Legacy Ch 39 [APH Mexico fic]

Mexico continued, "Miguel was, of course, right. I couldn't escape Antonio's wrath, especially not when he knew what I was. I had awoken the conquistador in Antonio and he wouldn't rest until he had me safely back under his thumb. I also have a sneaking suspicion that he found me more attractive when I was defiant." America was staring at the other's back, and attempting to decide whether he should say something that was weighing on his mind. As usual, he came to the conclusion that he couldn't stop himself from saying something, "I may not know Spain as well as you do, but I have to correct you. Spain was crushed."

Mexico turned around swiftly, ready for a confrontation. This was his story and he wasn't going to put up with corrections to his version of events. He looked at America, who looked like he wanted to back down, and said, "How would you know anything about it?" America looked his lover in the eyes, unwavering, and said, "I had an argument with Romano about you. He was telling me that you are callous and cruel." Mexico scoffed, "Of course he did. Lovino still seems to be mad at me for leading his Antonio on, as if Tony ever saw him before I rebelled." America didn't like to be interrupted, but he continued on, "Anyway, to convince me of that, he told me about the night after you first confronted Spain. Did you know that Romano was there? He apparently came with Spain to provide moral support. He said he found Spain hugging your jacket and sobbing."

The American wasn't sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but he was surprised that Mexico barely seemed to care, "Good, I expected he would use that jacket to remember me. But, I assure you he went from upset to homicidal in a matter of hours. That's his nature. It won't take much for me to convince you that Antonio is really the cruel one." America decided not to press the point further; he knew that Mexico wasn't going to admit he might be in the wrong. The other continued, "As I was saying, Antonio was determined to get me back. He took his own advice and used the whole of his army to pursue after the retreat. I won't bore you with the battles; I'll just say that Antonio was able to win again and again. We fell back to Calderon Bridge. That battle was a turning point."

Mexico was once again stuck between Hidalgo and Allende; they were occupying a tent a couple of miles away from the river. There was a constant rushing sound in the background of the conversation. Mexico found it easier to listen to the river than the argument that was unfolding in front of him. He had a pounding migraine and he knew exactly why. When the revolutionary cause had been enjoying a run of victories, Mexico had personally agreed with the majority of the feeling and he had been able to minimalize the loyalist feeling. Now, there was growing loyalist fervor, and it was tormenting Mexico.

The conversation between the mortals was practically the same one that had been going on for the whole of the revolution. Allende was claiming that the recent defeats were proof that Hidalgo should not be leading an army. Hidalgo was countering by saying that the defeats could not have been avoided; the Spanish army had been attacking them during retreat. He insisted that this was the place to stand their ground and begin pushing back. Mexico knew that he was supposed to be breaking the deadlock, but at the moment he was just sick as the squabbling. He had admitted to himself a couple of days ago that his faith in Hidalgo as a leader was shaken. One part of him knew that Hidalgo understood him better than anyone, and that was important, but he couldn't deny that the loses didn't exactly instill confidence. Mexico felt an uneasy restlessness growing inside of himself. He could feel all the parts of himself warring in his mind, making it impossible to make a choice. It was pure cacophony pounding through his skull. Quite suddenly he said, breaking into the conversation for the first time, "That is enough. We will implement Miguel's plan and make a stand here."

In his agitation, Mexico stood up and quickly walked out. He couldn't stand being here anymore. He would have to explain his decision, and he couldn't do that right now because he had honestly not had a good logical reason for it. He had chosen to side with Hidalgo simply out of habit. Mexico really had no idea where he was going, but needed to find time alone to collect his thoughts. The logical place to go was to his own tent. There was no true solitude in an encampment like this, which was not close enough to a town to allow for the annexation of real shelter. Here, there were no doors to close or lock. Solitude really depended on no one looking for you, and for Mexico that never happened. He could count on maybe a few minutes before Philippines, or Texas, or some mortal came looking for him. He reached his tent and went inside.

