Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo
He had once believed himself chosen.
Not in the way conquistadors did, those half-savage men drunk on blood and gold who muttered God's name only between curses and greed, but chosen in the quiet, holy sense. Born to Castile's dust and discipline, Olmedo took the cloth before he knew the world's ugliness. He believed in Scripture the way a dying man believes in air.
He tended to the poor, the sick, and the ignored. He saw sinners as wounded, not wicked. And when the Crown demanded God's work be done in the New World, he answered. He told himself he came to save souls, not to oversee a slaughter.
But the truth came ashore with Cortés.
He remembered the moment they landed at Veracruz. The way the jungle held its breath. The way the soldiers smirked when he asked if they'd brought rosaries before their muskets. He remembered Potonchán, and the "gifts" the Maya offered—women, trinkets, wary smiles. He remembered how quickly the Lord's light dimmed beneath steel.
And still, he stayed.
He baptized those who wept. He buried those who couldn't. He begged mercy from men who didn't understand the word. When Motecuhzoma fell, Olmedo mourned him quietly. When Tenochtitlan burned, he held the hands of dying children and told them of Heaven, even when he wasn't sure they understood his words. Even when he wasn't sure he believed them anymore.
And now?
Now they spoke of a devil in the mist.
Now the men awoke screaming of shadows, of burning eyes and whispers in the night. Now patrols vanished into the city, found strung to crosses in Mexica clothing for women, mocked in death. Now the native allies once so sure of their holy alliance prayed with shaking hands. They said Ehecatl came in dreams. That he knew names he shouldn't. That he never blinked.
Morale had shattered. God felt distant.
So Olmedo did what no one else dared.
He shaved. He prayed. He donned the white robes of penance. And as the Castilians muttered and the Tlaxcalans avoided his eyes, he stood before them and declared:
"I will walk into the shadow. I will confront the one who mocks our faith. If I must die to redeem this land, then so be it."
Some wept. Some scoffed. None followed.
Now he walked alone. Past the safe zones. Past the last crucified corpse. Past the humming flies and the whispering reeds. He clutched his cross so tightly his knuckles bled.
His boots sank in mud. His throat burned from heat and fear.
But still he marched forward—toward the Haunted zone some now called el Infierno. (Hell)
He whispered to God.
"Forgive them. Forgive me."
And still no voice answered.
Only silence.
Until a shadow stepped from a ruined home. Calm. Young. Staring straight through him like a mirror.
Ehecatl had arrived.
Bare-chested and only wearing a loincloth. Bronze skin slick with sweat and streaked in dried blood—some of it, surely, not his own. No mask. No helmet. Just those eyes.
Those eyes.
Olmedo froze.
They were not the eyes of a child.
They were not the eyes of a man.
They were the eyes of something ancient, starved, and patient.
The boy—the thing—smiled.
A slow, toothy grin that carried no warmth. Only recognition. As if he had waited for Olmedo specifically. As if this moment had been fated long before either of them had names.
Olmedo's hand gripped the wooden cross until his fingers ached.
He raised it high.
"Atrás, demonio…" he whispered. Then louder. "Back, devil! You are not but a thief of flesh! A shadow masquerading in the skin of a boy! In the name of Christ—I command you—BEGONE!"
The boy tilted his head.
And groaned.
Low. Guttural. His limbs twitched as if in agony.
He staggered forward, one step, two steps then flinched violently, hissing through his teeth like a feral dog.
Olmedo's faith surged. A tremor of holy hope sparked in his chest.
"The cross burns you, doesn't it?" he barked. "Because you are an abomination. Because your master is fallen. Because you fear the Light!"
The boy's back arched. His arms hung limp like a broken puppet.
Another step forward—and he collapsed to one knee, panting. Twitching. Shoulders heaving.
Olmedo's throat was raw now, but he raised the cross higher, yelling to Heaven.
