lightning and roar of thunder, the further the Spanish ships sink to the bottom of the sea. Screams and gunshots plague the night as the monsoon beats its anger onto the surface world. One by one, the colonizers perish by the sea, the bloodthirst of your sisters, or the man exacting his vengeance from above.

Your eyes widen. On the deck of the last ship sailing, a colonizer opens fire and aims his weapon at the sky.

“Saguli-!” You shout. Wait!

Everything moves in slow motion. Before the trigger is pulled, bursts of red, orange, and yellow blinds your vision. Your ears ring from the explosion as your left shoulder is consumed by a sharp pain that resembles shark teeth digging into your bones.

As your vision begins to clear, the rain continues to pour. Furls of silver smoke surround you as the burning fires devour the last wooden planks of the sunken ship. Despite the rumble of thunder and cries of the sea, the night is suddenly quiet with only the low crackle of flickering flames filling the silence. Your sisters have disappeared. The colonizers have perished.

In the sky, the man from the sea burns before falling into the water.

Without hesitation, you dive into the sea to search for him with the flickers of the dying flames guiding your path underwater. In the distance, the glint of his spear reflects the light of the surface fires with its owner sinking beside him, his eyes closed and his back covered in black ash.

Ignoring the pain in your shoulder, you wrap your arms around his torso and hold him close as you swim towards the surface.

Please be alive, you pray as you break through the water, your lungs aching as you carry the man in your arms. Please.

...

The monsoon begins to falter when dusk brightens the sky. The rain slows into a steady downpour and the wind turns from a thunderous gust and into a whispering breeze. Gray storm clouds weigh heavily in the sky, but cracks of sunlight peek through the horizon.

Tears burn your eyes as your cries echo in the cove. Pain engulfs your left shoulder and your body screams in agony from fighting against the violence of the waves and the rage from the skies. With a cry of pain, you push yourself up and untangle your arms from the body of the man you rescued. The man from the sea with feathered wings on his ankles.

A gasp of relief escapes your lips the moment you feel the steady drumming of his heartbeat underneath your trembling fingertips.

“Salamat,” you breathe, a childish laugh rumbling in your chest as you wipe at your eyes. “You’re alive.”

With a gentle hand, you brush his dark hair back. The dusky rays of sunlight kiss his tanned skin, casting shadows of the planes and contours of his peppered cheeks. Drops of jade sit beneath his pointed ears and mirror the jewel on his nose. Beads of white pearls and golden rings adorn his neck. A large plate rests on his chest with two deep blue serpents meeting in the middle, a large pearl sitting in the center.

In the dim light of the early morning, you cannot help but gaze in awe at the beautiful man laying in your arms.

Who is he? You wonder as you softly trail your hand from his hair and down his arm, a frown settling on your lips at the sight of dried blood and deep bruises at his side.

You glance back at his face once more. You should be afraid of him, a stranger from a foreign land who showed no mercy to his enemies. But despite the violence of the previous night, you remember the first night you saw him on the beach in the Atlantic. You remember his dark eyes full of grief, his gentle hands cradling the flowers, and his soft voice whispering in the wind.

The man sleeping before you now was not the same man that tormented his enemies at sea, but the man you met on that summer seashore.

Gently, you lean forward to caress his cheek and sing.

“Potang paintunan mu ku, lumwal ka, talanga ka. Akit me ing bulan a masala karin mikit kata. E na ka matakut, e na ku naman migaganaka, uling balu ku balang beni mikikit ka king laman ning bulan a masala.”

As you sing the last note, the man begins to stir.

Panic floods through you as you look down to find his hand wrapped around your right wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, with the heat of his skin warm against yours.

Swallowing the ache in your chest, you lean forward to cup his face with both of your hands, your thumbs stroking his cheeks as you gently press your lips to his forehead.

“Mikit tána pasibáyo,” you whisper. We will meet again.

With one last look, you squeeze his hand and retreat into the water.

…

Whispers of a man from the sea with feathered wings on his ankles spread across the surface. From the villagers and fishermen to the convoys and rulers, people spoke of his existence in hushed tones, afraid that speaking his name would incur his wrath. Parents passed his story to their children as folklore, but those who were old enough remembered seeing him walk along the beach before his footprints were washed away by the waves of the ocean.

K’uk’ulkan, they called him. The feathered serpent god.

The King of Talokan prided himself as a benevolent ruler and a protector of his people. For three hundred years, K’uk’ulkan kept their kingdom a secret under the sea. He lived, breathed, and bled for them, enduring the pain from the surface world to protect the Talokanil from the violence of the land-dwellers. For this, K’uk’ulkan reigned as their king, their feathered serpent ruler.

While tales of the feathered serpent were considered myths to the tribes on the beach, another name was whispered across the seven seas. From the clergy and the admirals, no one dared to speak the moniker out loud.

El niño sin amor, the Spanish priests warned. The child without love.

“Namor,” his enemies gasped as they looked up at him, their eyes wide with fear.

It had been five weeks since the Spanish ships departed from the Atlantic. Five weeks before he finally found the ships that had stolen the resources from his kingdom. As the monsoonal rain raged its wrath over the blazing fires of the splintering ships on a foreign sea he was not familiar with, Namor raised his spear and struck with no mercy.

It all unraveled so fast. One moment he vanquished his enemies, and the next he was swallowed by flames.

He vaguely remembered the ocean welcoming him as he fell from the sky. In the dark stillness of the water, Namor could only watch a dark shadow pass above him. Three hundred years he served his people as their king. Three hundred years he fought, protected, and bled for his kingdom. Maybe just this once, he could overcome the trials in Metnal* and leave the crown behind.

But the gods had other plans for the King of Talokan. Behind the dark veil of his eyes, a soft voice called out to him. The voice was different from the songs of the Talokanil and sung in a language he did not recognize. Her voice was lower, deeper, but sweet and comforting.

A siren song.

With eyes as heavy as stone, Namor willed his body to move, his hands grasping at rough skin. It was a song that willed him to return to the land of the living, willing him to carry the crown and breathe.

For a brief moment, he felt the ghost of her hands stroking his face and her lips on his skin. But when he opened his eyes, he found himself alone in a cove with the monsoon slowing into a whisper.

Running a tired hand over his face, Namor sits up and breathes a deep sigh. His lungs ache from the sharp exhale as he takes in his surroundings. Straight ahead, the wide entrance of the cove welcomes the quiet low tides of the sea. Despite the storm clouds, the horizon brightened into hues of deep blues and violets with the distant call of songbirds singing in the distance.

In the calmness of dawn, the King of Talokan could still hear the soft whispers of the siren song singing to him in the cove. Like a fog, his senses were enveloped by her, his skin prickling at the memory of her touch and his ears mistaking the sound of songbirds to the likeliness of her voice.

As he stands, his eyes flicker to the reflection of the rising sun in the water, a small burst of light catching his gaze. Ignoring the pain in his back, Namor rushes to where the edge of the rock meets the sea.

His heart pounds and his head spins as he cradles the item in his hand, his breath halting in his throat.

In his hand was a golden necklace with its delicate chain torn in two, a pendant of a small flower resting in the center.

The same flower he found on the Yucatán seashore.

“Yaan in kaxtikech,” he breathes. “Ma importa u tojol.”

I will find you, no matter the cost.

Philippine Sea, December 1910

It had been sixteen years since Namor heard you last.

The skies disagreed with him when he returned to the sea where you rescued him. For several months, the monsoons raged throughout the region. Time to time, he encountered trade ships from the North, South, East, and West sailing through the merciless monsoons. Other times, he found war on the sea with different flags flying through the wind and crimson being spilt on the waters. Echoes of gunshots, fire cannons, and war cries sounded throughout the night with the tumultuous tidal waves consuming everything in its path.

With each passing ship, Namor heard the distant sound of the siren songs calling to the unsuspecting sailors and soldiers. With their heads barely above water, he watched the sirens bewitch their prey, their eyes glassy and unseeing before falling to their death. More than once, he found himself entranced by their voices. But each time his ears registered their harmonies, he turned away.

Their voices were beautiful, but they were not you. They were not his sirena.

Only you were the one to enchant the feathered serpent king.

Tonight was different from that summer night, for it was the start of the dry season. Up above, the moon glowed brightly in the night sky without a single cloud in sight. The luminous glow of the moon reflected on the surface of the water, but its reflection was distorted by the growing ripples and the quiet tide of the sea.

The air cooled his skin as Namor reached the surface, his back turned to the full moon. It was almost as if no time had passed since the last time he was in the cove. Although the tides were lower, Namor could still hear the distant melody of your song echoing throughout the cove. It was as if he were drowning in you all over again.

Sixteen years ago, he first heard your siren song. But it had been fifty-two years since he first met you.

A deep ache ate at his chest that particular night. After distracting his generals and evading their watchful eyes, Namor sought refuge on the sand. For three hundred years, he reigned as the King of Talokan. When the crown became heavy to bear, he would slip away from his advisors and find solace in visiting his mother on the surface. He carried the souls of the departed in his heart and their memories in his mind, but sometimes the water suffocated him. Nearly two centuries have passed since he last laid his mother to rest and cleaned her bones, but her memory was clear as day in his mind. He may have been born in the water, but his mother had walked on land - it was all in his blood.

“The Talokanil look to me as their King, their God. I would do anything for them,” K’uk’ulkan whispered as he gently placed the water lilies on her grave. “Just as you did everything to protect me.”

He loved his people just as they loved him. He did not regret taking the throne at a young age and the responsibility of leading and protecting them, but there was a heaviness growing deep inside his chest. An emptiness that he often ignored, but was constantly consumed by its hand.

He remembered watching her hair turn silver and the fine lines settling on her skin as he remained young. In the eyes of many, he was still a child. Yet, he carried the years inside him as centuries passed, watching the people he loved age before they breathed their last breath.

“Every day I see our people grow old, but I remain young and know one day I will mourn and miss them as much as I miss you, na’*.”

The only memories K’uk’ulkan had of his father were the stories recounted to him by his mother. When he sat on her knee, he remembered the smile on her face as she showed him the bracelet she wore on her wrist. Tracing the pearls with his fingers, he could feel his father’s love radiating from each bead. Despite their circumstances, he admired the love his father had for his mother, the same love that he carried in his veins.

“I may be King, but I stand at the throne with no one to share it with, and sleep with no one to hold at my side,” K’uk’ulkan whispered. “I am lonely, na’. So incredibly lonely.”

He wondered what it would be like to love just as his parents did. To have someone to wake up next to, and to fall asleep with every night. To hold and be held by the arms of someone who loves you.

The King of Talokan did not expect an answer, nor did he expect to see white jasmine flowers drifting towards him on the seashore.

The very same flower that rests in his hands now.

The petals are soft in his hands as he places it on the quiet whispers of water. In the beginning, Namor thought of the flowers as a strange coincidence. He knew that such flowers were native to the lands in the East, but he had seen trade ships sail across oceans and between continents. It was possible that cargo could have fallen through the cracks.

Initially, Namor tried to ignore it and stop himself from jumping to conclusions, but something foreign gripped his heart. A small glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was someone out there meant for him to love and be loved.

It had all come together when he found your necklace on the rocks.

For sixteen years, your siren song haunted Namor. He had met sirens and other merfolk throughout his lifetime, but there was something different about your song that called to him. Other siren songs were meant to hypnotize their prey before they drowned or were sacrificed to water deities. Their songs meant destruction to anyone who heard their voice, but your song was sweeter, more gentle. Rather than death, your song brought him back to life.

That was something he still did not understand. Why would you save him?

With the jasmine flowers as an offering, the King of Talokan begins to sing.

“X ciih x ciichpan u tz’ u likil yook kaax; tu bin u hopbal tu chumuc can caan tux cu ch’uuytal u zazicunz yookol cab tu lacal kaax chen cici u tal iik u utz’ben booc.”

As he sings, the tidal waves begin to slow into a lull. The ocean did not dare to drown his melody.

“Pitah nookeex luuz u kaxil a holex ba teneex hee cohiceex uay yokol cabile x zuhuyex x chupalelex hel u.”

The water stills on his last note, but the ocean breeze carries his lullaby throughout the cove. His heart beats heavily, his grip tightening on the necklace as he turns. Dark brown eyes flicker to every corner and crevice of the cove and his ears strain to hear any sudden sounds that could indicate your presence.

It is not often that the feathered serpent god sings. Rare and far in between, the only times he ever sang with his heart was with his mother. She taught him the songs she learned when she was a child on the surface, especially this song.

“When I was young, my friends and I would gather and sing this song to keep and bring back a lover.”

“Did it work?”

His mother smiled sweetly at him and playfully poked the tip of his nose. She could not help but laugh when he scrunched his face. “It did. This song was how I met your father. It is the reason you are here.”

He holds his breath as he waits for your arrival in the cove. With each heartbeat echoing in his ears, a heaviness begins to settle in chest. Hope turns to fear, its icy hands crawling at his skin as the waves rise with the tide.

Shadows of the waves dance across the dimly lit walls. Above, the stars whisper to the moon as the celestial beings await your arrival.

Swallowing the growing ache in his heart, Namor turns his back to the moon and starts his way towards the darkness of the cove.

A small splash disturbs the silence.

“Maryu ka man kabug ning salu mu, saingsing mu panamdaman ku.”

The King stops in his tracks.

“Balu ku, atindian ku.”

It is you. His sirena.

“Akit me ing bulan a masala, karin mikit kata.”

Like ivy growing around a stone, your song ensnares him.

“E na ka tumakut, e na ku naman migaganaka.”

Slowly, he turns around. Underneath the silver halo of the bright moon, you rise to the surface.

“Uling balu ku balang bengi mikikit kata king lalam ning bulan a masala.”

Hanging onto each word, Namor walks towards the edge, his senses enveloped by you. Your voice is soft and deep, comforting and captivating as you swim closer to meet him.

“Parati mu sa’ng tandanan, muran man atiu ya ing bulan.”

Your dark eyes meet his gaze as you look up at him. His eyes never leave yours as you sing the final note with a small smile gracing your lips. Time seems to still, his heart skipping a beat as you finally meet where the land meets the sea.

You are more beautiful than he could have imagined. White jasmine flowers adorn your dark hair like little stars shining in the night sky. In the moonlight, he catches a glimpse of your dark green tail, its scales reflecting the glow of the moon beneath the surface of the water.

His sirena, his lool.*

He finally found you.

The feathered serpent god slowly falls to his knees right in front of you, his head bowed in respect.

“Because of you, my people still have a King,” his voice is gentle as he speaks. “You saved my life, and I will forever thank you.”

He still remembers that morning when he returned to his kingdom. For almost a week, Namor had left Talokan in search of the Spanish ships across the Pacific and placed his leadership into his advisors and top generals. This was not the first time he left to protect the borders and identity of Talokan, but it was the first time he did not come back on the day he promised.

Fear flooded his mind when he fell through the sky. He was always strong enough to destroy his enemies, but he was never this defenseless when his unconscious body hit the water. Any remaining survivors could have exploited his lack of defenses, but he was stunned to wake up in a sea cove with his wounds nearly healed.

You reach for him, your gentle hands cradling his face as you silently plead for him to look at you. Almost hesitantly, he follows your command.

“Who are you?”

He has many names, but he wishes for you to call him only by one name.