If his dwellings and possessions had seemed sparse before, they seemed even more so now. He had gone from the grandeur of the Spanish court to this, a canvas tent. His dress, too, had changed although not so dramatically. He had left his gilded jacket with Spain and the one he now wore now was made of a much darker crimson and trimmed with black. It was less fine than what he had worn before, but it was in no way common man's clothing. He was dressed as an officer, which was his rank. Underneath it, he wore a simple white shirt, the last he had brought with him, covered with a black vest, and a pair of brown pants tucked into his black riding boots. The boots were scuffed and the heels were wearing slightly thin. The silver in his belt buckle was also beginning to tarnish.

Mexico continued walking until he reached a thin wooden chair and sat back down. The pounding in his head continued unabated, but now he could shut it out. He put his hand to his temple and rubbed, which did cause the pain to subside. One more battle would be able to really clear his head, one more victory. It was possible, he had the advantage of numbers, but the constant problem was discipline. If the troops could hold their ground, then an easy victory was ensured. Mexico closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It allowed him to think without distraction. He was able to push the pain completely into the back of his mind. Now, he needed to think about another conundrum that had been bothering him: keeping both Philippines and Texas here was a problem.

The two of them almost always at each other's throats, more so now than before. It was an unnecessary source of dissonance that was becoming hugely distracting to Mexico, and he didn't need that now. It wasn't hard to choose which one of them to keep, seeing as Texas was useless in a fight. If Mexico wanted to feel secure on the battlefield, he wanted to have Philippines by his side. The question that he had not yet sorted out was what to do with Texas. Since Mexico had struck him, the Texan had taken to being silent and moody. He was writing more and more letters to America's sister, and for some reason he seemed able to get responses as well. Mexico had long since stopped being irritated by it. But, now the thought occurred to him. If Texas wanted to see her that badly, Mexico could grant that wish. It would get Texas out of his hair, and it would give him a way to get some sort of message to Alfred. He didn't want help that would be admitting weakness. But, it would keep Alfred from worrying and trying to interfere in some stupid way. That would do, he could send his brother north.

Then, he would be much more free to do what he wanted to. It might also be smart to send Philippines back to Manila. It would be easy enough to have her smuggled on a cargo ship back to her homeland. But, he couldn't stand the thought of Philippines being so far away. Without her, Mexico would feel completely and utterly alone. Her company was bringing him more solace than anything else. At that moment, he realized it was perfectly silent and all of the conflict was silent. He had somehow sufficiently silenced the war inside his head for now.

Mexico breathed a sigh of relief and opens his eyes. He saw to his surprise that front of the tent was opening just as he opened his eyes. Allende came through the front of the tent, one hand on the opening and the other on the hilt of his sabre. It was a sign that he, subconsciously, expecting an argument. Mexico didn't speak at once, because he knew the mortal wanted to start the conversation. Allende fixed his gaze firmly on Mexico, making eye contact, and said, "You owe me a reason for that decision. I may be willing to follow you, but I will never do so blindly." Mexico sighed; he had been trying to avoid this. He could lie, but that hardly seemed to be practical at the moment. He took a deep breath and then said, "Would you believe me, Ignacio, if I said that I don't really have one?"

The mortal stopped dead in his tracks. His hand dropped off the hilt of his sword, "Why did you make it then?" The country stood up and took a few steps. Sitting down had been making him feel like he was a disobedient child being chastised. After taking a few steps, he answered with the closest thing to the truth that he could muster, "I needed to stand by Miguel, that is all." Allende sighed out of exasperation, "Are you still so certain that he is leader you need?" This question cut right to the heart of the matter. It was easy for Mexico to say that he believed that Hidalgo had an important connection with him, their conversations proved that. But, it was harder to say that he was truly certain that the priest could lead the army to another victory. He quickly responded, "Yes."

But it sounded like an empty lie. Mexico looked down for a second before bitterly admitting, "No, actually I am not certain." When he looked back up, Mexico saw a look of dawning realization come across Allende. The mortal took a step toward Mexico and said, "I see you are at a crossroads." There was an underlying satisfaction in his voice that repelled Mexico. He was sick of this feud, and he was beginning to wonder if Allende even cared about him for any reason other than for his own benefit. Mexico responded evasively, "I am conflicted, yes, but that does not mean I will abandon Miguel." Allende took another small step forward and said, fixing his eyes again on Mexico's, "I see through this, you know. You are proud, too proud to admit that you have been wrong about Miguel. Give him one more test."

