Conquistadors. With flickering eyes and reaching hands. They see no rival even as they rise, elevated not by might, but by their own filth.
It matters not, for they have their Tenotchitlan. Their island of gold, a trophy kingdom. At what cost?--It matters not.
They lord their success back home. They build the New World into a giant. The French flock, the Swedes flock, the British flock, to find their own cities of gold. To flee what they have--what they have is no longer good enough. There must always be a frontier.
The natives know respect. The Europeans see naught but submission.
There is no more gold. The Swedes leave, the Dutch leave, the French leave. The British stay. The British will have their gold, bloodstained as it may be. Their gold is green and leafy, dug into hard Virginia earth by hands that aren't theirs. They crack the whip and dark backs bend in motion. Sweet, smoky scent marries with the clang of coin in pocket. A harmony. Dissonance is silenced. Anguish is silenced. Blackened, erased.
Why are we so long asleep?