“My people call me K’uk’ulkan.”

K’uk’ulkan closes his eyes and leans into your touch as your fingers delicately trace his face, your voice enchanting him once more as you repeat his name.

He remembered your palm caressing his cheek and your lips on his skin. As King of Talokan, he often hid this soft side of himself away from his people. But with you, his walls crumbled like tidal waves dissolving castles in the sand.

Pulling himself out of his trance, he opens his eyes and covers your hand with his own, his thumb lightly tracing over your knuckles.

“What is your name?”

Your voice is quiet as you speak, almost as if you are hesitant to reveal yourself.

“Y/N.”

A beautiful name for a beautiful soul.

K’uk’ulkan repeats your name as he grasps your hand and gently raises it to his lips.

For a brief moment, the King catches a flicker of sadness in your eyes, but it vanishes as you conceal it with a small smile.

Little did he know that he is the first person to call you by your real name and touch you with such care in two hundred years.

Not wanting to frighten you, K’uk’ulkan softens his voice as he speaks. “I believe I have something that belongs to you.”

Confusion passes over your face, your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a silent question.

Although he did not know the importance of your necklace, he noticed the rust and scratches that eroded at the delicate metals. The necklace was worn with love, but it was crafted by human hands and not intended to withstand the cruelty of the ocean. With care, he brought the necklace to his jewelers to restore it to its former glory with the addition of two pearls and the revived jasmine pendant in the center.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips as he presents your necklace to you, your eyes wide as they brim with tears.

“May I?” He asks quietly.

You nod and bow your head.

With soft hands, the feathered serpent god leans forward and places it over your head. Once it settles over you, you cradle the pendant and pearls in your palms in awe.

“I thought that this was gone forever,” you whisper as you look up at him, a stray tear streaming down your cheek. “Thank you for bringing it back to me.”

“Nothing is gone forever, only lost until it is found.” K’uk’ulkan cups your face gently, his warm hand brushing away the tears that had fallen down your cheeks.

His heart warms at the sound of your soft laughter and the sight of your smile. How true his words were. In the fifty-two years he had met you, he thought you were a dream, a possible figment of his imagination that his mind created to cope with the growing emptiness in his bones. But you were real. You were the one watching over him when he found the flowers on the seashore and rescued him from the scorching fires that raged across the sea. He vowed to find you, but he had gotten it wrong.

Each time, you were the one to find him.

Looking into your eyes now, he finds himself drowning in them. Dark, deep, and inviting, a silent storm brewing inside of them. The King of Talokan had seen eyes like yours before– eyes that look young, but have seen years of pain, heartbreak, loss, and grief– yet, there was a vulnerability to them. Despite the centuries you carried in your heart, he knew and understood the violence you endured to be this kind.

You thread your fingers with his, your hands locked in a delicate embrace as you begin to pull yourself away from the rocks and swim closer to the waves.

You call his name tenderly, your voice a soft plea. “K’uk’ulkan.”

With a gentle tug on his hand, the feathered serpent god descends into the water.

Come with me.

There is no song to entice him. It is only you.

Long ago, K’uk’ulkan heard tales of a red string of fate that tied two soulmates together from the Far East. Perhaps it is the red string that pulls him closer to you now as you guide him deeper into the water, your hands entwined together, your lips whispering against his and your tail curling around his legs. With your dark eyes and gentle voice, he has no choice but to follow.

Only the bright full moon bears witness to the reunion of the sirena and her feathered serpent king disappearing into the sea.

Translations

Alang cuenta (Kapampangan) - Useless, no meaning

Aswang (Tagalog) - Monster

Potang paintunan mu ku, lumwal ka, talanga ka (Kapampangan) - When you look for me, go outside, look up

Akit me ing bulan a masala karin mikit kata (Kapampangan) - We will see each other when there is a bright moon.

E na ka matakut, e na ku naman migaganaka (Kapampangan) - Do not be afraid, do not worry.

Uling balu ku balang beni mikikit ka king laman ning bulan a masala (Kapampangan) - I know one night we will meet underneath a bright moon.

Na’ (Yucatec Mayan) - Mother

Metnal (Yucatec Mayan) - The Yucatec Mayan term for the Underworld. Not to be confused with Xibalba, “the Place of Fright.”

The Flower Song (Yucatec Mayan) - 1, 2

The Flower Song is originally ancient Maya lyrical poetry from the Songs of Dzitbalche. According to John Curl, the Flower Song was a “rite” to keep a lover that was traditionally sung by a group of women–typically under the supervision of an older woman– and performed under the moonlight. Later parts of the poem mention offering plumeria flowers to create a love potion.

For the purpose of this fic, K’uk’ulkan learned the song from his mother.

X ciih x ciichpan u tz’ u likil yook kaax; tu bin u hopbal tu chumuc can caan tux cu ch’uuytal u zazicunz yookol cab tu lacal kaax chen cici u tal iik u utz’ben booc - The most alluring moon has risen over the forest; it is going to burn suspended in the center of the sky to lighten all the earth, all the woods, all the lights shining on it all.

Pitah nookeex luuz u kaxil a holex ba teneex hee cohiceex uay yokol cabile x zuhuyex x chupalelex hel u - Take off your clothes, let down your hair, become as you were when you arrived here on Earth.

Maryu ka man kabug ning salu mu, saingsing mu panamdaman ku (Kapampangan) - Your chest/heart will feel heavy when we are apart

Parati mu sa’ng tandanan, muran man atiu ya ing bulan (Kapampangan) - Do not forget that the moon will be there when it rains.

For the complete lyrics and song, please refer to the YouTube link here.

#namor x reader #namor x fem!reader #k'uk'ulkan x reader #namor x filipino!reader #namor x filipina!reader #namor x woc!reader #namor x asian!reader #namor imagine #namor x you #the amount of research i poured into this to make sure i did it right- if there are any errors please let me know #please be gentle with your feedback too #I'm sorry for using emojis but i do not know HOW to make a nice banner like some y'all between paragraphs

322 notes · View notes

nellycanwrite · 1 year

Text

His Timeless Love

K’uk’ulkan x Reincarnator!Filipino!Reader

Summary: A God such as K'uk'ulkan has lived life by the hundreds, yet you wonder why he has not found his true love during his time of immortality. It might just shock you to believe that he had already loved you since the summer of 1592.

Or, in which K’uk’ulkan tells you the story of the four times he fell in love with you and the three times he saw you die.

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, mentions of violence, colonization, Namor absolutely loathing colonizers and their language, graphic depictions of the Philippine Revolution, possible historical inaccuracies, extreme Catholicism, the violence of the Spanish regime, body worship, oral (f receiving), penetration (p in v), deflowering, cockwarming, creampie

Word Count: 23.5K :))

Note: This work follows along the history of the Philippines and the influences of the colonizers throughout the years of subservience. I claim no historical accuracy to the plot but the timeline and the implications of each historical era was and is researched accordingly. As such, I am also of Filipino descent specifically from Bisaya, Ilonggo, and Ilokano backgrounds.

This work is a connecting piece to His Queen. Both can be read separately and in any order.

Capital City Talokan, 2025

"Why did you choose me as your queen? Did you not find anyone worthy of your love in your long decades of life?" You had asked him in your shared chambers one night, your fingers tracing the hills of his knuckles and peppering kisses to his exposed chest.

The feathered serpent god pulled you closer to him, your legs intertwining with the silken sheets, his hand painting murals upon your barren back.

"I will only love you and only you." He replied. He lingered a kiss to your hair and whispered sweet nothings in his mother tongue. You resisted the urge to swat his arm—like you always do as a sign of your playful affection; a Filipino thing, really—and brought his hand upon your cheek to tenderly kiss the palms decorated with callouses, a clear sign of his training.

"You have avoided the question, my dear king."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me," you heaved yourself up to your elbows and trapped your king within your arms; your noses barely touching, your bare chests grazing with every slow intake of breath, your hair falling like a curtain against the luminescent algae light. K'uk'ulkan stared up at you with nothing but pure adoration, yet you felt a deep sadness from within.

You persisted, "you are hiding something from me."

As if the sea had sensed its rulers melancholy, it shifted and it hummed amongst the rocks of the royal chambers. It crashed into you like the waves of a full moon's midnight, pelting your eyes with the sting of tears. You know not of the reason for your own sadness, but you knew somewhere in your soul that it was connected to your husband's own sorrow.

He reaches up to caress your cheek, and like a subservient dog to its master, you lean in right away to the warmth of his loving hands. He traced your features, every curve, every freckle, every bump, and every line down to the very last detail. He was memorizing every inch of you. He was burning it to memory.

"It is not a tale that is to be taken lightly. It is a burden I alone must bear."

You leaned down further until no space was left between your bodies. His breath hitched when you caressed his own cheeks, fingernails running through the planes of his chiseled face. He was a God in every way, and you worshiped every part of his divine countenance.

"I am your wife. I am your queen. What you know, no matter how vicious of a tale, I must shoulder. It is also a burden I must bear with you."

"My queen—" you silenced him with your lips. He would have returned the gesture with fervor, but you pulled away just as quick.

"K'uk'ulkan, akong hinigugma, akoang hari," my love. My king. His body shook in response to your mother tongue. He wondered if it was your powers at play. He, the embodiment of the sea, so easily bent to the will of your prowess. It was hardly fair, he would muse. But he will do as his queen demands, "tell me. Tell me what plagues your heart."

He hesitated for a moment. Flashes of decades worth of memories invaded his sight. You sensed his plight—you always do—so you tore your eyes away from his own earthen gaze and rested your cheek against his chest where his heart thumped in speed. You tapped your fingers to the rhythm of his pulse, your breath matching his to give him a sense of comfort. That you were there to listen.

And with a heavy sigh, he started;

"I've decided to make you queen the first time I saw you—during that fateful day you had fought off Spanish colonizers to reclaim your motherland."

"But I have not lived that long." The drumming of your fingers stopped. You felt his heart race faster. You did not look up, instead, you waited for him to continue.

"Not the you of the present," he tangled his own hands to your hair, his fingers playing with the strands mindlessly. There was an edge to his voice now, but as soon as you found purchase to his free hand, he breathed in a centering inhale before he continued.

"...but the you of the past."

Mactan, Cebu, Philippines, 1592

Namor.

A name fit for a cursed man like him; coined from a language he found vile. Niño sin amor. A child without love.

It was a few years since the passing of his mother, a few years of getting accustomed to the weight of the responsibilities as the ruler of Talokan. His heart was still tainted with the fresh vengeance of the colonizers that plagued the surface world that his mother so loved.

Yet he does not do anything for people with the same plight as he. He had to protect his people—his Talokan—even when it meant he would ignore the cries of help from the land-dwelling natives robbed of their ancestral lands.

As revered as he is in the eyes of his people as king and as a god, he was still a man fresh from adolescence. He was still a young man full of rebellious curiosity.

He loves to practice his flight above the waters of the seas. He mimicked the swiftness of flying fish, maneuvered the skies as he had seen from the native birds of the unknown lands he passed by. He was in no means masterful with his winged ankles just yet, but he was agile enough to move across the oceans until he felt the cold Atlantic winds turn into the warm winds of the pacific.

He always marveled at the new lands he happened to stumble upon—perhaps his mother’s love for the surface world had rubbed off on him in some way. He knew the sea was his home. Talokan was where his heart lay bare.

But he cannot help but drink the sights of the orient south; pure white sand, lush forestry by the line that divided the beaches and the wildlife, birds of every color unknown to him chirping in greeting as he flew past the polka-dotted whale sharks just skimming through the water’s edge.

The sea-life, as if sensing the presence of their sovereign ruler, acknowledged the winged serpent god when he dove down to admire the rainbowed corals of untouched treasures. There were creatures that were new to his eyes, unique to this area, Namor could only think, and were peculiar in nature. He did not dare disturb them and continued forth, now submerged in the warmth of tropical waters.

This new land was beautiful, Namor would not refute that fact. Although in his heart Talokan reigned supreme, the underwater civilization was still young—at least the same age as he is. They were still settling in down the depths and adjusting to the darkness of the deep.

Someday, Namor thinks to himself while staring up to the sun just below the water’s edge, someday I will bring the sun to my people.

He jolted in surprise when creatures that surrounded him suddenly dispersed at great speeds. His feathered ankles unfurled in alarm when the muffled boom of cannons reverberated from the ocean floor. Namor maneuvered his way through the dense coral just as a shower of debris and ammunition wrecked through the homes of the creatures he had just admired a few minutes prior.

His heart cried out for the defenseless life that was caught in the crossfire, yet he resisted the urge to surface in whole—he cannot compromise himself without the company of his guards nor with the absence of his spear. His people still needed him.

So he took shelter behind the rocky shallows hidden by a cliff’s shadow and watched.

Warriors clad in colorful striped garb emerged from the thickets carrying spears and precious swords adorned with crested jewels and metals.

Despite the ruggedness of their appearance (although Namor suspects it was from the running they had to go through to escape their assailants otherwise no such noble tribe would look so tired and soiled), they carried themselves with the poise of native royalty; their necks and ears were covered in golden jewelry, the anklets upon their feet clinking with the same metal. Men, women, and those possessing the traits of both alike wielded a weapon worthy of a warrior that even the Talokanil will respect.

These people streamed through the beach with expert ease, yet there were far too many wounded to traverse through the sand with the same swiftness as the others before them.

From the thickets came the spark of death, guns shattering the oriental hymns with powerful thrums of gunshots. Namor’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched in fury when he saw the same likeness of the conquistadors that plagued his own motherland like a disease, the men of the clergy following close behind with greased crosses and bellies bulging from the weight of their own gluttonous sin.

They hid behind armed soldiers like the cowards that they are as they continued to assault the now cornered tribe. Their feet were against the raging currents of the rocky sea—lethal if they jumped in without guide nor repercussion.

“Ríndanse,” surrender, one of the armor clad soldiers declared in the tongue so vile Namor had to control his seething rage, “o nos veremos obligasdos a disparar.” or else they will be forced to shoot, the Spanish man continued.

Either these people learned not of the vile tongue of the invaders or their will as warriors were keeping their mouths shut, they did not respond.

Namor’s feathered ankles bristled with a deep hatred, and along with it the selfish desire to end the lives of blasphemous fiends. But before he could fly to their aid with no weapon nor army to his name, a member of the tribe yelled out with such ferocity that it startled the gunned men. A decorated spear flew across the beach and pierced through the heart of one of the friars at the backline.

Chaos ensued afterwards, the tribe running for refuge in the forest they had long since protected upon the instruction of their general. There were casualties left at the beach—both tribesman and colonizer alike—until what was left standing was a warrior with a bloody spear and five men with empty guns and chipped swords.

That was the first time he had met you.

You were a spectacle. A sight to behold. He watched in awe as you twisted your spear with practiced ease with techniques that were unorthodox, yet there lie a hint of refined institutions from formal training.

Namor could only assume that you were yelling obscenities to the colonizers in your mother tongue, a dirty kind of wretched curses falling from your lips. It was not something he would find common from the mouth of what seemed to be nobility—for your neck, ears, and feet held far more gold than those of your brothers and sisters, and the cloth from your striped garments were of brighter hues and were held with belts and fasteners of gold.