Mexico allowed for his curiosity to rule, "What test would you recommend?" The mortal man smiled, as though he had won sort of victory, "This battle was his idea, right? Well, if we win this time, keep him in charge. But, if we lose, you have to let go of him." Mexico quickly turned away. He would rather stand by Hidalgo, and this sort of conspiring made him feel sick. He said, not turning to look at Allende, "I will not agree to that."

He heard the mortal's voice clearly behind him, it was now sharp, and "You don't have to if he loses again, the army will not support him. He will be cast out whether you will it or not. I want you to support me when I replace him. I can do it without your help, but I care what you think of me. So, will you agree, or will you not?" Mexico now turned. He had not thought of himself as cornered, but now he could clearly see that he was; Allende had set this up perfectly. He could either agree to Allende's plan, or he would have to start losing his hold on his own army. He had to admit to himself that there was no real choice here. The revolution could not be put at risk for anything, even Hidalgo. Mexico took a breath and said, grudgingly, "I will agree. But, this is conditional. If we lose, then I will stand by you if the troops are on your side. I will side with my people, is that clear?"

He was now facing Allende again, and the mortal had a look on his face that was irritatingly victorious. The mortal nodded and said, "I can take that for now. You will see, eventually, that I am the one who will lead this revolution to completion. Miguel has served his purpose, now you need to set him aside." Mexico scoffed in response, "Just do your job, I will change my view on you when you have earned it." Allende made a frustrated noise in the back of the throat, but it was involuntary. He had accomplished what he had wanted, and pushing the issue farther would do nothing now. The mortal turned and left Mexico alone once again.

But, Allende had left Mexico with a lot to think about. He now couldn't contemplate defeat now, because it would mean turning against the man that he could actually speak about his feelings to. He desperately needed to think about something else, and his mind went immediately back to the fate of his brother. Texas needed to be out from under Mexico's feet, and there was a very easy way to do it. There would be no harm in sending the boy to spend time with the woman he seemed so attached to. Mexico had things to do, and he couldn't continue brooding right now.

He stood up and walked to the front of the tent, intent on walking out and finding Texas. He was stopped by a voice immediately to his left, "Alejandro!" He turned to face Philippines, who had apparently been standing outside during Mexico's entire conversation with Allende. She looked incredibly pulled together, which seemed at odds with the general disorder of the camp. Her hair was pulled back into a thick black braid, which was immaculately smooth. Her dress mirrored his own; it was the same color palate. Her vest and pants were both black and the vest was trimmed with red. Around her waist she was wearing a thick red sash, with a pair of identical knives tucked into the back of it. They were elegant knives that he had smuggled from Brazil; the handles were made of African ivory imbedded with decorative pieces of ebony. The request had resulted in a more than slightly skeptical letter from Brazil, who still refused to believe that there wasn't more between Mexico and his ward. But, that was incidental. Mexico had discovered that knives were Philippine's preferred weapon, just as the sword was his. Beneath the vest, she wore a tight white shirt, which covered her arms.

She was tapping the toe of her boot against the ground in an impatient manner. He nodded slightly in her direction, which indicated to Philippines that she could speak, which she soon did, "You have been troubled and you have been neglecting me. I have been struggling with how to say this to you, but we had a deal and no part of it included you neglecting me. I want you to get rid of your brother. I know he is the reason for your cold shoulder." The words started slow and respectful, but as the emotions slipped through they became hurried and the statement ended with her chest heaving, as though she had just run a distance. Mexico could hear her frustration and a certain heartbreak that surprised him. Thankfully, he could grant her wish, and it would make his job easier.