"Your tricks end here! Your lies, your terror, this land will be reclaimed by the Lord's truth!"
And then—
The boy stopped.
Just… stopped.
No more hissing. No more twitching.
He slowly lifted his head.
And smiled again.
This one wider.
Crueler.
He rose to his feet in complete silence, eyes locked with Olmedo's.
Then, with slow and mocking precision, he reached out.
Olmedo stepped back, bracing for an attack.
But the boy didn't strike.
He simply grabbed the cross.
And plucked it from Olmedo's grasp like a child pulling weeds.
Olmedo gasped. "No…!"
The boy examined it, turning the cross in his hand. His expression was unreadable—neutral, curious, almost amused. He brought it to his face. Sniffed it.
Then flicked it into the canal behind him like it was garbage.
The splash was distant. Final.
Olmedo didn't move.
Couldn't.
The boy stepped closer now, face mere inches from his own.
No words. Only his breath.
Warm. Calm. Unshaken.
He lifted one finger. Pointed to Olmedo's chest.
Then tapped once.
As if to say:
You know what you are.
And in that moment—Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo understood.
…
…
…
The cross was gone. The swamp whispered.
And still he stood before him.
This devil in a boy's shape. This heresy given flesh. This silent, walking mockery of faith.
Fray Olmedo gritted his teeth. His feet sank deeper into the wet soil as he took one unsteady step forward.
"Bold of you to come alone," the boy said, voice cool, unhurried. "But why are you here?"
Olmedo's breath hitched.
He blinked. Not because the boy spoke, but because it was Castilian. Clean. Unaccented. Further confirming rumors that he could speak Castilian.
Almost courtly.
His lips trembled. "You… you know my tongue?"
The boy said nothing. But his expression? It twisted into a faint smirk, one that dripped with contempt. Not just for Olmedo. For the entire language.
The priest clenched his fists.
"You're mocking me," he spat. "Mocking Him. Speaking with the tongue of men when you are not one."
The devil-child didn't move. But he leaned slightly forward, like a wolf toying with a cornered lamb.
Olmedo's thoughts spiraled.
He hadn't prepared for this. He thought Ehecatl would snarl, or chant in Nahuatl, or scream and burn.
But instead—
He listened.
Almost politely.
And that—that—was worse.
Olmedo's voice cracked. "You wear a child's body, but you are nothing of God's creation. You are the sin of Babel made whole. You are—"
The boy's smile widened slightly.
That's when it happened.
A subtle shift.
His brow twitched. His head jerked—barely. Then came a low, wet-sounding groan, pulled from something too deep in the gut to be human.
Olmedo gasped and stumbled back a step.
The devil writhed, shoulder spasming, neck twitching as if resisting some unseen pressure. His breath grew heavy, and from his throat came a high, wheezing rasp—
A hiss.
A growl.
Pain?
Or… performance?
Olmedo's pulse pounded in his ears.
He held up a second cross—crudely carved, dangling from a rosary tucked in his belt. He thrust it forward.
"In His name—! In His LIGHT—!"
The boy flinched violently.
His back arched. His knees buckled. He let out a guttural howl, mouth agape, eyes rolling back—spit trailing from his lips.
He clawed at his own chest as if being burned from within.
Olmedo's mouth dropped open.
It's working.
The priest stepped forward with renewed vigor, waving the rosary before him like a torch of holy flame.
"Return to the pit! Return to the darkness from whence you came—!"
The boy collapsed to one knee.
He let out a harsh, ragged breath.
Then stilled.
And the act was over.
He looked up.
Eyes now steady. Empty of pain. Only… bored.
He rose to his feet again—slowly, deliberately.
He reached out, took the second cross from Olmedo's hand, and let it dangle there between his fingers.
The air between them was thick. Olmedo's limbs shook.
The boy inspected the rosary.
Then—snap—ripped it from the chain and flicked it behind him into the mud without a second glance.
He stepped forward again. Close.