The seams of your rattan woven cotton skirts shimmered under the setting sun from golden threads and silken hems, and he knew for sure that your clothes were fit for one of the higher crusts in your community.

One of the Spanish men had aimed for your neck, yet it only served to cut through the tinsel and jasmine wreath atop your head. The golden crown upon your forehead unraveled with your braids and fell at your feet in waves. It was tangled as it was heavy, yet you still moved as if no weight in the world could stop you.

You were outnumbered yet they were unmatched, this much was true. But your gait was smaller than those from the farthest countries of the southwest and they towered over you like predators to meager prey.

They had managed to give you cuts, bruises, and near fatal wounds, yet your stance never wavered, not even when you had struck three men down to their knees, their blood spilled on the fine white sand.

You were cornered, alone, and near death. But you never gave in.

“Mga yawa…! Dili gayud kami motugyan!” We will never give up, you bastards! Like a final wail to the gods of war, you swung your spear in blind rage.

You expected to die by the blades of Spanish intruders, yet you found yourself in the mercy of a god.

He rose from the water like a raging tide. His dark eyes burning with a fury that you could not fathom a mere mortal could possess. He bore the strength of a hundred men and killed them with his bare hands.

How foolish were you to have pointed your own spear at such a creature whose ears pointed to the heavens with his feet decorated with the feathers from the holy birds above? How would you dare question the majesty of his divine presence? You quivered and you shook, the wounds from your fight gushing with blood.

“Who are you?” You asked in your mother tongue. He cocked his head to the side. “Have you come to kill me as they have killed my people?”

“I do not understand you,” The serpent god replied in kind, his arms raising to show no harm, “but I do not wish to kill you.”

You could not understand his tongue and neither did he understand yours. But you felt his neutrality. You lowered your spear until it touched the sand of the darkened beach, the only source of light coming from the full moon peeking from the low tides of the horizon. In that moment of surrender you found yourself falling forwards, your steps now failing you at the loss of a threat.

You felt your body being cradled by the arms of the winged god—how impertinent must you be to act so foolishly in his presence.

Through the haze of your thoughts you watched as he descended below the waves after he had left you in the comfort of the shade of a coconut tree. His back rippled with the water, the tides following his every whim. One last thought consumed you before you were drowned by the comfort of the sea’s lullabies and into the arms of dreamless slumber.

“Maklium sa Tubig…”

The God of the Sea.

Following the days of your healing, you sought out the beach of your ancestral lands to wait for the Maklium sa Tubig. You were not fit to lead the rebellion against the Spanish just yet, and the other tribes had created treaties to stop their momentary strifes to battle against the common enemy. You were not as needed as you are in the frontlines whilst you rested, but you knew it was a matter of time before you had to go.

Filthy colonizers, you thought in anger. They cut down ancestral trees and burned down villages in the name of their own god. They set up fortresses without regard for the spirits that dwell in the mounds of earth, sullied the waters of the divine with their disgusting wastes.

They cursed in a foul language while holding their symbols of prayer, and they kill the caretakers of your sacred lands in cold nonchalance. They were mere strangers to the home of your royal forefathers, but they act as if they own the lands that your people had cultivated.

You needed to join the battle; lest the soil of your mother becomes more tainted with the blood of its children.

You needed to see that man—your god—before you were to be whisked away in war against the men with monstrous weapons and diseases that wiped out your sister tribes.

“Please, I want to see you once more, Maklium sa Tubig.”

As if to answer your prayers, a figure came and rose from the depths of the sea, his winged feet aiding him to his ascent and towering over you as a god would to his children. The moon shone upon him with favor, coating his body with a glow of magnificence.

You bowed your head low and kowtowed before the god of the sea while ignoring the wounds from your fight. It has only been a few weeks since your battle, but that did not stop you from whispering your odes of worship in your mother tongue.

The squelch of wet sand startled you out of your prayers. You dare not look up at the god who has saved you from your doom. No words were uttered between you, but you felt a large hand resting itself on your wreathed head.

“Raise your head.” He said in a language that you did not understand. As if rediscovering this plight, Namor pulled you up to your feet and stared down at you with those dark, calculating eyes.

It held no such warmth for you—you do not think a creature as powerful as he would hold warmth to a mortal whose spear pointed at his neck after he had saved you—yet you felt safe in the presence of your savior.

You tore your gaze away from your god and stepped back, your head hung low and your arms extended in a respectful offering. In your hands were the finest of golden jangle necklaces with intricate detail. It depicted the crops that lay in high noon, the mountains of your dearest homeland, the spears of your ancestral warriors, and the waves of the ocean that he, your god of the sea, ascended from. Beads of precious stones were in between the golden plates; the most expensive and the rarest that you could find.

“Ilahad ko kanimo mga bahandi, Maklium sa Tubig. Nagapasalamat ang imohang magtotoo sa imong pagluwas sa akong katawhan.”

I offer you riches, God of the Sea. This believer thanks you for saving their people, you had told him.

Namor stared at your offering a while longer than he had expected. No surface dweller had ever given him something so ornate before. Yet as he watched the warrior who bested five men twice your size, bowing before him in obedience and utmost reverence, he could not help but accept the accessory from your hands.

A shock passed the both of you as his fingers grazed your open palm, and before you could look up to say thank you once more to the god that had saved you, not even a trace of his footsteps on the wetted sand remained.

On the nights that followed, what turned into a meeting of god and follower turned into that of a friend’s idle meet-ups. And from friends blossomed the springtime call of love that beckoned the young warriors into a dance of ardor.

Every seven days, you meet once again and give each other jewels, pearls, and riches that no man could fathom to give. Yet these gifts turned into physical touch, and soon enough, a kiss was all you needed to satisfy each other’s needs.

He called himself K’uk’ulkan. Although he would have given you the name Namor for you to call him by, he did not want you to utter the loveless name given to him by the same colonizers who terrorized your ancestral lands.

You were hesitant to give your love to the Maklium sa Tubig. What mortal would dare step into the loving embrace of a being more divine than they? Yet he made sure to tell you, despite the language that seemed to create a line of misunderstanding between you, that he was no god; at least, not the god of your people. He made sure to be patient with you.

You were like a shy hatchling who cowered at the mere sight of him whenever he emerged from the waters to visit you. But you eventually gave in to the feathered touches of his fingers, the tranquil affection he had showered with every lingering caress of your cheek, and soon enough, you had been caught in the spell that you could not free yourself from.

And even if you did, you will not willingly submit to the freedom of knowing that you cannot be with your god. Your lover. You will willingly fall into the grasps of his ardent endearments even if it meant you were to fall for a divine being.

With every touch, with every kiss, with every breath that you shared with the feathered serpent god, Namor, no, K'uk'ulkan, felt less and less like the cursed loveless child the fiendish colonizers had branded him to be.

In your arms, he felt loved. Puno sa gugma, as you would have told him in your language. Full of love.

He never thought he would ever receive the love of another being, much less someone from the surface world. He bore nothing but hatred for them.

But you, the warrior who loves their people as much as they love their land, a ruler whose clansmen followed your beck and call, a creature who dances amongst the winds of the high tide without the aid of drums nor stringed instruments out of pure adoration to nature's songs has claimed his heart, body and soul.

You were his as he was yours.

And the heart he had thought bore no love overflowed. It spilled like the roaring surge of the waterfalls of your tribal grounds. A sacred place of worship just behind the rocks of the curtains of clear water; to praise your body in its glorious state of highest exultation, to taste the holy nectar of your jeweled flower.

A gift you had given to him, you had told the god, for the pleasures of the union of two souls was the greatest feeling of all. There he had reached the point of euphoric bliss. There he had reached the peak of the love that he had to give, engraved deeply into the deepest parts of your body and soul.

He was now a man blessed with love.

And now you lay in his arms, his lips worshiping every bit of skin he could land upon.

“I…not meet. With you,” you played with the golden bracelets you had given your lover one night, your speech stuttering in the language you know not the name of. You tried desperately to learn his tongue, and he had soaked up your own language with every fateful meeting as well.

You buried your toes on the wet sand and leaned your head on his jeweled chest, his arms wrapping securely around you with your figure between his legs, “war coming. Cannot meet.”

K'uk'ulkan breathed in your scent—a mixture of hibiscus and jasmine that adorned the crown of your head as well as the faint whiffs of ripened mangoes and coconuts, something unique to you and only you—and buried his head on the dip of your shoulders.

“Stay.” One word was all he needed to communicate what he wanted in his mother tongue. You understood immediately. Despite that, you shook your head.

“Cannot stay. My people need me…”

“In yakunaj,” my love, he whispered your name in a breathless whisper. He pressed his lips to your neck, the jade from his ears tickling your cheeks.

Your golden dangles clinked with the melody of your homeland and with it intermingled the score of its rulers’ hymns, “stay with me. Come to my kingdom. I will make you my queen.”

“Intruders kill. Home needs to be free,” you turned your head to meet the eyes of your god, of your king, and spoke in broken phrases of his tongue, “cannot abandon them. We need to be free. Our mother cries, our land weeps. Tribe ready for war. I cannot go.”

“Then let me help you,” he raises your hand to his lips, your palms burning with a pleasant tingle of his mouth on your calluses.

He then trails himself to the jade ring on your finger—a gift he had so graciously given you on your third moment of meeting—and lingers a kiss to it softly, "let me help you defeat your enemies. And after that, you will become my queen. Tugoti ako sa pagtabang kanimo sa pagsunog sa mga manunulong sa imong yuta."

Let me help you burn the intruders of your land.

It was unfair, you thought. How can he be so fluent with your language already? You could only make out broken phrases in his mother tongue, but he speaks your language as if it is his own.

You pouted.

That made your lover chuckle in amusement.

And so K'uk'ulkan, with the promise of aid to your people, brought forth a small group of his strongest warriors to the waters of the orient south. He himself was equipped with his own weapon decorated with jade, gold, and pearls from the gifts that you have offered him from your island.

He brandished it high and proud as he swam through the currents in time for his promised day of rendezvous; just seven days after you had met him last.

His people were initially against it. Providing aid to an unknown tribe of surface dwellers? It was hardly an option to be considered by the Talokanil. But as soon as he had explained your people's anguish, a suffering so similar to theirs that it brought forth tears to the eyes of the elderly who remembered the days they had to flee from their motherland, the young civilization (hardly even a nation) of the deep seas had given their blessings.

Seven days of preparation. Seven days of wait. Seven days is all he needed to come back to your arms and make you his queen. Their Chilam, the priest in charge of procuring remedies and healing salves, with the guidance and blessings of the Aj k’in, the head priest of their young nation of Talokan, had made him another tonic; a blue medicine to ensure that you would become his queen after the war.

Yet seven days proved far too late.

He and his warriors arrived at dusk, the beach decorated with the most lavish of fauna. Torches burned with the carvings of the depictions of wheat and sea, the huts lavished with intricately woven rattan.

A celebration, perhaps, that the lands were garnered as such. Yet there held no joy in the midst of the fire and of the warriors who lay lifeless on the ground, the sand drinking the blood spilled unto their grasps.

He could only describe it as a bloodbath. A one-sided battle that far outnumbered the rebellious efforts of your tribe. He and his people witnessed the Spanish conquistadors bare their guns at the children and the elderly, going as far as to drag the women by their woven hairs and into their boats that docked unceremoniously by the bay.

K'uk'ulkan felt his people seethe. He could not blame them; it was as if they were replaying the scene their mothers and their fathers had witnessed when they themselves were driven away from their own homeland.

K'uk'ulkan's blood boiled when he saw some of your sister tribes fighting alongside their own invaders. Instead of the noble swords and decorated spears in their hands, they held guns to shoot their own kin.

They had betrayed you.

K'uk'ulkan made sure to kill off the traitors that dared oppose your authority.

Yet he did not care for those who have died in war. His only purpose was you.

And the you that he so loved, the warrior he promised the world of both sea and land, lay lifeless at the beach with a spear on your chest—the same weapon your people had meticulously created for their most noble of warriors—and proudly by the head of an altar was a man with the same clothes as you. Your kin, perhaps. But it did not matter.

Your own people had betrayed you for the intruders that poisoned your home.

It was a haze, really. His own wrath had covered his vision in red. He remembered ordering his men to sink the ships that contained vile vermin whilst he flew at great speeds to kill every single man, woman, and colonizer that dared to cross his vision. It mattered not if they were foe or ally.

His queen is dead.

You were so beautiful in his arms. Despite the blood that dripped down your wounds, despite the crimson droplets that splattered across your golden jewelry and your ceremonial clothes, you were still a spectacle in his eyes.

Your beauty radiates with the fire that roared behind him, your voice echoing through his mind in the midst of dying gasps around you. The sea that sloshed beneath his hip had been dyed in an eerie scarlet, and by the time the tide had rescinded, your motherland fell into a grievous hush.

She did not sing the hymns of nature like it had done a thousand times before, yet she stays in silent mourning for her children's blood that spilled on her beaches.

He knew not of the mourning customs of your people, so he honored you in the ways of his.

K'uk'ulkan and his people placed you to rest at the edge of your ancestral lands by the soil that divided the forests and the sea, offered maize and jades to your mouth, and buried you deep into the heart of your motherland. The tonic he planned to give you was placed firmly on your hands. Maybe, in another world where you have lived through the hardships of war, would you have drunk its contents and become the queen of his growing nation.

He did not cry, at least, not in front of his people.

And it was that night when K'uk'ulkan realized that he could never be loved. That the curses of the colonizers rang true to his very being.

Niño sin amor.

Under the witness of the full moon did he cry out in anguish, his wails drowned by the roaring sea. And that night he had reclaimed his second name once again.

Namor. A cursed child without love.

Baclayon, Bohol, Philippines, 1758

It had been years since the death of Namor’s supposed-queen. By that time he had realized that he was unlike the others in Talokan. He had outlived the people who had raised him, outlived the advisers that had shown him both the hand of mercy and the fist of iron to rule, and he outlived the warriors who had grown with him through the throes of their blooming nation.

He had outlived those who have witnessed the sins of the colonizers—he was the only testament to the will of Talokan’s forefathers.

He was no ordinary man, that much was true since the day he had first claimed his birthright. It didn't surprise him that he would live past the dates of a hundred.

By this time he had studied the minerals that were rich in their nation's floors. It held a power so strong that it could brighten the depths of the deep sea. With that knowledge he had begun to formulate the plans he held dear—to bring forth the sun to his people deprived of the land they had once roamed.

It felt incredibly bare by his side once his subjects cheered for the underwater sun that he had successfully curated. His heart felt full with praises from his people, yet there lay a void that would never be filled; for he had given half of his soul to a land-dwelling warrior of the orient south.

There lay no queen to the empty throne by his side.

The strings of what was left of his heart tugged at the direction of the Pacific isles, just like any other day of the years that had gone by. Yet this tug turned into that of a forceful pull. A yearning, perhaps, that dug deep into his very core that it became as painful as the decorated spears from the warriors of the deep sea.

And so the feathered serpent god surfaced once more and flew across the seas until his skin felt the kiss of the tropical sun.

He still remembered the life that greeted him a century ago. It was full of grandeur and treasures unknown, yet should be left untouched by the hands of the non-dwellers of the sea.

What he saw was nothing like the memories of the past.