He put a hand comfortingly on her face, which was warm from the exertion of speaking her mind, and said, "Be calm, Piri. I have a plan for Diego, and it involves him going away." He expected her to be happy about this news, but instead she took a step away from and started shaking her head slowly. Mexico had to ask, "What's wrong? I'm granting your wish." Her voice cracked as she said in response, "You are sending your brother away without my pleading in mind. You're cutting your ties, which means I will be next. I won't leave you when you need me the most. I won't do it, no matter what you say."

Mexico was completely taken aback. He hadn't thought that this was going to affect her so dramatically; it was not as if he had said that he wanted to send her away. Her lower lip was quavering from either sadness or anger and she now seemed lost for words. He took a step forward to be even closer to her. He could see a deep compassion that came alarmingly close to love in her shining black eyes. Mexico quickly found the words to comfort her, and for once they were the truth, "When I said that I would never cast you aside, I meant it. I want to have you by my side until the world ends. You are a sister to me; Diego is a stranger. I need you, now more than ever."

While he spoke, she seemed to relax, and when he finished she gave him a strange unreadable look. There was a brief moment of complete, but pregnant silence, and then she did something completely unexpected: She threw her arms around him. This action seemed to violate the carefully established hierarchy between them. The stringent order was broken by this single act of care. Mexico was, for one of a very few times, completely nonplussed. His shock was so great that it took him a solid minute or two to even tentatively return the hug. It was not a gentle gesture, Philippines was not the sort to be tender. The gesture expressed emotions that had apparently come to a head, this was true, but the grip of the arms was that of a fighter. She held on with a firmness that one wouldn't expect from someone her size. He placed his arms carefully around her, still unsure if he should be scolding her for this breach of decorum.

They held that position long enough for Mexico to appreciate the irony of it. Here they both were, armed as though they were expecting to be attacked at any moment, sharing a moment of pure compassion expressed in the rough way that both of them were most comfortable with. Philippines spoke as though she was choosing her words very carefully, "I have never said this before: Thank you. Thank you for being the only one to care." Mexico couldn't bring himself to respond, although a strange warm feeling was swelling in his chest. Finally, she released him.

Once the contact was broken, she looked down, "That was improper." In the same second as she uttered the words, Philippines turned away and took a couple hurried steps. Mexico couldn't let it end like this, although he was still reeling from the whole strange experience. He called after her, "Piri, stop!" She obeyed almost automatically and turned back to face Mexico, but said nothing. He filled the silence, "I don't mind. You need to let me know what you are feeling." She nodded curtly and turned again to walk away. But one more time, Mexico stopped him, "Piri, one more thing." This time the glance back was hopeful, as though she was expecting more sentiment. However, his purpose was strictly practical, "Go tell Diego that I want to see him. Before the night is over, I will also need you to check on my horse and sharpen those blades. Tomorrow will be an important day."

Mexico found himself lying in bed with his eyes closed, but still entirely awake. He had only gotten a few hours of sleep during the night, and they had been scattered and uneasy. The thought of the battle that was looming was haunting him. Too much hung on this victory, and the victory was not guaranteed. He could hear Texas talking in his sleep nearby. The Texan was crooning a name, in a cloyingly sweet fashion, in his sleep. Mexico had no desire to know what his brother was dreaming about. The two of them had to share a tent because of the limited space in the camp, and this meant that Texas had a small cot in the corner, while Mexico had the rest of the tent.

A soft pink glow began to fill the tent, which meant that the sun was rising. Mexico, irritated by the light and the continued noises of his brother, decided to give up on sleep. He got dressed for battle quickly, making sure that he had all the proper weapons. Today was the day for a pivotal battle; he could feel it in his blood. But, this wasn't the simple excitement and blood lust that he had felt before the other battles. There was something frantic, even unnervingly fatalistic about this. It made him painfully aware of the roaring of his own blood in his ears.

Texas turned over in his sleep and murmured something that sounded vaguely like a confession of love. Mexico was of half a mind to wake him, if only to end whatever happiness the dream was bringing him. The truth was that the younger boy would not be at all essential to the battle. In fact, he was going to sneak out while the battle raged and go North to the border. Mexico decided to make the kinder decision and let his brother sleep.