Too close.
Olmedo's breath caught in his throat as the devil placed a hand on his shoulder.
Not threatening.
Almost comforting.
But the weight was unbearable.
And the silence?
Unforgiving.
The priest's eyes burned. He felt tears welling.
Because for the first time—
He couldn't tell if he was confronting a devil…
Or being pitied by one.
…
…
…
"Ah… I see. You're one of those types I presume? A mental need to 'save' others by fixing their problems. This could stem from either validation, or a desire need to avoid oneself's personal issues. So which are you? Are you doing this in hopes to one day be canonized, wrote about in the history books, or to help that cesspool of people you call your countrymen and their allies. Maybe it could also be because you have issues in your life, hehe… or perhaps both."
Olmedo's lips parted.
No sound came out.
The ruins around them was deafeningly quiet—no birds, no breeze. Just the sound of wet earth clinging to boots and that low, blood-chilling chuckle the boy let out at the end of his question.
He stepped back.
"You mock what you don't understand," Olmedo whispered, voice thin. "This… this isn't about glory. Or canonization. I came because no one else would. I came to show them we're not afraid of you."
The boy tilted his head slowly, as if inspecting a cracked relic on a church altar.
But he didn't speak.
He just smiled.
So Olmedo pressed on, hand trembling now. "You think I'm here for fame? I buried children, do you hear me? I've prayed over soldiers who died crying for mothers they never forgave. I taught men and women the faith—taught them to confess. I sat with the dying and listened to every sin. I have nothing to prove to you."
Still, the devil-boy was silent.
Olmedo's chest heaved.
Then he choked out a laugh. It was desperate. Borderline hysterical.
"You don't scare me. Not really. That's why you won't speak anymore, isn't it? That's why you hiss and groan and put on your little pageant. You want me to believe you're beyond words, like some pagan beast—when in truth, you're just… a boy with too much hate and a fancy tongue for cruelty."
A low growl rumbled from Ehecatl's throat. His jaw flexed.
But he didn't lunge. Didn't strike.
Instead, he walked in a slow, deliberate circle around the priest—shoulders relaxed, hands at his sides, expression unreadable.
Like a predator with nowhere to be.
Olmedo turned to follow him—but Ehecatl was already behind him again.
The priest flinched.
That earned a click of the tongue and a slow nod from the devil-boy.
Then he leaned in close.
And even without words, that smirk said everything:
"Touched a nerve, didn't I?"
Olmedo's composure finally cracked.
His voice rose—not in courage, but in panic. "I came here to offer peace, not to be dissected mentally by a child possessed by demons! Do you really believe this war helps anyone? Do you think fear and fire will birth a future for anyone? You could have been saved. You still can—"
The devil's fingers twitched again. His head dipped just enough to cast half his face in shadow.
He was no longer amused.
Only waiting.
"Say… your name, tell me."
Olmedo's expression tightened as if the request itself were heresy. His shoulders squared. The damp heat clung to his robes. A trickle of sweat slid down his temple—as he clutched the idea that he was not, in fact, talking to a child.
He was speaking to the devil.
To a demon.
To the ancient serpent who had worn masks across time.
His voice cracked, but he forced it steady:
"I will not speak your name. Nor give mine to you, beast. For names are sacred—and you twist all that is sacred."
Ehecatl didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Just stared.
And that made it worse.
"Still you mock me…" Olmedo whispered, backing away half a step, heart racing. "Still you wear the face of a boy to tempt pity. Still you wait in the shadows and call yourself a savior while crucifying men like cattle and draping them in the garments of women."
A gust of wind cut through the clearing—hot and wrong.
The devil-boy smiled again.
Olmedo's breath hitched. "You think you've broken me? That by dragging these men into madness you've silenced the Word? No. No—I came here to remind them. To show them that faith walks forward even into the valley of death. And if my blood must be spilled—then so be it."
