This is why I didn’t want to fight the Aztecs, this is why I had wanted to run away and never touch a sword or shield again, and this is why I should have taken my own life on the battlefield. But my stubborn Huastec pride stood in the way of all the easy options I could have taken.

The other captives and I walked up the cursed steps, the rough stone cutting our feet, the sun burning our bare backs into blisters. I once would have complained about the pain, but now they just seemed like a mere annoyance. What I had just learned of what was to come made Death itself seem like a sweet dream.

“Where are they taking us?” I had asked a broad shouldered man who I had fought next to.

“To the stone table,” the warrior said with deep set eyes, “where they will hold us down and rip out our hearts to offer to their blood thirsty gods. Where our bodies will carelessly be thrown down the pyramid like a rotten sack of rice and our flesh cooked to fill our royal murders stomachs.”

I couldn’t believe this man as I stared into his dark eyes, desperately searching for a glint of humor. But there was no need to ask if he was serious, because once we had reached the top, rough calloused hands grabbed my shoulders. And at that moment I knew my life was over. That dying in battle no longer looked terrifying but like a little ray of sunshine. They pushed me with their dirty hands so my back was plastered to the cold, black, unforgiving rock.

I now wished I died in battle, at least there I wouldn’t please their unworthy gods or satisfy these devils’ hunger. I stared into my murders eyes and wished ill and pain to who ever tasted my blood.