DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, I don't own it.

Rage was such an unusual thing. Empowering at times, frightening at others. In some people it was hardly ever felt, and in some it was always simmering below the surface. Sometimes it could be controlled, harnessed, used as a weapon. Other times it was the controller, making weapons out of the people from which it came.

Joaquin had never known true rage - why would he? He had been too young to know what was happening when his parents had gone, the people loved him wherever he went, bandits scurried for cover simply at the mention of his name. He had never lost a battle, nor a soldier or a loved one.

So on that rainy morning, when he had heard the cry for help and run to the bridge, seen his best friend carrying his true love's limp body in his arms, the rage had lurched from its prison deep within his mind and constricted his soul.

"What did you do, Manolo?" he yelled, drawing one of his swords without realizing he'd done so.

Manolo was trembling as he averted Joaquin's glare, frightened and broken. "There was a snake…a-and she pushed me out of the way - "

"Why didn't you protect her?"

The gray world seemed to be turning red before his eyes. He remained standing where he was, teeth gritted and sword still in hand, as General Posada inspected the body. He couldn't hear most of what the old man was saying, but one word burned into his unstable mind: "Leave!"

Leaving? That was to be Manolo's only punishment? After what he'd just done? That wasn't justice. It was hardly a slap on the wrist.

His grip on the handle of the sword was slowly tightening. Posada and the soldiers were heading back towards town now, but he and Manolo were still on the bridge staring at one another.

"You," he hissed, spitting out the word like a bullet.

Manolo was backing away now, his eyes growing wide as they darted down towards the blade. "Joaquin, I…"

"You what?"

He gulped. "…I'm sorry."

As though that would bring back Maria.

Until that point, Joaquin's mind had been gradually crumbling. At those two words, it shattered into jagged shards that were thirsting for blood. His vision seemed to shake and go out of focus, and he felt an inhuman scream tear through him. He ran forward, thrusting his sword at the air. For a moment it seemed to hit something soft and stop, but then the power of the medal was helping him push it through again and again. He felt like he couldn't stop, not even if he wanted to.

"Joaquin!" Posada's voice broke through the haze, crying out in horror.

Joaquin blinked a few times, and the world came back into focus as the sword slipped from his fingers. The medal's strength drained away, leaving him on shaking legs. When he looked down, they gave out entirely.

Manolo lay at his feet, looking up as his tears ran down his face to mingle with the rapidly growing pool of blood around him. Joaquin's sword was embedded in his torso, cutting clean through his body and the boards of the bridge. His face twisted in a silent scream as Joaquin frantically jerked it out.

"W-We can fix this, Manny," he said. "We can fix this, you'll see!" He placed both his hands over the wound and pressed down, trying to stop the flow of blood. It only seeped onto his hands, sinking under his nails and into the ridges of his fingerprints. "We can fix this…"

"No."

He looked up. The only movements left in Manolo were the rise and fall of his chest, and even that was slowing quickly. His fading gaze looked past Joaquin, towards the corpse still in her father's arms. His eyes shimmered and his hand twitched, as though he was aching to reach out for her. "Maria…"

Then he went limp, and his eyes saw nothing more.

No! Joaquin wanted to scream. NO! But it came out as a weak whisper.

Posada was the first to move, handing Maria to one of the soldiers and pulling Joaquin away from the body. He stared down at Manolo with a sneer, then kicked him. "Get rid of it," he ordered his men before looking back at Joaquin. "You don't need to worry. We'll take care of this."

Blood could be mopped up, bodies quietly disposed of outside town, family and friends sated with false anecdotes. Guilt could not be washed away, nor could holes in hearts be filled. Joaquin stayed in Maria's room for the next few hours, curled up by her bed. They had washed his hands before going back to town, but he thought he still saw a few stray spatters and rubbed at them feverishly. If only the day could start over, or just end, or if he could just end. He deserved it more than Manolo did. The general kept telling him it would be alright, that they would bury the dead and no one would ever know and that would be the end of it. Joaquin wanted to believe it was true, and yet an aching in his soul told him otherwise.

Please, he thought, don't get any worse.

And then Maria had awoken.

"I'm alive," she murmured as though she didn't want to be. When her father called it a miracle, she looked at him askance. Her eyes scanned the dark room, barely registering the assembled faces. "…Where's Manolo?"

Joaquin recoiled and looked at the floor. "He…he passed away. Fell on his own sword."

He could feel her eyes boring into him, and he knew she wasn't fooled. When he looked up at her, tears were silently streaming down her face. She darted out of his reach, her hands balling into fists.

"I know you cared for him," her father said with considerable effort. "But look. You have Joaquin now! He can protect us all. You only need to - "

"No!" she yelled, suddenly turning on all of them. "If he cares about San Angel, he'll protect it without me."

"Mija, just think about it - "

"I already have. Now leave me alone."

"Be reasonable for once, Maria - "

"I said leave me alone."

Scowling, the general turned on his heel and beckoned for the others to follow him out. "Prepare the church," he said. "I'll drag her there myself if I have to."

"Señor," Joaquin said, "this isn't the time."

"Keep an ear out for her, Joaquin," the old man said. "She'll come around."

Maria slammed the door shut behind him.

She didn't come out, not even when the nuns came to the door and begged her to eat. Joaquin stayed with an ear to the wood, listening. First she was screaming, then she sank to the floor and sobbed for what felt like hours. When she had no more tears left, he heard her stand and begin to pace back and forth while muttering to herself. Finally she sat down on the bed and sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this…"

His face brightened for a moment. Was she coming out, then?

Through the space at the bottom of the door, he saw her shadow kneel down and embrace Chuy. "You be good, okay? Te amo."

She stood once again, and the heels of her boots clicked on the wooden floor as she took a few lingering steps. Hinges and a latch squeaked - she was opening her window. Then a few more steps.

And then nothing. Not the silence of someone being quiet, but the silence of nothing at all.

"Maria?" he called out, but he got no answer. He jiggled the handle, but the door was locked. "Maria, are you okay?"

The sudden shriek from General Posada gave him his answer. Racing downstairs, he flung open the front doors. The rain was pouring down stronger than ever, blurring his vision. He could barely make out what was happening through the throng of wailing bystanders crowding beneath Maria's balcony, nor did he want to. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, like a burning pain was eating him from the inside.

He started to turn away, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the battered, lifeless body lying on the pavement.

The decoration of the church proceeded as planned, albeit with the bright colors exchanged for mourning crepe. They held the funeral that day, once the body could be prepared and the general could be calmed to a reasonable level. He was catatonic with a flurry of emotions during the service and nearly skewered anyone who dared to whisper that the girl didn't have the right to be buried in shriven ground. He might have if the two children hadn't burst into the church with their message: "Chakal is coming!"

Joaquin hadn't come to the funeral, or even gone to see the body once it was inside. They finally found him in his father's house, just as the bandits appeared on the horizon. He was in the parlor, kneeling in front of an old photograph surrounded by marigolds and bread. His medals lay strewn across the floor, some of them stomped on or thrown. A large, green, heart-shaped medal sat in the fireplace, unaffected by the flames licking at it.

"Joaquin!" the general shouted. "What are you doing? Get out there! We need you!"

"No one needs me."

"But the bandits are coming!"

Joaquin turned around, and the intruders recoiled. His gaze was tired and dull, as though he was dead already, but he could still glare. He said only two words at that moment, the few survivors claimed: "Let them."