He stepped forward now.
One foot.
Then another.
Raised his chin, eyes wild.
"But mark me, demon."
"My name is Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo."
"And I do not fear you."
Ehecatl's gaze lowered—slowly—to the cross still shaking in the priest's hand. Then rose again.
And for a single breathless moment, the smirk vanished.
"Tell me, 'Fray' Bartolomé… Do you still believe your flock is worth saving? Do you truly believe YOU of all people could stop ME from reclaiming what is owed to me? You and the other Castilians came to these lands fully armed, with the purpose of war, gold, silver, glory, women and land… oh right and to 'save the heathen souls'. Hahahahahaha… AHAHAHAHAHAHA oh that is rich." He wipes a fake tear from his eye while laughing, and then says "tell me 'Fray' Bartolomé de Olmedo, what were you doing when Hernán extorted, forced and coerced those Mayans at Potonchan? Those "gifts" and more precisely the women. You said nothing to them being nothing more than sex slaves, BUT ONLY if they were to be converted and baptized right? So long as the CASTILIANS only bedded CHRISTIAN women it made it okay right? With no regards to what the women thought, and what about the scheme Hernan concocted when he arrested Mexica tribute collectors and let them go purposely to cause chaos amongst the Mexica and their tributaries? What about the massacre in cholula? The false imprisonment of Motecuhzuma? The massacre of that festival of Toxcatl? The back and forth coercion and violence your Castilians and the Mexica did throughout the war? What did you do when the city fell, when mass rape to women of all ages were done? When Mexica babies were killed, where men were beaten and tortured, when anyone had their way with any Mexica they saw? What did you do? Ah yes it was easy to justify since the Mexica were cruel, but let me fill you in on a secret. Your Indio allies? ALL of them do what you demonized the Mexica for, and MOST of them only aided you out of opportunity, not hatred. Oh but there are Mexica who are converting and listening to what you say, yes. However that too is done out of coercion, as to avoid the atrocities I just listed, but… even that isn't a guarantee now is it?"
Fray Olmedo visibly falters.
The words strike him harder than the arquebus fire that slaughtered a hundred Tlaxcalans weeks earlier.
His lips part—no breath. No prayer. No answer.
Ehecatl steps closer.
Not lunging.
Not threatening.
Just present, and that alone is enough to make Olmedo shake.
When Ehecatl mocks "saving heathen souls," Olmedo's face flares red with shame and indignation, but he cannot speak, because every word he wants to say tastes like ash.
When Ehecatl wipes away that fake tear and continues, the priest's knees bend as if the truth itself weighs him down.
The moment Ehecatl says "What were YOU doing…?"
—it lands like a lash.
I preached mercy.
I preached restraint.
I told them to spare the women.
I—
But that is a lie.
He remembers Potonchan.
The women handed over in trembling silence, as his fellow Castilians were talking amongst themselves on which women were the most attractive, who favored breasts, who favored the rear end, who will make which women scream, and moan. The laughter of Castilian men who claimed the Church sanctified their lust.
He remembers blessing their unions afterward—
so they could sleep at night without seeing the truth of what they did.
He remembers the Cholula massacre.
He had not even been there to stop it.
He came after, to bless the wounded.
To pray over the bodies.
To rationalize savagery as "God's plan."
He remembers the moment Cortés placed Motecuhzuma under arrest.
"It's for his own protection, Fray Olmedo," Cortés had said.
And Olmedo, cowardly, had believed him, or pretended to.
He remembers the screams on the Night of Sorrows. He remembers more screams when the Mexica fell, men dragging women by the hair, young girls calling to their dead mothers, as it was now their turn to suffer under the men's lust, and the drunken voices of allies praising Castile with blood still on their hands.
He remembers doing nothing.
He remembers telling himself:
This is war. These are heathens. These are sacrifices necessary for the greater salvation…
Every justification that once soothed him now turns rancid inside his chest.