The morning was cold, as was to be expected this late in the year, but it was bright. The sky had a cloudless, almost garish, clarity. The rising sun painted the sky a lurid mix of oranges and pinks, but Mexico knew that tomorrow the sun would rise red. The stillness of early morning still laid over everything, broken only by the steady drip of dew off the side of the tents and the continual rush of the nearby river. Mexico inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm himself so that he could appreciate some of the serenity. It failed completely, the anxious energy he felt would not subside. There was nothing left to do but to walk to the stables and start preparing for the battle that hung in the air.

The army was in position long before the red and gold banner of Spain was visible on the horizon. From the place where he sat astride his black stallion, Mexico looked around him and tried to measure the situation. There was no question that he had the advantage of numbers, the size of his army was twice that of anything Spain could muster. They now also had something that resembled modern weaponry, seeing as they had taken cannons from one of the towns they had passed on the way from Mexico City to here. It had required cohesion and the use of hostages, but that was acceptable. Mexico didn't feel any particular emotion at all about the trail of loyalist bodies that had accompanied this revolution. Perhaps it was because he had accepted long ago that his freedom would cost a certain amount of flesh and blood.

But a nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him that this was not the first time his emotional response had fallen short of what should have. That same small voice dared to ask if he comprehended emotion in the purely abstract way instead of actually feeling any. It was an absurd thought, and not useful in the moment. He focused his mind back on the task at hand. The overarching problem was what it had always been: Mexico did not doubt the passion of his army, he doubted the capability. Lack of discipline had become even more apparent when the tide turned in favor of Spain; the men could not hold position or formation in battle. Each acted of his own accord, paying no mind to tactics or strategy. This battle would be won only if the sheer force of numbers was enough.

Hidalgo was commanding directly now, which meant that the set up was perfect for Allende's proposed test. Allende had been given a lesser command of one of the smaller positions. Mexico had been trying to not think of it, because he did not want to think about the possibility of having to cast Hidalgo aside. He had intentionally decided to distance himself from both Allende and Hidalgo for this battle because he didn't want to be the center of their bickering again. He urged his horse slightly forward, so that he was almost level with the backmost row of infantry. It would be suicide to be any closer to the musket fire that would inevitable come.

The silence of the day was broken by the resounding sound of a cannon being fired. It came from the Mexican side. The shot moved in a precise arc until it smashed into the ground, sending dirt flying in all directions around the impact. But it served no practical purpose, as it fell about a foot short of the Spanish lines. However, it did seem to signal the start of the battle. The Spanish lines moved forward at a much faster clip, now approaching much faster. Again, a strange silence seemed to settle on the battlefield, which was again broken by the sound of cannon fire, this time from the Spanish side. This shot found its mark somewhere off to Mexico's left.

The wind, which had been blowing from North to South, had stopped, but picked up again, blowing from South to North. The wind carried on it the strong scent of gunpowder and iron, and there was something intoxicating in the scent. Mexico was frustrated with these teasing blows; they were only prolonging the inevitable. Apparently, his commanders felt the same way. This time all the cannons on their side fired at once accompanied by a smattering of musket fire, which created a storm of iron that rained down on the enemy. This was the real catalyst and Mexico could feel it. His heart was pounding in his chest against the Aztec medallion. The enemy artillery marched forward, leveling their guns as they did so.

In this moment, something struck Mexico; this was not the whole of the Spanish force, which meant that they were accommodating for their smaller size by using a flanking maneuver. Mexico knew that it was strategically sound, but that gave him very little comfort. He could only hope that his commanders also realized the same thing and would work to counter it. He had to focus on dealing with the force that was approaching down the middle. The most effective thing to do at this point would be to coordinate a single firing of all the muskets at once and mowing down most of the approaching line. But, before he could give any orders, the tinny sound of musket fire rang out. He noted with frustration that the soldiers were already firing, with no organization.

