but what is he to a warrior?
El Toro flies on anger made of wings and ribs. I’m gonna kill you, he says. I’m gonna kill you and it’s going to take a very long time, and that’s when you’re gonna know. You’re gonna know what it was like for them, each and every one. You’ll have to suffer a thousand times over but it’ll be worth it. It’ll be worth it for all of us. No one will know but you and I and the people in the sky, brother. I hate to call you that. I don’t care where you came from. I only care where you’re going.
Are we not brothers? El Rey had asked.
Not by blood, and not by honor, Toro had thought. What he said was, “Never.”
He recognized the shape of those horns and saw the curve of his nose. Uncle, he thought.
It did not matter in the sense that El Toro rejected the black bull for his heinous crimes. It mattered in the sense that Toro’s honor was being weighed on a scale that looked suspiciously like his very own horns, and on the other side was El Rey’s life. Were they of equal value?
Don’t make me answer that.
The black bull slides down a cliffside and Toro descends after him. He nearly crashes into Rey, standing there, disoriented, like an idiot. Is that the confidence of an executioner? Just standing there, thinking I’m not gonna strike you from behind?
Thinking I would do the dishonorable thing?
(Never. Not even to you. Especially not to you.)
“Look at me, murderer. Look at me and fight.”
”WILL HE BE A BULL OR A MAN?“
WILL HE PERHAPS BE A BULL WITH THE FACE OF A MAN?
OR WILL HE BE LIKE ME?