Boats and armored ships docked the bays of what was once your home, the home of the sea-life turning as dull as the rusted anchors that replaced the dying anemone. There were a slew of people all ranging from the colors of their skin to the tongue that they speak.

The sand was now replaced with stones and bricks and concrete, the trees turned to infrastructures for trade. There is a clear hierarchy amongst the surface dwellers—the supreme men of education from the colonizers that plagues your lands, the natives with the same likeness as you, the one that he so held dear, and pale skinned workers with narrow eyes that spoke a language he has not recognized.

Those of low birth (Namor had to clench his teeth at the mere implication of the noble tribes of your people to be of common backgrounds) were chained and whipped and scorned like they were the plagues to this land. The colonizers bore crosses of prayer, offered the Word of their doctrines as a show of mercy, yet they treated your people as if they were the scum and the friars the messiah.

He had to resist the urge to fly into another fit of rage. He cannot compromise himself nor his people.

The pull from his heart led him away from the busy port town of merchants and slaves, around a few more islands into the motherland, and into a secluded beach with a grand manor by the plot of land further inland. The dusk provided a hush so similar to the one he had heard centuries ago—the lullabies of your motherland almost lulling Namor to sleep. Yet he persisted in his search, flying in closer to the manor with very spare lamps to its sides.

By now the sun had almost kissed the sea its goodbyes, and his eyes strained to see the faint silhouettes from the balcony of the hacienda.

In the years that he has lived without you by his side, his broken heart suddenly skipped with the feeling that he claimed to have lost in his century-long mourning.

You were as beautiful as the day that he had lost you; the same sparkle of your unwavering gaze that held nothing but the wit of a datu, the sheen of your golden skin flickering with the lamp by your side, the stature of a figurehead that leads with fervor into battle.

The same face, the same mannerisms, the same scrunch of your brow when you had to plunge into a circle of deep thought. It was you.

Yet you were not dressed as the warrior Namor had known you to be. You were dainty. Fragile. Instead of a rose with jagged thorns, you were a jasmine in the high afternoon. Defenseless. Smaller than the world. You bear not the golden jewels upon your skin, nor the scars nor ink of your ancestral heritage.

You were a woman of class, of poise. A princess whose hands have not held the spears of rebellion nor the blood of the enemy. You wore a dress that was far too regal; you could not as much as run into the battles you had once waged for your land.

Despite this, Namor knew. He knows in his heart—his very soul—that it was you.

And how that excited him so.

He was too far to hear the musings of your lips as another woman—this time with far less poise, drab clothes, narrow eyes that shifted down in respect, and the palest of pallor—approached you in high regard. She spoke to you as if you were her master, yet you replied with a kindness that made the sangley at ease in your presence.

You moved with the grace of nobility, shied away from the breeze of the sea with the same sway of the tropical trees, and you uplifted the sangley, one of low birth in comparison to your standing, like she was one of your own; without fault nor the judgment of race, without the grimace nor stare of a boorish colonizer.

A queen. That was what you are. A leader fit to rule by his side and claim the empty throne on his right hand.

He wanted to go and fly up the balconies of your manor, claim the lips that he had once lost in war, and bring you back to his home and let you reclaim the right that had been yours since the beginning of his reign as king. Yet he waited for the perfect time to face you. He watched your newfound life, marveled at the way you had changed so much yet so little at the same time.

Namor seethed when he saw men of Spanish class strolling across the beach, their arrogance seeping out in waves that even the god could feel from his distance from the shores. They called out to you in the tongue that he had hated, presenting you with a rose from below, and the other men accompanied such gestures with songs of courting.

He would have killed those men who dared lay their eyes upon his beloved, but you simply scoffed at them from the balcony. You unfurled your fan with a snap, diverted your eyes away from your suitors, and slowly fanned the silken abanico by your chest.

You fiddled with the golden tassel that hung low from the native wood, your whole countenance uninterested with the advances of the noble insulares—Philippine born Spaniards. The sangley at your side giggled in amusement and the men down below had dejectedly left you to your own devices with their head hung low and their pride crushed.

Whatever you had done with your fan had left them heartbroken. Namor found joy at the fact that there did not exist another man who could ever claim your soul as he had done in the past.

As the days passed, Namor had viewed you from afar. He watched as you mingled with more noble ladies your age, sewn beautiful articles of cloth as a gift to your father—a governor general, he assumed—and lived the life of a princess. You were not the warrior he came to know you to be, but his love still overflowed with a new passion. You wore the same smile, bore the same laugh, and you still possess the same air of dignity that led the charge in pursuit of your beliefs.

You had snapped your fan open and fanned yourself slowly to the countless other men who tried to court you from down your balcony; you must be the most precious flower in this land. And rightfully so.

He wondered how a woman as strong as you would be sheltered as much as you are now. You had the makings of a leader, but the men of higher titles bore those roles despite being ill-fitted.

One particularly peaceful dusk, as he watched you talk with the sangley, you had finally gone out from your manor to bask in the freshness of your motherland’s air. You glided down the beach while gripping the ends of the sheer fabric of your pañuelo, dragged the wide train of your elaborate saya, and relished the salty breeze that came from the sea. Your hair, which was always tied in a complicated updo, has now unraveled.

You were so beautiful in Namor’s eyes, even this version of you that was decorated with the most intricate of fragile cloth and the innocence of a maiden of class.

Namor could not take this silent wonder to himself any longer. He needed to see you. He needed to touch you. He needed to hear you.

He needed you.

His heartbeat pounded against his pointed ears, his hands shaking from excitement, or was it fear? Fear that you might not remember him, fear that you will not come back as the queen that he had hoped you to be.

Yet as he watched you close your eyes in peace, he purged the thought of such fear. You were still the woman that he loved. The person who owns half of his soul. He needed to feel your body in his arms again and shower you with the two hundred year long affection that overflowed in his chest.

And with a final beat to his feathered wings, he emerged from the water in front of you. Just like the first time you met on that fateful beach long ago.

Your eyes were still closed, your breath still at peace. He drew in closer, and closer until she could smell the jasmine that decorated your hair. You were so near, just an arm’s length away. He raised his hand, ready to caress the supple of your cheek that he had so longed to hold since the first time he saw you by the bay—

Then you snapped your eyes open in horror and fell to the ground with a panicked shriek.

Fear. It was painted in your eyes. The same fear that washed over the eyes of his enemies when he pointed a spear to their neck to meet their untimely demise. The same fear he had instilled to the people who had wronged him and cursed him as a deadly foe.

The same fear he never wished to see in your own eyes—the eyes that once held so much love for him.

“In reina—” my queen, he started. But you still shook with great fear and apprehension.

“¡Demonio!”

Namor’s blood froze as you uttered the tongue that he loathed so much. It coursed through with a hot rage like an inferno, the shock of disbelief, and with it came the despair that he felt through his veins. The warrior who had fought for their motherland was tainted by the same people that had ravished your culture, tore down your ancestral homes, and assaulted your own people in the guise of religious crusade.

His heart lurched again, but this time it was from the pain. To see his beloved hold so much fear for him, for you to clutch the cross that adorned your neck in the prayer he found so vile that made him want to lash out in his own disgust.

What words have you uttered to curse him whilst you praised your Christian god, what such contempt do you hold for him, he wondered, for you to ask the holy mother to cast him out like the demon of the depths of hell that he was supposed to be?

The mouth you had used to praise him, the one you used to kiss him and call your god of the sea, now spoke nothing but the language of filthy invaders that he hated the most.

You had forgotten him. It hurt to accept the fact that all of the love that he had given you in the century that he had mourned had been forgotten and replaced with disgust of his being. Yet he did not blame you, he only blamed the enemies that have tainted your soul with dark hatred.

“¡No eres bienvenido en esta tierra, demonio! ¡Te expulso en el nombre de mi dios!” You are not welcome in this land, demon! I cast you out in the name of my god! You declared.

You dared not ask for help, but instead you fought him off with that foul tongue.

You were still a fighter despite being treated as royalty, and it hurts so much to know that he cannot praise your spirit when you were tainted by the influence of the vile conquistadors.

This was too much. Namor could only bear so much.

And before the guardia civil could even see a glimpse of him after they had heard the cries of their young mistress, he had fled into the sea and never returned.

That night, the ocean sang the songs of cruel anguish; for its king mourned the loss of his queen to the hands of colonizers once again.

A loveless child. That was what he was. The cursed man whose half his soul died along with his beloved.

Niño sin amor.

A year after he had fled from your sight, he came back to watch you again. Despite the pain, he had to see you one last time.

Yet he was met with a line of mourners holding a cross to their lips as they prayed their ninth day of rosary in front of a coffin by the sea.

He did not stay to find out whose wake it was, but by the sobbing form of the sangley that you always loved to dote, the ladies that you had shared a pleasant time with embroidered kerchiefs, and the weeping governor general by the head of the procession and the lead to the rosary,

Namor knew he will never see the smile of his beloved ever again.

Manila, Philippines, Summer of 1896

There were rumors of an entity that gifted their favorite followers golds and jaden necklaces, pearls and diamond rings, riches that no indio could ever imagine getting their hands on in the presence of the guardia civil and the watchful eye of the Catholic church.

There spared no mercy to the rightful owners of the land once owned by the slaves that toiled the lands by the whips of their Spanish masters; each morsel of coin and bread carefully rationed three days worth of portions for a week worth of labor.

But the rumors of the generous being were drowned by the whispers of revolution, hushed meetings of a triage at the wee hours of the night, and there lay plans—real strategies, not the old tale of riches from a benevolent god of luxury—of the fight for the land that was stolen from them by the Spanish.

“Hermanos, hermanas, batid kayo hinggil sa nabigong stratehiya ng mga illustrados na naghahangad ng kapayapaan sa pamamaraan ng publikasyon at pluma. La liga filipina ha demostrado ser inútil.” Brothers, sisters, I’m sure you are all aware of the failed peace strategies of the illustrados. La Liga Filipina has proven to be useless.

You listened attentively whilst dressing the wounds of a young katipunero, the gashes that came from the swords of the guardia civil seeping blood into the fresh bandages.

You frowned as the young man hissed, but he kept it in well to let your leading general continue with his speech. It was a formality at this point—to start the secret meetings at midnight with a speech after the revolutionaries separated from La Liga Filipina—it was to ensure the new members of the triage were made aware of their roles in the armed revolution.

La Liga Filipina was not completely useless, you had thought to yourself helplessly. You wanted to end this war with peace. You wanted the written articles of the educated men of class to be heard through the high societies of the Spanish regime. All you wanted was freedom without the cost of bloodshed of your fellow men.

You would have stayed with the league if it weren’t for your lack of education. As a daughter of a fisherman, you did not have the time nor the resources to attend the catholic schools that were built for your purpose.

And even if you did learn how to properly articulate your revolutionary propaganda, you knew higher society would frown upon the texts that were written by mere women, much more when you were of a low birth.

The general of the revolutionary movement called out on you, his wife perking up at the mention of your name. You straightened up and patted the poor injured boy by your side. He was still a whimpering mess despite the amount of medicine and rolls of gauze you had used on his injured arm.

“Po?” What? You asked whilst you wiped your hands clean of blood. Your general merely quirked a brow and cleared his throat.

“Muntikan nang mahuli ang ating bise noong nakaraang hatinggabi,” Our vice president was almost caught last midnight, he told you in brief. You shot a glance to the woman by his side—his wife, the vice president of the Revolutionary’s Women’s Chapter—and frowned.

The guardia civil have proven to be drawing closer and closer to your base of operations, and if anyone would have discovered the plans of the custodian, it would be the end of the freemasonry, “nangangailangan kami ng pagtustos mula sa ating kapwa rebolusyonaryo sa pagtago ng ating mga armas.” We need the assistance of our sister revolutionaries with hiding our weapons, he continued.

“Oye, ano ang kinalaman nito sa akin? Isa lang akong manggagamot sa himagsikan.” What does this have to do with me? I am merely a medic in the revolution.

“At isa ka ring babae,” and you are a woman, he told you pointedly. You shot him a look of disdain, his wife shooting him a similar squinted stare. All the other women in attendance at the secret meeting frowned and held their chins up higher, the others who were tending to their weapons pausing in their tasks. There were few women who would willingly join the revolution, but they did not fall short on their responsibilities. They could do their job equal to, even better than, a man. Noticing his mistake, the general cleared his throat and raised his hand in surrender to show no ill-will.

“Lo siento, binibini, mali ang aking pagkasabi,” I apologize, young lady. I phrased myself poorly, he pulled out a map from a hidden compartment from his desk and laid it out on the adjoined tables for everyone to see.

He pointed to a spot near the ports of Manila, trailing his fingers across lands that did not bear any paths, and signaled his chin forward for you to see, “bilang isang babae, mas mababawasan ang paghihinala ng mga guardia sibil kapag sila’y nagsisiyasat ng iyong karwahe. Walang maghihinala na ang isang babae’y sumali sa mga rebolusyonaryo.” As a woman, The civil guards would not raise any suspicions whilst inspecting your carriage. They would hardly suspect a woman to be a member of the revolution.

“Ano ang nais mong gawin ko, heneral?” What do you wish me to do, general?

He pursed his lips and gestured to the hidden doors of the basement where all the weapons lay hidden, “Isang kinsena. Kikilos ka sa loob ng isang kinsena upang ilipat ang ating mga armas. Inuutos din kitang magbigay ng tulong medikal sa ating kapwa katipunero sa baybaying dagat.” A fortnight. You must move out within a fortnight to relocate our weapons. I am instructing you to give medical aid to our fellow revolutionaries by the bay as well.

You nodded at your new instructions, burning everything to memory as the general forged new plans to inconspicuously sneak you past the civil guards that manned and roamed the port bay. You were prepared for the responsibility that awaited you, but at the same time, there was a pull to your gut that something life-changing will happen during your journey.

That feeling persisted until you sneaked past out of the backdoors of the meeting room and into your own quaint little home downtown.

You chalked it up to nerves.

The plan was successful; the idea was to disguise yourself as a peninsulares’ fiancé and meet your lover at the bay (a plan carefully executed in cahoots with your fellow revolutionaries that were affiliated with the La Liga Filipina).

No one will suspect a woman like yourself to carry guns and blades in the guise of gifts to your wealthy groom-to-be. And a little bit of a scene from your brothers of the revolution near the entrance of the port town, you passed by quickly from the inspection gates, bid the guards a blessed day, and made your way towards the hacienda that was lent to you by your wealthier brothers of the league.

And by god was it beautiful.

It sat near the ports just a shy away from the main docking bays of trade. Yet it gave you a fair distance to be considered private that no man would dare see past the foliage of the trees that surrounded the courtyard facing the sea. You breathed in the scents of the ocean—a scent that you missed dearly—and helped your coachman (and fellow revolutionary) unload your ‘gifts’ for your ‘fiancé.’

After the luggage has been stored, and the weapons hidden under the floorboards and basements of your new casa, you take the time to stroll across the beaches of your new home. It was quiet, save for the port side bells that signaled the dusk from across the distant shores, and stood quietly by the edge of the water.

You chose this time to relish the momentary peace that you were privileged enough to bask in. Your brothers and sisters were out to war, yet you remain here awaiting the orders of your general. You were an integral part of the revolution and you knew that very well. But you would rather ride into battle in armed cavalry against the colonizers that terrorized your people.