Mexico managed to say, "Hold your fire!" but it had no effect. The unorganized fire did little to make a dent in the enemy force, and soon all the men on the Mexican side needed to reload their muskets. This, for a professionally trained force, would have only taken a couple of minutes. However, these men would take entirely too long to reload their muskets and would not have the opportunity to fire another volley into the approaching enemy. The frustration rose mixed with the bloodlust that battle caused in him. Mexico urged his horse slightly forward, although he could make no real progress from here. This was the frustration of being on the defensive, it meant staying put and enduring the anticipation of waiting for the enemy to come within range. Mexico could feel his anxious horse pawing the earth beneath him. He reached out and patted the black neck, even though he shared the horse's frustration.

Cannon fire continued from both sides, every so often an impact could be seen in the lines of soldiers. The air was now thick with the scents of gunpowder, disturbed earth, and spilt blood. The sounds of battle were also now elevated to complete cacophony. The Spanish line leveled their muskets and fired an organized volley. The shots ripped through the line of infantry right in front of Mexico with brutal efficiency. The effect of the organized fire was also compounded by the fact that the Spanish weapons were the most modern kind, which meant that they had the most accuracy possible. But, thanks to the short distance, only one organized volley was fired. Once they were close enough, the defending force surged forward and started fighting with short rage weapons. This was finally Mexico's chance to get in on the action.

He quickly drew both of his pistols and fired two shots in very quick succession; both found their marks in the writhing sea of fighting men and struck Spanish solders squarely in the head. He finally allowed his horse to gallop forward into the fight. He reloaded one of his pistols quickly and managed to fire another shot, while in motion. This one missed its target, but it tore a hole in the throat of another solider. The man put his hand to his throat and red rivulets ran between his fingers. He collapsed as the blood poured out from the wound. Mexico didn't stop to watch the mortal's death, although he would have liked to.

He continued to move through the battle. It was, as far as he could tell, about even, so he still had a chance at victory. He finally pulled his horse to a stop a few feet in front of an ammunition wagon, which was centrally located on the battlefield. He stood up in his stirrups to survey the battlefield. Mexico heard, but did not see, a cannonball zoom very close by. The shot smashed into the wagon and all of the gunpowder contained within it reacted with the fire. The wagon exploded spectacularly, sending pieces of burning wood flying in all directions. A shockwave radiated out around the wagon. The impact of the explosion knocked Mexico sideways, so forcefully that he was knocked off his horse.

His ears were ringing so loudly that he could no longer hear the sounds of battle over it. He hit the ground hard, but it felt like nothing had been broken. Although, he did feel a single bead of moisture rolling down his forehead. He put his hand up to touch to and the tips of his fingers came away red. That meant that he must be bleeding again, but this seemed to be a small wound. Mexico didn't have much time to contemplate his own wounds. He became suddenly aware that a pair of Spanish soldiers was watching him with anticipation. He remembered that he was dressed like an officer and, thus, made a very attractive target. His pistols would both take too long to load, so he would have to use his blade.

He propelled himself to his feet and drew his sword. He was nowhere near as steady on his feet as he would like to be, but there was no way to remedy his situation now. Both Spanish soldiers looked at each other and nodded their agreement. Both of them drew swords, shorter and less fine than Mexico's. The one on the right charged forward first, swinging clumsily. Mexico caught the blow easily and parried so agresively that it knocked the mortal man backwards. The other tried to take advantage of the situation and attacked, but the attempt was also lacking, and Mexico was able to push him away with another easy parry.

Mexico felt himself starting to smirk simply because he could see how superior he was to these mortals. He took the offensive and swung at the first man who had attacked. The man was only able to block one low swing before Mexico brought another strike up and opened the man's throat. The blood sprayed out of the veins as the man's body fell. With that one dead, he turned to the other solider, who was now looking much less sure of his plan of attack. Mexico raised his now bloody sword to challenge the mortal. The Spaniard seemed to decide that it was his duty to try. He took a swing at Mexico, which was easily deflected. The Aztec boy caught the attack easily and managed to interlock their swords. Mexico used his other hand to draw a knife from his belt and planted the knife up to the hilt in the mortal's eye. The man's body collapsed at once. Mexico didn't bother to retrieve the knife; he simply sheathed his sword and turned back around.