Ehecatl steps closer, and Olmedo now realizes the boy was never even armed.
Because he doesn't need to be.
Ehecatl's words crush him:
"What did you do when the city fell?
When Mexica babies were killed?
When women of all ages were raped?
When men and boys were beaten and tortured?
What did you do?"
Olmedo finally whispers:
"…I… I prayed."
It's pathetic.
It's hollow.
Even he hears how empty it sounds.
Ehecatl doesn't let up.
When he says the allies—Tlaxcalans, Totonacs, Huexotzinca—committed atrocities equal to any Spaniard, Olmedo's breath hitches.
Because he saw it.
He blessed the spears stained with Mexica blood.
He washed the hands of murderers and called them "Christians."
And then Ehecatl hits the last nerve:
"Oh but there are Mexica who are converting and listening to what you say… yes.
However that too is done out of coercion.
As to avoid the atrocities I listed…
And even that isn't a guarantee—
now is it?"
His heart hammers.
His legs weaken.
He is trembling—not before a devil,
not before a demon,
but before a mirror.
A mirror that shows him every sin he blessed,
every suffering he allowed,
every life he failed to protect,
every truth he ignored.
Olmedo whispers "…I… I came to save your soul." But even he no longer believes that.
"How can you save my soul, when your own is already damned?"
Fray Olmedo doesn't reply immediately.
He can't.
The echo of Ehecatl's words rings through his ears like the sound of a funeral bell.
He looks down at his hands.
Once, he believed they were consecrated.
Hands that blessed water, baptized children, broke bread and raised crosses.
But now?
Now they shake.
His fingers had trembled once before.
In the rubble of Tenochtitlan.
When he gave last rites to a Mexica child with a crushed skull—
not from a warrior's blow,
but from a Spanish boot.
And afterward, he'd whispered Dominus vobiscum through gritted teeth,
trying not to vomit.
Now those hands tremble again.
"…No," Olmedo finally says, voice low, torn.
"…perhaps I can't save you. Perhaps I never could."
He stares at Ehecatl not with hatred, not with scorn, but with something far worse:
Recognition.
"I tried to convince myself that we were different. That we brought salvation. That God willed it."
A bitter smile flickers across his face.
"But these people bled. Their cities burned. Their children screamed."
His eyes shut.
"And I said nothing."
He opens his eyes againtired, red-rimmed, and human.
"…If I am damned… then I deserve to be."
He doesn't reach for his rosary.
He doesn't call on Christ.
He doesn't try to justify the faith.
All he does is stand there. Broken.
"Indeed you do. I presume you came here thinking I was going to use you as a living target, flay you, dress you up in women's clothing on a cross, but no. No I won't do that, for your suffering will be the fact that you failed in whatever you thought you were going to achieve, and when you go back to the others you will never be the same. Every face whether Castilian or Indio you see will change you, every word that you preach, you will always remember this conversation, you will remember my face, you will remember your failures and will forever remain broken."
Fray Olmedo's lips part, but no words come out.
He staggers back a step—not from fear, but from the unbearable weight of truth hanging in the air like ash after a fire.
Ehecatl's face lingers before him like an immovable brand.
Not monstrous. Not divine.
Just a boy with eyes too old for his face, lips curled in something that wasn't quite cruelty, but certainty.
Olmedo's hands twitch again. His fingers brush the edge of his white robes, as if seeking the comfort of cloth, only to remember that neither ever made him holy.
His breath shortens. His lungs feel tight.
And then Ehecatl turns his back on him.
Not out of mercy.
Not out of grace.
But out of disinterest.
The final blow is not the words.
It's being dismissed.
Discarded as irrelevant.
Unworthy even of execution.
Olmedo doesn't fall to his knees.
He walks. Slowly. Mechanically.
Back toward from where he came from.
But with every step, the voice haunts him:
"You will remember this conversation."
"You will remember your failures."