By your side, you hear splashes of water and the quelch of wet sand. You snapped your eyes to the direction of the noise, your arms immediately grabbing the blade hidden under your saya on instinct. You were not afraid of any man nor friar who would prey on helpless women, yet you will not take any chances.

You blinked in confusion when you were met with nothing by the beach. Must it have been your imagination? Surely not—you were accustomed to the sound of silent footsteps when you had fought the battles of night, trained your ears to the slightest of shifts in preparation for a silent war.

You must be out of practice after a fortnight of etiquette training for your new high-class persona.

A glimmer caught your eye just buried beneath the wet sand. The waves unearthed a golden necklace of sorts with intricate designs depicting the sea. You blinked in confusion as you sheath your blade and picked up the jewelry in question. A jade fit snugly into the slot of the golden amulet, and there were small pearls lined with the golden threads.

You have heard of rumors of a god that gave gold and jade riches to those that they had pleased. It was the legends passed by the tongue of your hometown in the south; when your ancestors worshiped the god of the sea and bore gifts in exchange.

You wondered if this was mere coincidence—there was a possibility that such an accessory was dropped by one of the noble ships that carried riches and was swept by the tide and showed up at your feet.

Nevertheless, you used the cloth of your saya to wipe away the water and the sand from the beautiful piece, held it to the light to admire the masterful craftsmanship, and held it close to your heart.

Somehow, despite your desire to send it to your family to provide monetary aid for your brothers and sisters, you wanted to keep it close to you and never let it go.

And from just behind the rocks of the bay, it was enough for Namor to see you keep his gift with a smile; the smile he thought he would never see again.

But you were right there. Right there. Fate had given him a chance to marvel at your magnificence once again. His heart fluttered with the desire to take you as his queen, and the love he thought that died a second time flourished and overflowed.

Only this time, he was going to admire you from afar. That much was enough for him. It was not your fault that the colonizers had influenced your people so much that you had casted him away more than a century ago.

But he cannot bear his beloved utter the tongue of vile vermin. It was a reminder of his weakness; that he could not save you at your first cycle of life.

And so he watched you like he did in your second life, only this time he did not do anything to satiate the itch of his longing in fear of your rejection;

for the mighty god would lose his way if he were to lose the light that he held so dearly in the heart that cried out for your loving embrace.

You were sure you were going crazy. Believing myths and stories that were used to keep troublesome children in bed? Hardly a thing that you would even consider in your years of life.

Yet you had to wonder; what in the world have you done to appease the god of the sea to deliver so much wealth at your doorstep? It had been a month since your reinstatement to the port city.

You worked as a spy of sorts, collecting whispers and hushed rumors of anything related to the revolution. The wind speaks of a rebellion just across the horizon. It was high time for war—your general had written to you in a passage of a poem about the red roses in the last drops of summer. A code, you gathered, of the real battle that is to begin in a month.

You always worried what it meant for your people, and that worry would bloom into an unsettled anxiety. You always walked through the beaches for fresh air when you were deep in thought, and lo and behold, another gift would appear right at your feet, hidden by the wet sand of the sea. It has been a month of golds and jades and naturally intricate conch shells.

It would have scared you to meddle with the affairs of such divine entities, but you found yourself comforted by whatever being or coincidence that would offer you such gifts.

The riches that were handed to you by a silver platter had been most helpful with the revolution. You had stocked the shelves high with medicine for war, bought books from the higher ends of the Spanish markets (even though it will take some time for you to decipher the written text with your lack of education), and supplied monetary aid to your general’s ranks to buy you more gunpowder for the oncoming war.

You had also bought yourself crates upon crates of arms to be shipped off in the high time of trade; this will give your brethren of the rebellion more chances to fight for themselves. It will be needed the most, especially when the Spanish would outnumber you by a hundred thousand.

As you studied the new gift bestowed upon you—a sheer patterned cloth bundling a few golden coins—your heart swelled with an unknown warmth. The thoughts of war dissipated from your head, and what was left of the impending sorrow of the revolution was the love of fate that somehow swept itself on the tide of your beaches.

“Ano ba ang namalas ng iyong binditadong mga mata upang matamo ng isang Sugbuanong kagaya ko ang iyong pagunlak, Maklium sa Tubig?” What do your divine eyes see to have garnered such favor from a poor Cebuano such as I, God of the Sea?

Everything, Namor replied to your question in his mind. He clutched the pouch of golds and jades to his heart as it yearned for your touch. Although he was still not accustomed to the new language that you had spoken, he still understood the implications of your question directed to him, even though you did not know your words were heard by the feathered serpent god.

You did not even have to try to garner his favor. He will still love you all the same. He did not need divine judgment nor the aid of a heavenly council, he loved every single part of you just the same. He loved every single version of you; past, present, and future.

On the days that have passed you have gotten even busier. Reconnaissance, medical aid, even the task of a revolutionary herald had been passed on to you. You knocked on doors and brought news of war, spread rumors—both truth and hearsays—to confuse those who eavesdropped by the alleys.

No Spanish soldier would ever think a woman of all people would spread the mumbles of revolution. Yet here you were, hidden right under their noses as you had expanded the triage of the port bay. More and more young men and women joined the secret meetings every midnight, and there are more to come in the following weeks.

This new responsibility weighed heavily on your shoulders. You were not the leader your general thought you would be, nor are you the dependable mother of revolution Ka Oriang had inspired you to be.

You were just a woman of low birth whose voice was drowned by the men with pride and far more tactical brilliance than you. You were a medic, not a warrior. A woman who had no right to be at the head of the strategist table.

Namor watched from afar as you became the leader of such a great rebellion. It was an admirable feat, one that Namor would have done if it weren’t for his priorities to keep his people hidden. Yet he frowned at your desolate disposition from the rocks he had settled in. You were unsure. Scared. Fearful of the future of the duty you had taken initiative in.

And just like any other day, when you lay on the sand just shy away from the water, he would send forth the sea to deliver his gifts. He would watch as you would pick it up from the sand and shine the last light of dusk towards the string of pearls and gold.

You would smile ever so softly to yourself, the smile that had made his immortal heart lurch from his chest in great affection. How he longed to be the one to deliver his gifts to your own hands, kiss the lips that would praise his name, and caress the cheeks of your golden skin like it was the most precious treasure of all; one that his own riches paled in comparison to.

“Gracias, Maklium sa Tubig,” thank you, God of the Sea, you had addressed to the waters before you with a humorous chuckle.

Namor’s heart shook once again, “tila’y nagsisimula na akong manilawa na ika’y isang totoong nilalang at hindi isang kathang-isip lamang.” I think I’m starting to believe that you are a real being and not just a figment of my imagination.

But I am real, Namor resisted the urge to fly out from his hiding and declare to the world his existence for you. He wasn’t a figment of your imagination.

The love he bears for you is real and true. There lay no lie to his affections nor there lay no contempt. He wanted to tell you, make you believe that he was real, and that you meant so much to him in this timeline and the next.

With a heavy heart and a soul who stretched out to the land in which you lay, he fingered the vial of the vibranium infused tonic and dove into the depths of the sea.

Maybe someday he can give you the elixir that would give you life amongst his people, but for now, he had to lay his heart to rest from the pain that came from his yearning.

He would never have expected what nightmare you had to face in his absence.

You had called out to him, your God of the Sea, for the war you had thought you would have won was so close to its defeat. The Spanish had discovered you, uncovered your midnight gatherings, confiscated the arms that were left for the last day’s shipment.

You were successful in delivering the weapons to another safehouse, closer to the base of the inner city. Yet you had foolishly bought too many with the riches that came from your newfound wealth from the benevolent god of your ancestors.

No one would suspect a woman to be in the revolution. No woman was to fight in the place of a man. But you had garnered too much suspicion—a fake name of a noblewoman buying arms in the guise of hunting gear for their fiance—yet no woman would buy so much. No woman would buy arms that were made to shoot the lives of men, not pheasants nor game.

You called out to him during the night, when the Spanish had burned down your home with your procured medicines that were bought from the gifts of your god. You called out a name foreign to the friars present, and they had labeled you a woman of native witchcraft.

They spat at you like you were a demon from the depths of hell, beat you with whips that were blessed with holy water. You did not give them the satisfaction of your cries, but you did receive more of their ire when you screamed out to your god of the sea in your mother tongue.

You called out to him on the dusk that had come, your arms and legs tied with your camisa stained with your own blood. It stung like the pinpricks of hot needles, and the holy water that was thrown at your back served to make it even more painful.

You wondered if you were really a demon, as they had called you, when the blessed water burned your wounds.

They had hauled more men down to the beach and let them kneel in front of the ocean; a witness to your inevitable death, perhaps, that they so shamelessly presented the sea with the blood of the natives of the land that they had stolen. You were glad that most of the younger men under your wing had escaped, and what was left of the battered revolutionaries were those who had fought gallantly at your side.

You would assume that the message of your capture would have spread throughout the ranks, and you feared that the general would have to move the plans more quickly upon your discovery.

The guards tied blindfolds upon your eyes. The sea’s rage intensified in your ears, furious. You felt the wind pick up and the sound of multiple guns drawn a few meters behind you. You cursed yourself and this mess. You heard your brothers curse alongside you as well.

It was your fault, you had told yourself. Your fault that the rebellion had been discovered. Your fault that the war started when you were underprepared. Your fault that the general had to pay the price of your negligence. Your fault that the blood of your brothers would be shed in panic.

“¡Viva la revolucion!” Long live the revolution! You heard one of your brothers cry out. You held the urge to smile; for even in the face of the death penalty were they loyal to the cause.

Bang! The sound of a rifle. The sound of a body that fell lifelessly to the ground.

And that was one brother down.

“¡Viva la revolucion!” The sound of guns being switched around, the metal of the trigger being drawn.

Bang!

“¡Viva la revolucion! Mabuhay Pilipinas! Kalayaan para sa bayan!” Long live the revolution! Long live the Philippines! Freedom for our nation!

Bang!

Prayers were chanted amongst the friars of the sinful church, their doctrines washed away with the tide that had now touched your knees. It stung your open wounds as you let out a hiss, but you bare mind to it. You felt more blessed water being thrown at your whipped back and the beads of the rosary wrapped firmly around your neck.

“¡Viva la revolucion!” You cried out, your throat raw from the intensity of your cries.

And mere seconds from your inevitable death, just as the final draw of guns could be heard from behind you and the collective click of the metal from the triggers, you prayed.

Prayed for the God of the Sea to come save you.

Prayed for His salvation, for Him to deliver you to everlasting life as He had delivered your ancestors and gave them riches of gold and jade.

Prayed for the sea to curse the colonizers who had enslaved the people of your motherland.

And then your God of the Sea came. Your Maklium sa Tublig.

Namor had jumped in a blind rage, his cries for war now carrying all the hate of the world with a swing of his spear. He had just arrived to bear you new gifts, golden earrings that your past self had loved to wear, yet it lay forgotten in the sand as he tore down every single man who stood in attention to the suffering that they had caused.

His blood boiled at the sight of your ruined dress, the stripes of punishment fresh on your back and marking the skin that he so loved so much. He had caught the glimpses of wicked perversion from the blasphemous men of faith, and as soon as he had slayed the enemies that dared point their arms at you, he turned to the Spanish friars with the coldness of a god that besmirched his enemy.

“¡¿Quién eres tú?!” Who are you, one of the three friars asked, his legs betraying him as he fell on the sand. The others followed suit, too weak in the presence of a being as divine as he.

They shook at the sight of the ears that pointed to the heavens, cried out in shock at the feathered ankles that kept him afloat. He was a demon, they cried out in their tongue. But your digress. He was your savior; your god.

“My followers call me K’uk’ulkan,” he sneered at the tongue that had cursed him centuries ago, yet he continued to bear the weight of their vile language to deliver his message. His feathered ankles bristled as he hovered by your side; a clear indication of his protection. In the midst of his anger did he let his otherwise dutiful countenance slip from his control.

He could not fathom the rage that he felt. He will make sure that every drop of blood that has dropped from your skin and has yet to be spilled will be paid a hundredfold.

Although you cannot see your god who had answered your prayers, you cried behind the cloth of your blindfold in reverence to his name. Namor pointed his spear at the trembling men, and with a loud voice he had proclaimed—

“...and your people, my enemies, call me Namor.”

The friars had held their crosses in their dying breaths, chanting the name of their Christian god in vain. They casted out the demon of the sea with their very being, yet their god had forsaken them for the sins that they have committed in the name of crusade.

There lay no mercy to the blasphemous fiends of the high courts of the church; for their names shall not be engraved in the book before the gates of their salvation.

And the you who had so diligently called out to your own god for mercy was granted deliverance against the trials that awaited you. The prize you had won for your faith was more than riches and gold.

It was the love of your god—your God of the Sea.

Maklium sa Tubig. Your K’uk’ulkan.

“Stay awake for me, my love,” he spoke in your tongue with panicked breaths.

You hissed and grunted at the stings from your whipped back, but you felt at peace when he cradled you in his arms. He tore your blindfold off of your eyes, and you nearly cried at the sight of him. He was beautiful. Divine. Worthy of such a title of god. “do not dare close your eyes in my presence.”

“You came.” You pathetically rasped. Your lips were dry and chapped. It was almost painful to move your mouth.

“You called,” he carefully took your hand while being mindful of your wounds and kissed the calloused skin of your palms.

You replied in kind, weakly brushing your shaking fingers over his pointed ears. You held no such disgust to his form; only wonder to his majesty.

He leaned into your touch like a man starved of affection, and you wondered how blessed you were to get such treatment from your god, “how dare I ever ignore your pleas when I have given half my heart and soul to you?”

“I am hardly worthy—” you coughed out from the dryness of your throat, the sudden action shooting more pain up your body. Namor held you closer to him gently. In the arms of your god, you felt free, “I c-cannot possibly be worth half your heart and soul.”

“But you are. You are worth more than any riches, more worth than the blessings of the sea could give,” he connected his forehead to yours and submitted into your presence.

You were blinding, a sight for his immortal eyes, “you need to rest, my love. You are now safe.”

“It is too late for me.” You rasped. He shook his head in denial.

“You are not to die today. Your king forbids it.”

Your eyes fluttered shut despite the order of your god. You smiled in content at the feeling of the sea beneath your hips, the tide slowly bidding its final strokes of goodbye.

Namor’s eyes widened and his heart lurched painfully from his chest. He needed to do something, anything!

Then he remembered the tonic that he had saved to make you a part of his people. Surely the tonic would help remedy your wounds in some way, he thought in clouded desperation.

It had cured his ancestors from the diseases brought by the conquistadors, after all. He pulled out the tonic from the pouch of gold and jade he used to store his gifts for you, popped open the cork of the precious liquid, and directed the vial towards your lips.

His hands shook in great panic, the contents spilling from your mouth and down your chin, as if you were rejecting the life that he so desperately wanted you to consume. In his haste, he dropped the vial into the water.

He was quick to save it, but half of its contents spilled and saltwater had mixed with the concoction. Yet he did not mind. Just a sip was enough. Anything to save you.

“Drink, I beg of you. Drink.”

Yet you held no response.

And with a final desperate move to revive you, he put the vial to his own lips, gathered the medicine into his mouth, and kissed you.