His horse was standing right behind him, bleeding slightly from one side, but otherwise unharmed. Mexico put his hand to his forehead again and felt a scab beneath his fingers, which meant that the wound was not serious enough to keep bleeding. He glanced down at his hands, which were now covered in blood. It didn't matter now, he needed to focus on the battle on hand. He walked forward and grabbed the reigns of his horse and pulled himself back up into the saddle. There was something supremely comforting about being back up in the saddle. He reached down and grabbed a shard of wood sticking out of the horse's flank. It was buried in the flesh, probably by the explosion. Mexico pulled the shard out, causing his horse to whinny. He stroked the horse's neck and said softly, "You're ok, you're going to be ok."

He was glad to be back on top of the horse, the position allowed him to be above the mortals. These mortals, these foot soldiers, were nothing more that the instruments that countries used to settle their squabbles. It was only fitting that Mexico could be above them. He looked around the battlefield again. In the past couple of minutes that he had been fighting, something perceptible had changed. The defending soldiers had lost what little strategy they had and everything has descended into chaos. The explosion must have shaken them, as easily frightened as mortals were. With a sinking sense of hopelessness Mexico realized that he was losing. It was a familiar sensation, but in this case the loss was not acceptable.

He needed to find someone who could turn the tide again, not enough of the mortals paid him enough mind for him to do it himself. When he turned his head, he caught sight of Allende, who was easily visible astride his horse close by. Mexico decided that this was the only option at the moment. He kicked his horse into a full gallop and headed straight for Allende. He had to cut through a maze of dead bodies and divots that had been gouged out of the ground by cannon fire. He eventually reached Allende, who looked flustered.

Mexico yelled to him, "Ignacio, you have to bring them back to order." The mortal turned to him and his eyes were alight with fervor. They were very close to each other now, but they were both yelling to be heard over the sounds of battle.
Allende responded, "I can't! They have no discipline! If we had trained them, then we would have a chance. But as things stand, we must retreat." Mexico was incensed by the idea. Retreat would be acknowledging defeat, and it would give Spain a strategic advantage. This was a crucial battle and Mexico did not want to retreat when he still had the power to snatch victory. He clenched his hand on the reigns and his knuckles turned pale.

Mexico shouted back, "I will not retreat! Not now!" Allende screamed in frustration, "For once in your life, use common sense! Do you want to go back to Spain?" Mexico took a quick breathe in through his nose. The question was understandably shocking and he offered the obvious answer to the question, "No, of course I don't." The mortal responded quickly, "That is what will happen if you continue this battle. They are flanking us, we have no chance!" Mexico shook his head slightly, barely conscious of his actions.

This little sign of denial seemed to enrage Allende even further,"They will have victory soon. If we stay here they will capture us." Mexico spoke swiftly, "No!" The mortal continued, "They will capture us and drag you back in front of the empire you belong to. If that is what you want, then continue." Mexico didn't think before he responded, he simply spoke out of the rage and fear that Allende's words ignited in him, "Fine, call the retreat!" The call for retreat seemed to go up through the entire force as soon as Allende gave the signal. What was left of the force retreated Northward. Mexico kept close by the side of Allende; he didn't even think to look for Hidalgo. It wasn't until the movement stopped that the priest caught up with the pair of them. He looked aggravated and fixed his eyes on Allende, "How dare you call a retreat without my consent? I am in command!"

Mexico sighed and cradled his forehead in his hand. The last thing he wanted to do now was listen to more bickering. Allende spat back, "We will see how long that lasts, priest." Mexico decided that it would be far preferable to not listen to any of this. It was all already decided anyway, he had already made that deal with Allende. He turned his horse and started riding away, hoping to be able to leave silently. Hidalgo called after him, "Alejandro, aren't you going to back me?" Mexico looked back over his shoulder and said, in the coldest way he could muster, "It's up to the army, Miguel. My opinion hardly matters." Satisfied with the statement, Mexico rode away leaving the mortals to look at each other Hidalgo slightly aghast, Allende smug.