"You will forever remain broken."
He doesn't weep.
Not yet.
But he will.
…
…
…
The ruins of Tenochtitlan stretched before him in every direction.
Once a city of floating gardens and shining temples.
Now a corpse.
The air was thick with rot and stagnant canal water.
Bones cracked beneath his sandals.
Every broken stone looked like a judgment.
And Ehecatl's voice echoed in his skull:
"How can you save my soul… when your own is already damned?"
1. Cognitive Collapse Begins
Olmedo pressed his fist to his forehead.
"Pater noster… qui es… qui es…"
He froze.
Why couldn't he remember the next line?
He tried again. His lips trembled.
"Qui es… qui es…"
Nothing.
His breath quickened. His chest tightened. His fingers shook uncontrollably.
He dropped to his knees in the rubble.
This wasn't exhaustion.
This wasn't heatstroke.
This was belief collapsing from the inside.
2. Flashbacks and Auditory Hallucinations
A broken piece of obsidian glinted beside him.
But instead of his reflection, he saw a Mayan girl trembling as she was handed to the Castilians at Potonchan.
He saw the bodies of nobles from Cholula whom fell beneath Spanish blades.
He saw Mexica children dragged screaming from their mothers.
He saw Pedro's massacre at Tóxcatl replay in vivid, sickening clarity.
Through it all, Ehecatl's voice—calm, amused, merciless—whispered:
"What did you do, Fray?
What did you ever do?"
He covered his ears.
But it didn't stop.
3. Religious Crisis
Olmedo clutched at his cross he picked up before he left which was now mud-smeared, bent from Ehecatl's grip.
He pressed it to his chest.
"Lord… please… please…"
His voice cracked.
"Tell me I have done Your will… tell me… tell me…"
But the night stayed silent.
A drop of water from a broken stone roof hit the floor.
He flinched like he'd been struck.
For the first time in his life, he wondered:
"What if God was never on our side?"
And far, far worse:
"What if that devil-boy was right?"
4. Physical Symptoms
His vision blurred.
His stomach lurched, and he vomited into the blackened remains of someone's home.
He trembled uncontrollably.
Sweat soaked his robes.
Every shadow looked like a demon.
Every broken wall looked like a crucifix.
Every whispering gust of wind sounded like Ehecatl laughing.
His legs gave out twice as he crossed the last canal.
By the time he neared the Castilian safe zone, he was staggering like a fevered madman.
He Returns And Breaks
A murmur rippled through the camp.
"¡Fray Olmedo!"
"He's alive?"
"Dios mío… look at him…"
"Did that… thing… let him go?"
"But the devil never leaves witnesses—"
Olmedo stumbled into the firelight.
His eyes were wide, glassy, unfocused.
His cross hung limply from his fingers.
One of the Castilian soldiers stepped forward cautiously.
"Fray… what happened? Did you speak to him? Did you—"
Olmedo collapsed to his knees.
Then he began laughing.
A horrible, broken laugh that echoed across the area and silenced every man present.
Some flinched.
Some crossed themselves.
Some whispered prayers.
Even the native allies recoiled.
Olmedo finally choked out words through hysterical sobs:
"He… he showed me.
He showed me everything…"
His voice cracked.
"My God… my God… what have we done?"
Then he screamed—raw, primal, wounded until his voice gave out.
They realized all at once:
Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo had returned alive…
but his mind had not.
And the myth of Ehecatl, the devil in the ruins? grew tenfold that night. Nay, there are no more doubts, since even a man of the cloth stands among them now broken.
Fray Bartolomé de Olmedo was still on his knees, trembling and pale as bone dust, when people pressed in closer—Castilian, Tlaxcalan, Totonac, Huexotzinco, all staring with wide, frightened eyes.
Someone tried to help him stand.
He slapped the hand away with a feral scream.
"¡NO ME TOQUES!"
("DON'T TOUCH ME!")