The kiss from a god is one that should be revered as the highest form of praise. Yet you could not think of anything but the surge of power that coursed through your body.

It was as painful as it was comforting—it felt like your blood had flowed backwards, your lungs expanding and filling with water, yet there was a gentle wave that came with it, suspending you into a sensation of tranquility in the arms of the deep ocean.

You snapped your eyes wide open, your chest heaving with great gusto and inhaling as much of the air that sustained your lungs greedily. The sea, as if feeling the presence of its new ruler, shook and roared around you and your savior, ropes of seawater surrounding you in a show of your newfound authority.

Namor gaped at the sight—it was a power as beautiful and as powerful as you. It was befitting your own character, for you are as gentle as the waves of the ocean yet as harsh and as tumultuous as the stormy seas. Your heart lay deeper into the depths of ardor and the care for your nation.

You have proven time and time again that you were fitting to be his queen.

The pain from your wounds have gone, yet you still feel a lingering numbness from the effects of the medicine. Your eyes shifted to meet the magnificent earthen oak of the eyes of your savior whose tears overflowed at the sight of your breaths of life.

You smiled albeit weakly and wiped the crystalline drops of his joys and sorrows with your trembling fingers.

“Why do you cry, Maklium sa Tubig?”

He did not speak nor did he dare attempt to. He released a humorless laugh, one of great relief, as he tried his best to hide his tears from your eyes. But you have seen all of him; the raw and pure version of him that you have come to love despite your lowly mortal self.

And then with a shaky whimper, he said,

“Call me by my real name. I implore you, my love, for I have waited centuries to hear my name on your lips once again.”

And with a tired smile you replied.

“As you wish, K’uk’ulkan.”

For the first time in centuries, K’uk’ulkan finally felt half of his heart and soul at peace. The queen he had failed to save is now alive in his arms, breathing and healing from their past wounds.

She was as beautiful as the stars that had guided him through the open seas, as graceful as the sway of the forest kelp in the deep ocean floor, and there lay no more danger in their midst—for she was safe in the arms of the god she had begged to come to their aid at their deathbed.

“What is in your mind, K’uk’ulkan?” You asked him ever so silently, your hands trailing across the planes of his face in such delicate strokes that it made his whole body jolt in great adoration.

Three months ago you would have shrunk back and called yourself blasphemous; for there no existed such a mortal who would ever hold a god so comfortably. But now you surrendered to him so well and you have accepted his affections wholeheartedly. You were now free to roam your hands across the planes of his body and burn to memory his very existence.

“Nothing of importance,” he whispered gently, his breath fanning across the exposed skin of your neck.

You would have shied away if these were different circumstances; no woman should have a man even near their chambers when you only sported a sheer chemise and skirt. Yet you purged the thought in your mind.

Your lover was of greater renown. He would do anything within his power to keep you close to him as much as possible, “your wounds have almost healed. It should be about time before you have to go back to the frontlines to fight.”

“I love my people and I love my nation. But I would like to cherish these moments with you, irog ko.” My beloved. Such a sweet endearment from the chimes of your mother tongue.

You turned your body so you would face him, his eyes piercing through the morning sun. The rattan hut in which you’ve spent to hide from your foes was quaint, but it was close to the ocean and away from the nightmares of war.

The people deemed you dead, you had gathered. But your general knew of your whereabouts from the letters that you had sent after the catastrophe by the port bay. You were to rest and provide aid as soon as you were ready, and with the help of newfound powers of controlling the sea and water, you were sure to bring your people to victory.

“Are you certain you do not wish for me to whisk you away?” He asked, his feathered legs tangling with yours under the light covers, “My kingdom waits for their queen to sit on the right hand of my throne.”

“I cannot go with you. Not yet, at least,” you breathed in his scent—the smell of the sun and the oceans—and rested your forehead on his bare chest, the jewels that adorned his neck now lay idly by your bedside, “my people still have to be free from the grasps of their oppressors. My brothers and sisters are bearing arms whilst I lay in comfort. I will join them as soon as I have healed. For my nation. Para sa inang-bayan.” For the motherland.

Namor sighs, but it wasn’t from disappointment. For months he has asked you to return home with him, to hide away into the depths of the ocean and make you the queen of his great nation. But he knew that as much as you would like to learn the ways of his people, you still had to save yours from their own downfall.

It was a feeling Namor understood quite well. If he were to find the kingdom of Talokan in the hands of the enemy, he would also fight until the bitter end. He possessed the spirit of the warrior, and you possess a similar spark to save your motherland.

“I understand,” he feathered kisses over the crown of your head and basked in your presence. You still smelled like the roses and jasmine that adorned your headdress in your first life, “you were just like this in the past. Always thinking of your people, always fighting to protect the ones you hold dear.”

“How are you so sure that the me of the present is the me you have met in the past?”

“Because, in yakunaj,” he trailed his hands down to your back, his hands painting murals of his endearment. There still lie the lines of the whipped scars from the Spanish friars a few months ago, but K’uk’ulkan finds them beautiful.

A sign of your strength, “your soul resonates with mine. It is like a bond that can never be broken. I would pick your soul amongst a million that may ever hinder us, and the love I have for you is as timeless as the sand that settles down the depths of the sea. I will find you no matter what era; no matter what reality. I will still choose you.”

Overwhelmed with the ardent dedication your lover has presented you, you couldn’t help but lean forth to kiss him. He returned with such fervor that it elicited the sweet sounds of your excitement. K’uk’ulkan’s heart soared, and if it were possible, the love he had to give overflowed yet again in a larger tide than he had ever experienced before.

He was careful when he lay your back on the rattan bed, the covers now pooling beneath you and creating a halo so divine that he would mistake you as the goddess and he the devotee. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drew in closer to his swollen lips, and shivered at his very touch.

“I am ready, K’uk’ulkan.”

He stopped ever so reluctantly, his breath hitching whilst the heat that came from his heart doubled and spread to the tips of his feathered ankles. Suddenly, you were far too tempting beneath his arms, so ready for him to take you. You were tantalizing. Absolutely exquisite.

“Are you sure?” His hands ghosted the hems of your chemise as you shook under his concupiscent gaze, “are you not a woman of faith? To bed a man you have not wed is an act of sin in the eyes of your faith.”

“You are my faith. You are my god,”

You had spoken in hasty breaths, your hands now snaking itself up to his hair and tugging at the roots.

K’uk’ulkan released a shaky sigh, lowering himself to close the distance between you.

He could feel the suppleness of your attentive chest beneath his own, and the control he had over himself started to slip at the desire that coated your eyes,

“I care not for the faith that had cursed me in my times of desperation. You have saved me when I have called you, you have nursed me until I was well. You are my god of the sea, my K’uk’ulkan, and I will give you everything that I have to give in full faith, devotion, and love.”

He kissed you like never before, the walls that the both of you erected falling into pieces with every touch of skin. You created such beautiful music in his ears, begging him to take the precious gems of your prized possession, gasping at the sensations that only his mouth could dare place at every place that was otherwise covered by your clothes.

Yet he took his time with you; so soft and gentle, trailing his lips across the soft skin of your neck and the valley of your chest still covered in the sheer fabric of your laced chemise. He had undressed you just as quickly, and he wasted no time in bringing attention to your attentive buds.

You squirmed and gasped and moaned at his ministrations—this wasn’t what you imagined it to be. This was not the tales of the housewives of their husbands’ acts for they merely claimed their bejeweled flowers as soon as they had started. K’uk’ulkan was gentler, much more tender in the way that he kissed every surface of your skin.

This was far better than the countless tales you have heard of a woman’s loss of chastity. This was far better than anything you have imagined from a man.

He worshiped you like you were the deity of his faith, exalted in praise at every scar, every freckle, every imperfection that came with your physical self.

He had reached the point of no return; drunk in your presence and your mercy.

Drunk in your sounds of ecstacy. He trailed lower and lower, his lips finally finding purchase at the mound of your untouched womanhood. Yet he did not stop there, no. There were far more places to explore. Much more parts of you to worship.

K’uk’ulkan raised your legs over his shoulders with expert ease. You yelped in surprise, but those quickly turned into embarrassed moans of your pleasure as he kissed your ankles and your feet, going higher and higher until he nipped at the insides of your thighs.

You could not help but quiver at the man who towered over you, the one who asserted his control yet left room for such soft affections, as he finally pressed his nose to the throbbing core of your body.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled in his mother tongue, something you could not quite translate just yet, “you are so beautiful for me, my queen. So needy.”

“Please—” you begged him, the ache now painfully presenting itself to you in its desire. You bucked your hips impossibly higher, and you had to cover your mouth to muffle the moans you released when he collected the sweet nectar of your core, “please, my king. Do something, anything.”

“Anything for my queen.”

Your yells of bliss were muffled by your hands pressed so firmly at your lips that it became almost painful.

He paused in his ministrations to remove yourself from your mouth, held your crossed wrists together above your head, and stared at you with a gentle command;

“Do not silence yourself whilst I pleasure you, my love. Let me hear you scream my name.”

And you did just that.

“K’uk’ulkan!”

And the little patience K’uk’ulkan had left snapped in half, and by the time the sun had risen to the highest point of mid-noon, you were left undone in more ways than one. He did not stop until you were far too gone to think of anything but his name.

He did not waver as you quivered beneath him with your eyes rolled back in total ecstasy.

He lapped at your juices like a man drinking the last drops of life from the desert sand, his tongue doing wonders to leave you in a whimpering mess.

You let your voice ring through as he continued to ravish the sweet nectar of your sin; you were embarrassingly drenched, yet he paid no mind. In fact, it seemed to excite him more than it should have.

“You taste so sweet, my love,” he dragged his tongue on your slit, finally finding purchase at the soft pearl of your clit.

You mewled pathetically at his control as he swirled his tongue and nipped at the erected bud, “you like that, don’t you? So good and needy for my tongue.”

“Please, please, please!” You did not know what you were begging for, but you knew he was the only one who could possibly satiate the itch at your core.

As if noticing your lack of sense—too drunk with his tongue to even comprehend—he gave you a teasing smirk. “Please what, my sweet? Tell your god what you wish for.”

“There, there!” You bucked your hips closer to his lips, his teeth now grazing at your sensitive clit, “please, K’uk’ulkan. Please make me feel good. Please do your bidding on this shameless thing.”

“Then come for me.” More like a command than a suggestion, the knot that was building at your core burst into strings of white euphoria. You felt faint, as if you were suspended. But you were in a high that you cannot rid yourself of.

You were addicted to this sensation; of his tongue lapping at the juices that flowed out of you like a tide, of his mouth firmly planted to give attention to your swollen bud, and the throbbing ache of your pussy as he sucked firmly at your slit.

It was all too much, but you cannot find it in yourself to stop.

“We’re not done yet, my love.” he pressed you back into the rattan, the hard surface cold against your bare back. He pressed unto you until you couldn’t breathe, and that just excited you so.

You felt him feel you up, squeeze the flesh of your body until it was painted in his color, and marked your neck with indications of his passion. You were far too dizzy in his spell that you did not care about decency any longer. You just wanted him in you.

You felt the twitch of his clothed bulge poking through the folds of your drenched core. It proved to make you even more eager, but there was a twinge of fear that came with it.

As if sensing your distress, K’uk’ulkan removed himself from you ever so slightly and wound his fingers around your jaw gently, his eyes now staring deep into your soul.

“Are you sure you are ready?” He asked you, his other hand already discarding the fabric of his emerald shorts. You nodded eagerly. There was no time to hesitate when he had made you feel so good with his touch.

“I trust you,” you laid yourself completely bare to him, your arms now stretched by the sides of your head and your neck in full display for his eyes to see.

There won’t be a moment that the fear in you will subside—after all, this was your first time. But you trusted your god to never hurt you. He will eventually chase your fears away, “please be gentle with me, my love.”

With a clang of metal, his jeweled belt and the cloth of his shorts now lay discarded on the floor. You were now both bare to each other, and you had to marvel at the length and girth of your magnificent god in awe as he sat up and stroked himself to attention.

His pre-cum was already leaking and ready to bed you right then and there. You squirmed again when he lined himself up to you, the tip of his cock now stroking your sensitive clit.

“Look at you, so ready for me,” he practically growled as he humped himself with your slick folds. You moaned and called his name in pleasure at the new sensation, “there will be no more second chances, my queen. Are you sure?”

“Yes—” you helplessly breathed out. You moved in the rhythm of his teasing, roaming your hands on the soft flesh of his pecs.

You noted how he twitched and grunted in delight when your nails ran through his nipples, and you made sure to take note of it once you wanted to serve him more in the future, “please take me as you will, K’uk’ulkan. I am yours to do as you wish.”

And with one final confirmation, he slowly pushed into you. You thought you could take his sheer size, but you were proven wrong when you hissed at the stinging pain of your broken hymen. Noticing your discomfort, K’uk’ulkan kissed you with so much passion that you have momentarily forgotten the feeling, and his strong hands that intertwined with your own served to ground you and ease your worries.

He was slow and patient, the both of you panting at your successful union. He was now fully inside you, your walls clenching around him as you adjusted to his size.

He laid still on top of you, his thumb rubbing comforting circles around the back of your hand.

He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, words of praise and affirmation of taking him in so well. A few tears started to prick the corners of your eyes, but he kissed it away with so much love that he could possibly give.

“Have I hurt you?” He asked in your mother tongue. Your breath hitched and your sigh quivered, but you managed to smile at him and shake your head.

“You would never hurt me,” you squeezed his hand tighter in yours. You relished the feeling of his body on top of you, the sparks and the shivers as he twitched inside of you, and this momentous adoration that you felt in your heart and soul just for him.

You feathered loving kisses on his collarbones, left trails of your color upon his golden skin, and left more of your lips on his fine jaw, “you can move now, my love. You will never hurt me, I promise you that.”

K’uk’ulkan started slowly, his hips barely moving in fear that he might hurt you. But the sting that came from your initial deflowering morphed into that of pleasure, and you started to move in hopes that your lover would get the message.

The feathered serpent god could barely hold it in together. He wanted nothing more than to fuck you senseless until you were too cock-drunk to even say anything but his name.

He wanted to make love to you, but centuries of depriving himself of your touch proved to awaken the primal urge to just take you, ravish you, in the most sinful way possible.

You must have noticed his focus, so you asked with a stutter, “Are you alright, my king?”

“Yes,” he grunted out, your walls clenching around his cock making him crazy. You were still so tight despite the amount of slickness that you provided him, “I will be fine. You’re just so tight for me. You’re doing so well, in yakunaj. So, so well.”

He kept thrusting into you at a slow and steady pace. He was making love to you, savoring his time and making sure that you felt safe and comfortable in your first time.

But your arms eventually flew around his neck, your chest now touching his, and you clawed at his back to steady yourself with the most lecherous words that came from your lips.

And that was his last stroke of control.

He gradually increased the intensity of his thrusts, his hands now gripping your jaw in a vice as he pushed his tongue into your mouth in a heated kiss.

You were in no means opposed to this, in fact, the knot that seemed to form on your core turned hotter and hotter with each passing second. He snaked his other hand to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until your moans and pathetic little whimpers were muffled by his tongue.

His pace turned more animalistic, the slap of skin now echoing through your quaint little hut, and your prayers for his mercy were drowned by your own impending ecstasy. You shook and shuddered beneath him, your arms fisting his hair for dear life, and your nails painted stripes of red on his bare back.

“K’uk’ulkan!” You yelled out into the heavens as you felt your orgasm creeping near. You repeated his name upon your lips like a mantra and it only served to make him hasten his pace. He could not control his lust any longer.

He just wanted to mark what was his; to make sure that your pussy will only remember the shape of his cock, that no man would ever hold a candle to the intense pleasure that he would bring you.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked against your lips. You yelled out in reverence to his being knowing full well whose name was engraved on your mind, body, and soul—whose cock it was that was ingrained into your walls and memorizing each thrust of his generous splendor.

“Yours, K’uk’ulkan! I’m yours! Do as you will with me, my king!”

And with a final cry of praise to your god, you released the dam of heaven in blinding light sparks, the height of your orgasm making your vision go black and your body spasm with wonder.

Your lover followed close behind with a grunt of his own, and thick ropes of his seed now coated your walls in white.

The both of you laid still in each other’s presence, both panting and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He slowly turned both of you to your sides, his cock still firmly pressed inside you, and wiped your brow dry as you breathed out in stuttering breaths. There was nothing but peaceful lull in this tiny piece of paradise.

You smiled at yourself as he wrapped his arms protectively around you, burying himself deeper into you while caressing the bare skin of your stomach, just a breadth away from your womb. In a moment of solace, you found yourself surrendering everything in your name to be with K’uk’ulkan.

He had satisfied you, took your flower as his own, and cherished it with such tenderness that left nothing but adoration at its wake. K’uk’ulkan had received your gift in kind, and as such, he had made sure to pay you back with all the riches and love he could give you in this waking world.

“Mahal kita, sinta. Sa kasalukuyan man o sa walang hanggan.”

He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, cradled your frame against his, and gave you sanctuary in his arms.

I love you, my darling. May it be the present or through eternity.

For his love was limitless as time itself; and you did not doubt your divine counterpart to betray his own vows of long-lasting devotion.

A month has passed since K’uk’ulkan had bedded you, four months of your supposed death, and there was but a day left until you return to the frontlines of war.

Your lover stood beside you as you prepared for the trip; your load was light and scarce, just enough for you to get through the week of travel through horseback.

“Are you sure you are well on your own?” He asked in your tongue. He was already becoming proficient with your language from the countless days he has spent with you, but you had no such success in learning his tongue with such efficiency as he did, “your journey is long and hard. You might require aid.”

“You know as well as I do that you cannot survive the valleys and the mountains without any bodies of water,” you told him again.

You cupped his cheek into your hands and pecked his lips, “and your people need you, K’uk’ulkan, just as much as my people need me. Our motherland cries for its lost children, the land weeps for its stolen riches.”

“But my love—” you silenced him with another kiss, your body drawing closer to his. He replied in kind, now leaning in to capture your tongue with his own. A thin string of spit connected the both of you as you parted for air, and you had to burn into your mind the beautiful gaze of his umber eyes before you had to pull away.

“This is our battle. We fight for our motherland with our dying breaths. You understand that, don’t you?”

The implications of your question laid heavily on K’uk’ulkan’s shoulders. There was no guarantee that you would return in his arms again; just like the first time you had told him you would go to war in your first cycle of life, only to return back to a corpse of his beloved near the shores. He could not protect you as he had promised, and he was going to lose you all over again whilst you were far, far away.

“You are worried,” you stood in attention and leaned your forehead into his, your breaths intermingling as you tried to calm the ragged breaths of your lover, “tell me. Tell me what plagues your heart.”

“I am afraid…” he trailed off, his voice low and weak.

He pulled you impossibly closer, his hands finding purchase on the small of your back. You cupped his cheeks in your hands and he leaned in submissively to your touch.

“Do not be afraid, my king,” water from your sides trickled up like a stream, the ropes of liquid intertwining you both together. You did not care if your clothes become damp in the journey; this moment is all you cared about.

The moment where you comforted your god of the sea, “you are always with me. You have gifted me powers unimaginable to aid my brothers and sisters of the rebellion. A piece of you will always be with me, may it be through the gold of the necklaces that you gave me or through the heart of the sea that flows through my veins.”

He relaxed in your touch, his breath now evening out with yours. You wanted to freeze this moment, to stay in this slice of heaven that you had crafted for yourself and your god of the sea.

Yet revolution beckons you in its vicious arms, justice now weighing its scales in favor of your people. You wanted to stay in the embrace of your love, but you had to pull away in haste—for even a second more that you stay with K’uk’ulkan, your resolve will waver and dissipate altogether whilst you take his hand and ask for him to spirit you away.

“I cannot stay for too long.”

You mounted your chestnut mare in haste and pulled on her reins. K’uk’ulkan holds his hand out for you to take with a crestfallen defeat decorating the face that you had adored so much. You took his hands without hesitation and laced his fingers with yours.

“Reconsider this, my queen,” his voice was laced with worry, his hands slightly trembling underneath your own, “a kingdom awaits you at the bottom of the sea. You will be revered as one of our own. Someone as special as you need not to fight a war that would endanger you.”

“Before I am a part of your nation, I must fight for my own,” you told him steadily.

You squeezed his hand and gave him a look of determination, “I will not die in the hands of my enemy. What am I if I will not raise my voice against the oppressors that behave like children at the head of my country? We are more than just slaves; we are the people. The nation itself. I will not allow myself to die before I see this land free.”

“But you will die by the hands of your allies, just like the you of the past,” he finally revealed.

His feathered ankles lifted him up so he was at your level and you steadied the reins of your startled mare. He did not break eye contact nor did he release your hand from his hold.

“I wish not that you abandon the duties of your land, but beware of those of whom you trust. I cannot lose you again in the hands of those you thought were your brothers and sisters.”

You leaned in to capture his lips in another kiss, his worries dissipating in one simple act. You stared into his eyes as soon as you parted and the anxiousness he felt in the pits of his stomach transferred into your own.

“I will be careful, K’uk’ulkan. I promise you. I will return into your arms in one piece and finally rule your nation by your side.”

Somehow, this did not convince the feathered serpent god. There was a tug at his soul that was, oh, so familiar. Yet he let you go when he saw your conviction.

How could he ever say no to those eyes that lit up with such fire? You had the makings of a ruler whose hand stayed true and steady. He simply cannot wait for you to come back and stay by his side for the rest of his days of immortality.

You gave him one final kiss, a shy smile of endearment, and clicked your tongue and kicked the stirrups of your mare to be on your way. You waved him goodbye from the shore, his feathered ankles suspending him higher and higher until he could not see you.

Before you could reach underneath the thick foliage of the forests, you called out.

“Meet me back here in five months, my king! I will return with the news of our nation’s victory!”

For the days that passed, he returned to his kingdom to prepare the arrival of their new queen. He kept it as discreet as possible, but the Talokanil were abuzz with rumors of their ruler’s new partner.

His heart swelled when he told his confidants the tales of your bravery and of your wit, your beauty and your grace, anything that he could have ever foretell to his children on the magnificence of their future queen.

And so five months have passed.

The promised date was fast approaching, and K’uk’ulkan’s heart was beating out of his chest in anticipation. He watched as midnight turned into dawn, the dawn to noon, and finally, he waited by the shores near your rattan hut by the fall of dusk. He was now filled with worry. What if you couldn’t make it? What if you perished in war? What if—

“K’uk’ulkan!”

His heart soared at the mere mention of his name. How could one's voice be so calming to his heart?

His feet carried him afloat to the approaching horse that galloped to the direction of the beach. He could not fight the smile that appeared on his face as soon as he saw you. Although you sported more scars and possessed the eyes that have seen countless deaths, your love remained the same. It was still infinite, boundless in the midst of eternity. How he missed you in his arms.

He called out your name in joy, you leaping into his arms despite the speed of your mare. He caught you just in time and swung you around the air with glee. You were far too happy to think of anything else but your love, and there you lay in his arms after five months of separation.

"How I've missed you, my queen." He whispered into your ear. He led you to the rattan hut that he had meticulously prepared for your arrival, your feet now touching the sand as he descended from his flight. Your mare was already stationed near the grassier areas of your home while resting its legs from the week of non-ending travel.

"Oh how I've missed you too, my king." you cupped his cheek and leaned into a kiss, and he was more than happy to reciprocate the action. He still smelled like the sun and the ocean, his skin hot under your touch.

He wore nothing less than a smile for your arrival and that alone had sent you in a euphoric bliss.

But K'uk'ulkan had to upturn his smile into a frown as soon as you looked down at your feet in grief, the momentary joy you had felt now overcome with overwhelming regret.

"What is wrong, my love?" He asked as the sting if tears finally gathered in the corner of your eyes. He drew himself in closer to your trembling body and wrapped you in a secure embrace.

You immediately melted into him, the warmth of his strong arms most comforting in the midst of your sorrows.

"You were right," you hiccuped. You buried your face into the jewels of his collarbones and wept, "our own brothers have betrayed us. We freed our people, claimed our independence, yet they sent our own to slay us in Cavite. There were tensions in the rebellion before, but I didn't think—I never thought that they'd turn against us. My general helped me flee, but he and his brother were slain. I couldn't even save them with my powers—they had deprived me of any form of water to control."

K'uk'ulkan's blood boiled at the revelation.

How could they defy his queen? How could they have turned their backs against her when she had given them their freedom? Have they not fought alongside each other like siblings? Have they not watched their own spill their blood in the name of freedom? How could they, he wondered, abandon such a talented leader and leave them executed when they had done nothing but care for the land that was yours and had reclaimed back?

"What is important is that you are safe," he began, his hands tangling with your matted hair. You must not have made any stops in your journey, scared and helpless you must have been to have your own betray you at the height of your independence,

"you are back in my arms, safe and sound. That is all that matters."

"We cannot stay here for long, K'uk'ulkan," you told him, "I fear I might have been followed. I made sure to cover my tracks, but they outnumbered me ten to one."

"Then return home with me, my queen." He cupped your cheek into his palms and you surrendered yourself to the touch of his affections.

"Then what of my country? Of my people?"

"Have you not delivered their independence? Have you not fought for their freedom? You are free now, yet they dare bear their teeth at the warriors who have fought for them. What then does that say about your people?" He leaned his forehead against yours and drew circles against your cheek.

Your breath hitched at the new option presented to you—something you would not have considered in the past. But now, in the presence of a new enemy that was your own countrymen, you were given the choice to flee from your own death sentence and become the queen of a powerful nation beside the man you love.

But your motherland calls you, her land cries out in your possible absence.

"But I have only ever lived in my motherland my whole life. I cannot possibly part with it."

"You are not abandoning your homeland, I assure you that. Another home awaits you in the depths of the sea, my queen; where your citizens will not betray you, where they will serve you with dedication and remember the debts that they have owed. You need not to forget your practices and your culture. You can practice both in any land or water that your feet could lay upon; for you are now both a daughter of the Pacific islands and the ruler of the great nation of Talokan."

It was everything you could have ever imagined and more.

You nodded your head in eagerness to his proposition. His face lit up with great elation and joy. He spun you around with the help of his winged ankles and laughed at the greatest joy that could have ever felt in his life. He finally felt complete in your arms.

A queen. He was finally going to bring his people the queen that they deserve.

He kissed you mid-air, your own laughter silenced with the touch of lips upon your own. You felt the sparks of his unbridled happiness as he descended into the sand yet again, your lips never parting from each other until you were drunk with the taste of his lips on yours.

"You are perfect, in yakunaj," he said in his tongue. This time around, you had understood him, "I finally have you. I can finally make you queen to my kingdom. There will be months long celebration on your arrival, and we shall feast at this new blessing. How wonderful of a gift this truly is!"

This celebration was short-lived, however, when a trigger was pulled from the foliage of the trees and cut through the air with a deafening bang.

Time stilled for the both of you, but not in the way that it was magical as the hands that would grip your waists nor the way his lips would fit perfectly into yours. It was one of horror; of sudden doom.

And by that moment, when blood had dripped from the corners of your mouth in spurts and the wound had stained the fabric of your stomach, did time start winding again.

K'uk'ulkan called out your name in vain, his arms catching you as you fell. The bullet was lodged firmly into your mid-back, you noted. Just a hair away from your spine. Blood had gushed in rapid succession whilst your god could only watch you fade from his arms.

"Stay awake, in yakunaj. Do not dare close your eyes!"

In the haze of it all did you feel K'uk'ulkan leave your side for a brief while, the wings from his ankles flapping in aggressive strokes. You heard the cries of sorrow, the yells of pain, the dying gasps of almost ten uniformed men at the point of a spear from the mighty serpent god.

You would have called out to him at that moment, trying to appease the tears that were flowing from his eyes as he subdued his enemy—for they were merely your brothers who were led astray, and you cannot find it in your heart to resent them.

"My king…" you tried to call out, but your voice was weak. Yet you underestimated the attentiveness of your god when he landed by your side once again, his knees painfully dropping to the sands of the beach, and cradled you in his arms whilst your life slipped away from his fingers.

"No, no, no. Not again. Please, not again." He cried out desperately in his own tongue, panic and despair now clouding his otherwise clear judgment.

He spoke nothing but mumbles of desperate begging; begging for you to stay. Begging for you to remain by his side. The tears from his eyes landed on your skin as he cradled you and rubbed his cheeks against yours.

But you knew it was inevitable. You knew it was your time.

"Mahal ko…" my love, you trailed off, your bloody hands reaching for his cheek. He had dropped the conch shell that he had used to call forth his subjects and hastily grabbed your wrist and buried his nose into your palm, not minding every bit of blood that smeared in his face.

"Save your strength. I have called for aid from Talokan. Do not dare close your eyes, my love."

You must have been out of your mind, and K'uk'ulkan must've thought so too, for your grunts of pain were replaced with that of reminiscent laughter. There was joy to beget in your final moments; the most pleasant memory to have ever graced your mind.

"T-this was how we met, wasn't it? In my first and current life?" You stuttered. Your mouth was still upturned in a pleasant smile, "you came in to save me whilst I was injured, then—then you killed off those who hurt me."

"I told you to save your strength!" He cried out helplessly. You could only shake your head.

"It is my time to go, K'uk'ulkan."

"Silence. I will not permit you to say such things."

"I wish to meet you again in my next life…"

"There will be no such thing! I did not meet you in this life and the life before this to lose you again!"

"You are wrong, my king," you inhaled a sharp breath as the stabbing pain at your backside turned numb. You knew it was about time before you passed, so you continued, "you met me in the lives before this and the life after to love me—the different versions of me—and love me again as soon as I pass. The time we have spent together has been nothing but special. Do not let my death hinder such joy from your memories."

"Do not say that. You are not going to die." he pleaded.

"If I were to return in your arms again…I promise to find you first. I promise to be the first one to lay my eyes on you and fall in love at first sight; for my soul knows the weight of your love for me. And I shall—I s-shall call you by your real name. The name your followers proclaim, for I will not dare utter the loveless name bestowed upon you by our enemies."

"I have told you to save your strength," he gripped your hand tighter, as if you were to fly away if he ever so lightened his hold on her physical body. You could feel him trembling in grief and rage.

Oh, your poor love.