A hush fell.
Olmedo staggered to his feet. His cross swung loosely from his fingers, almost mocking him. His lips twitched. His pupils were blown wide like a man possessed.
Then he began speaking—no, raving—his voice loud enough for the entire camp to hear.
"WE ARE DAMNED!"
His voice cracked.
"DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?! WE ARE ALL DAMNED!"
A ripple of fear shot through the Castilians—hardened men who, for the first time, took involuntary steps backward.
A Totonac ally whispered:
"He's possessed…"
Olmedo jabbed a shaking finger toward the ruins of Tenochtitlan.
"I have seen him—the devil—I have heard him! He wears the skin of a child but speaks with the tongues of demons!"
Murmurs spread like wildfire.
"He said Hernando sold ALL our souls," Olmedo continued, voice cracking. "And he's here to collect them… AND HE KNEW—HE KNEW EVERYTHING WE DID!"
A Castilian captain frowned.
"So it's true then, Fray? What else did the devil say?"
Olmedo rounded on him, screaming so loud spittle flew:
"Potonchan! Cholula! The festival massacre! Montezuma's imprisonment! THE RAPE! THE PILLAGE! THE MURDER OF BABIES—HE RECITED IT ALL TO ME AS IF HE HAD BEEN THERE WATCHING!"
Several Castilians paled.
Some natives stepped away, looking sick at the mention of atrocities they themselves committed.
Olmedo kept going, unable to stop.
"He spoke every sin, EVERY CRIME! He spoke of CHOLULA and TÓXCATL like he had seen it with his own eyes—like he was THERE—like he was GOD HIMSELF OR THE DEVIL SENT AGAINST US!"
He Points at the Soldiers
"You!" He pointed at a crossbowman.
"You beat a Mexica boy to death in the street while laughing about it—HE KNEW!"
The soldier recoiled as if struck.
"You!" He jabbed at a Tlaxcalan warrior.
"You took three girls during the fall—and HE KNEW!"
The Tlaxcalan turned ashen.
"And YOU!" He pointed at a Castilian pikeman.
"You stole a woman from her home in front of her children and husband and claimed she 'wanted it'—HE MOCKED YOU FOR IT!"
Whispers. Fear.
Pure, unmistakable fear.
The Devil had named their sins.
Before God could.
His robe slipped off one shoulder.
His cross fell from his hand and clattered on the stone.
He didn't pick it up.
He just laughed.
A broken, hollow, empty laugh.
"He said we are no better than the heathens…
He said our conversions are nothing but COERCION…
He said God will NOT save us…"
Silence swallowed the camp.
Even the fire seemed to crackle softer.
…
…
…
Cortés Arrives
Bootsteps.
Murmurs parting like a wave.
All eyes turned as Hernán Cortés pushed his way through the crowd, jaw clenched, eyes burning with cold fury and growing dread.
"Fray Olmedo," he said sharply. "Enough."
But Olmedo didn't even look at him.
Instead, he stared past him—toward Tenochtitlan's ruins—voice soft and horrifyingly calm:
"He told me…
I failed.
I failed my calling.
I failed God.
I failed you, Hernando."
Cortés froze.
Olmedo slowly turned toward him, eyes glassy.
"You sold all of us," Olmedo whispered.
"You sold every soul in this land… and the devil came to collect."
Cortés grabbed Olmedo by the shoulders and shook him violently.
"¡BASTA! ¡CÁLLATE!"
("ENOUGH! BE QUIET!")
But Olmedo only laughed harder.
"You're already dead, Hernando," he whispered, smiling like a corpse.
"He's coming for you last, as he comes for us next."
The entire camp fell into a suffocating, terrified quiet.
No soldier spoke.
No native ally dared breathe.
Every eye was fixed on Olmedo
broken
rambling
shaking
laughing
pointing at shadows.
Even Cortés felt it now.
The shift.
The weight.
The dread.