You did not wish to hurt him so, "I do not wish to meet you in another life; I want you by my side now. I want you to become the mother of our children, the mother of our nation. I told you I did not meet you just for you to die in my arms over and over again!"

You smiled weakly, the final spark of love you would ever give to the man who had taken your soul by storm.

You took this time to take in his presence, his face, his gorgeous eyes that seemed to speak so much wonders to you as he told you stories of the past; told you stories of his people, the future you would have built together, and the endless possibilities of your reign as his new queen.

You prayed that your soul would remember him, to pull you into the direction of the man who loved you in your past lives when you would be reborn.

"Hindi ko man hawak ang bukas, nais kong tanganan mo ang aking pangako na ilang ulit kong pipiliing mabuhay at pumanaw upang patunayan sa iyong mali ka.

Hindi ako bumati sa simula upang sa huli ay magpaalam.

Sa ating susunod na pagkikita, aking sinta."

And with that final farewell, your body lay limp. The hand that caressed your god's cheek had finally fallen into the sand. K'uk'ulkan desperately chased your dying breaths, rocking you back and forth in hopes to wake you.

I may not hold the future in my hands, but I wish you will remember this promise; that I will live and die again and again just to prove you wrong.

I have not greeted you at the beginning just so I could bid you goodbye.

Until we meet again, my beloved.

But it has proven to be futile—your motherland has claimed your life for itself like it had before in your past lives. Your blood colored the seafoam that fateful day.

Namor's heart and soul were torn in half once more; for he was reminded of the curse of his own name.

Niño sin amor. A child without love.

Zama Tulum, Northern Yucatán Peninsula, 2024

It had been a century since then, perhaps longer. But Namor still remembers you. He always has. His people mourned for your loss, and the seas had gone quiet for at least a decade to honor the loss of its queen. Despite not meeting you, Namor’s people had felt the sorrows of the oceans and its king. They have lost the ruler that they have yet to meet, and their heart also cries out for their missing queen.

He had waited patiently for you to arrive. You had promised him so; that you would be the one to find him in your fourth rebirth and say his name on your lips once again. That you would fall in love at first sight as soon as you see him for your soul would guide you to the arms of your god once again.

And he waited.

He had waited for you even as the surface world grew in its technologies, waited for you even when the threats of a celestial god had emerged from the earth's core and turned to stone. He had waited for you in fervor, protected his people against the threats of his enemies, and shared stories of your wonders through the tales of the tongue and of the murals of his underwater chamber.

He always left your throne pristine. You will be reborn to take the crown of your majesty and become the supreme leader of his nation as you should have been. It has always been your birthright. It has always been yours to begin with.

He created an alliance for you—the alliance of Wakanda and Talokan—so you would inherit the legacy of this new pact of civility. Despite his initial plans to thwart those who had opposed his kingdom, he decided in his best interest and yours that this will benefit the you of the future that will stay by his side.

Yes, everything he did was for you. It was for you to assume in your reign.

He painted murals of your likeness in his study, ones that he had presented to Princess Shuri of Wakanda, and concentrated on the strokes of his brush to capture your brilliance. It was never enough, of course, since you were a masterpiece that could not be replicated by the hands of a five century year old painter. You were far too precious, far too complex, to even comprehend.

But he still tried in fear of forgetting the smile that adorned your lips. He wishes to immortalize it in the walls of his kingdom.

“In ajawo,” my king, Namora emerged from the waters , the sway of his brush never ceasing in its meticulous strokes. Namora, one of the best warriors of his kingdom who loved to hear the stories of your past selves, continued with her words, “a surface dweller lurks at the entrance of the caves. Our warriors feel a strange power from them. How shall we proceed?”

“Strange?” Namor’s hands did not stop painting the depictions of waves that were obediently at your command, “strange how?”

“The sea favors them, my king. It guides them here.”

The hand that held the brush stopped. Namora cocked her head to the side as her king froze in place. It would look as if he were contemplating, but Namora could see the trouble that lingered from his stance.

“In ajawo?” She asked again. Namor turned to her after a few moments of reverie.

“I will deal with them. Send the warriors to guard the entrance. Do not surface until I give the command.”

There was a moment of resistance from the decorated warrior, yet she did not question her king’s decision. She bowed her head in obedience and joined her hands to mimic that of a serpent’s mouth—a gesture of respect to K’uk’ulkan—and descended down the depths of the underwater cavern to convey the message to her ranks.

“Líik’ik Talokan.”

He removed the ceremonial garbs on his shoulders and hung it on his chair. He quickly took his spear, one adorned with the gold and pearls that your first self had given him, and submerged himself in the deep waters. He still feels the phantom sting from his fight with Princess Shuri on his winged ankles, but it was nothing a few more weeks of flight could heal naturally.

The claw marks from the Black Panther have gone and healed with his people’s technology and he was grateful that your future self would not have to witness the scars of his near defeat.

There was a little voice in his head that was praying for a miracle; that the stranger that the sea favors was the promised meeting that you had so foretold.

He passed by his loyal warriors and regarded them with Talokan’s gesture of respect, his people replying in kind. Attuma and Namora, his strongest and most trusted combatants, were at the head of the company and regarded him as well with the highest respect.

With a pleased nod, he passed through the underwater tunnels of the caverns and slowly ascended into the surface.

It was just like this when he had first met you in your past lives; the gentle coat of the corals of dusk, the gentle breeze of the ocean’s hymns, and the pleasant scent of the sea and land tickling his decorated nose oh so amiably.

It was nothing compared to the Pacific islands five hundred years ago, but perhaps this was one of the fewer slices of paradise left in this otherwise tainted world.

He slowly rose from the waters, his spear held firmly at his side. His wings beat ever so silently whilst he stalked the upper waters of the cove, but he saw nothing as he approached land. Nature was abundant in this sacred place of Yucatán, but there was a lack of songs from the native birds and wildlife.

Something was there with him.

He brought his spear to his side, cautious yet unafraid. Whoever dared enter the premises of his kingdom without his permission, may it be a child favored by the sea or the evil-doers of surface dwelling nations, will know his wrath.

“I know you are there,” he spoke in the tongue that most surface-dwellers would understand, “reveal yourself at once.”

Just behind the thick fauna, you steadied your breath and clenched your hands tightly around your dagger. You were sent here to investigate the odd readings from the ocean a few months ago by your organization; the source leading you here to the northern parts of Yucatán. You were sure you were breaking more than a dozen laws and treaties just by breathing in this sacred place, but you had to obey the orders of your higher ups.

You had been scouring for clues for the past few hours, diving into the clean waters and looking for any sort of clue to what you’re searching for. The sea was much calmer here, as if it greeted you like an old friend. And although you loved to swim freely through the oceans of your own homeland, the waters of this place enchanted you.

As you were about to give up your search—sending the pointless recordings of your exploration to your organization—a voice had emerged from the coves behind you. You were met with a man with feathered ankles and ears that pointed to the sky, decorated with the treasures that the sea would give him in obedience.

Your breath hitched, your heart lurched, and somehow, in the pits of your soul, you felt the weight of an unknown feeling pulling you towards this man. He was armed and had an air of regality, yet you did not care if you were to be stabbed by his spear in that instant.

Or more clearly, you had a keen feeling he would do no such thing to hurt you.

He will not harm you, your soul whispered into your being. And your heart lurched again at the strange message.

His words rang clear through the coves, the baritone of his voice bouncing through the damp rocks and being carried into the wind at his command. You could not dare speak at such authority, but instead of being alarmed at the eyes that threatened to kill the likeness of a man in his territory, you found yourself dropping your dagger unto the grass with a faint thud.

With such speed unmatched even with the fastest rockets, a spear had directed itself on your throat. You fell on your back in surprise, but this magnificent man did not yield. Instead, he pressed the tip of his spear even closer. It was enough to puncture a small wound that trickled a small dribble of blood across your neck.

And then you locked eyes for the first time.

At last.

Namor’s heart soared, his soul finally recognizing yours and turning whole again.

The revelation of your sudden presence had hit him with finality that it was almost painful for his heart as the surge of emotion swept him up like a vicious tide. He gaped at your brilliance—just like the times he had before in the past—and found himself motionless at the mercy of your stare.

Seizing this opportunity while ignoring the painful lurches of your heart, you gathered what was left of your senses and flipped you both around. Namor was powerless beneath you as you straddled his waist, the beads of crimson now dripping down to his cheeks.

You gestured for the water from the sea to come forth, and strings of water formed into sharpened spears right above his neck. He laid in awe at your prowess.

He did not fear that you would kill him; your eyes lay neither malice nor intent to harm him in any way; his soul whispers to him as well.

“Who are you?” You asked him with gritted teeth, the beating of your heart almost deafening against your ears.

“Is it not a custom of your world to present your name before you ask others to give theirs?” He replied with a smirk. You felt heat from your neck go up your cheeks as you stuttered, the water spears under your control wavering ever so slightly.

“If you haven’t realized, I have the upper hand here,” you proved your point by drawing your weapons closer to his neck with a gentle flick of your wrist, “so talk. Who are you and why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same.” He mused. You found his nonchalance absolutely irking.

“Don’t play with me.”

“I should be the one to ask you those questions. Are you not the one who had trespassed this sacred place of worship?”

That shut you up for good. You said nothing as your stance wavered ever so slightly. He was right—you trespassed into the ancestral home of a culture you did not know without permission, and that in itself was something to be ashamed of. His garb, his jewelry, and his accent were indications that he must be a native, but you still had to be cautious around him—especially when he is a peculiar man who could use his winged ankles to fly.

“Why I am here is none of your concern.” You sensed no more hostility from this man, and he even bore an amused smirk at your thoughts. Your heart had told you to trust him so you slowly lowered your hands and dispersed the weapons from your control.

Maybe you were foolish to believe in your heart, but as soon as you had lost your grip, he flipped you again until you lay on the ground. There were no signs of danger, but the surprise you felt had elicited a sharp yelp from you.

The man with the pointed ears chuckled in amusement, his hands caging you in as he spoke again.

“But it is a matter of my concern. You have stepped into my lands and scurried around in secret. But I will forgive this transgression. You interest me.”

“By what authority are you to tell me what to do?” Namor chuckled. You still had that spirit of a warrior that he adored so much. Only you could question his authority like this without fault nor opinion.

“I am the king of this land that you step on and the seas that go deep down below the unimaginable depths.”

He saw your breath hitch, your eyes widening a fraction in realization. The regality, the grace, the jewels, his power—everything were signs of his majesty at work. You would have been filled with fear when you realized you had raised weapons against the ruler of the land you had trespassed, but somehow you did not feel as such.

Caged in the arms of this man, this odd entity that had drawn blood from your skin and raised his spear to your neck, wrapped you in the feeling of safety; as if nothing in this world could ever touch you with malicious intent.

“What is your name?” You breathed it out without thinking.

Your eyes held the stare of majestic earthen oak in a spell of unknown sentiments. Your very soul tugged on the strings of your fate, drawing you into the allure of this stranger that held you hostage. But your soul convinced you that he was no stranger. You had known him in the past, somewhere in the crevices of your memory that was forgotten long, long ago.

“If you insist,” he smiles and draws in closer, the scent of the sun and the sea upon his barren skin.

In any normal circumstances you would have kicked him off of you and battled him to the death to return home to your country, but you did no such thing. You wondered why it was so, but the only explanation you could conjure was the one that tugged painfully from your heart.

“My people call me K’uk’ulkan, but my enemies call me Namor. You are free to choose which name you would prefer.”

Namor waited in anticipation for your response, his heart and soul throbbing with a longing that has plagued him for a century.

He wondered with a deep sadness if your response would be the same as the one in your second life; to thrash in his presence in fear and curse him out as the demon of the sea. Memories that opened wounds in his heart.

Yet such aching fears were purged from his mind as you stared at him quizzically, as if the name that rang through the dusk was a name that you should have known from the start.

A recognition, perhaps, that should have sparked the memory of your three lives.

“I am not your enemy,” you started, your voice held nothing but such tender welcome, “and somehow, I wish to be your friend.”

“Then say my name, I implore you, for the name you will choose will set your fate into stone.”

You blinked at the hidden implications of his statement, but you chose to pay no mind.

“K’uk’ulkan.”

And for the first time since the end of your third life did his heart and soul thrive and overflow with all the love that he had to offer you in great reverence to your existence.

K’uk’ulkan helped you up to your feet and held your hands gently, tracing the lines and calluses that adorned your palms in great happiness.

You let him do as he bid in great confusion. Why were you so at ease in his presence? He, a mere stranger and possible threat, puts your mind in so much ease.

The questions that lingered in your mind had gone and replaced with the urge to know him better; to know his secrets, his interests, his dreams, the numerous things that would make him the man that he is today.

You reminded yourself that this was a king—that you should not even dare be in the same presence as he. But he looked at you with so much compassion, so much love.

It was impossible to pull away from the gravity of his own magnificence.

An unknown force had beckoned you to cup his cheek, swipe the tear that had unknowingly escaped his eye, and asked him his strife in your mother tongue.

“Why do you cry, K’uk’ulkan?”

K’uk’ulkan released a humorless laugh. It was filled with relief. With joy.

“It is nothing of importance.”

“You understand me?” You asked in surprise. He chuckled and leaned into your touch, his own mother tongue slipping from his lips and into your confused ears.

“I know more than just one, in yakunaj.”

“I don’t understand.” He removed himself from you and took his spear from the ground. You did not move to keep you guard; for his intentions did not read any malice.

He offered his hand for you to take, his feathered feet now stepping back into the pool of water from behind him.

“It is nothing for you to worry about. Now come, were you not in search of something in the depths? I might have what you seek.”

You looked down on the contraptions from your pack, all ready to take samples and readings as instructed from your organization.

But a little voice in your head said to leave it; to take the hand of this feathered man and swim with him into the depths of the ocean without regard to your mission. What you seek was not something ordered by your group.

It was something much deeper, something that has been clawing at your soul beyond what you could have ever known.

And with a final decision, you stripped off every bit of equipment from your person and took the hand of the man you so oddly trusted with your whole life.

K’uk’ulkan could not possibly contain this joy.

The promises of your third life came to fruition at last.

His love could not be described by mere poets nor painted by the hand of any god.

It was as endless as the waters of the deep sea and the stars that stretched across the night sky.

Blessed is he to have received the shower of your trust and have gained the prize his soul had set to win from the centuries long of wait.

“Are you ready?”

He gripped your hand tight, the heat from your skin burning him pleasantly like the fire from the sun.

Maybe you were right along. He did not meet you just so he could say goodbye. You have given him the love of three centuries and a century more.

His grief could not possibly overshadow the exuberance of his never ending affection for you.

“Yes, K’uk’ulkan.”

He will love you for a millennium more and wait for you to be reborn;

for his love was as timeless as the sands of the deep sea.

End notes: I would like to thank my darling partner, the love of my life, for helping me edit this monster of a fic. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you sweetiee <33

Taglist: @rokuhoku @l0ner-girl @zeeader @urielliii @namorswifey @themology

#namor x reader #namor x filipino!reader #namor x fem!reader #namor x you #namor x poc!reader #mcu namor #namor mckenzie #k'uk'ulkan #k'uk'ulkan x reader #wakanda forever #namor fanfiction #namor fic

1K notes · View notes