There are moments when the silence becomes louder than thunder.
When gods who once watched begin to turn their faces.
When even rage fails to feed the fire.
In that silence, something stirs.
A thread of ashlight. A question cast into water.
And sometimes, if Death is curious…
She listens.
Frustration, that's all he felt.
Frustration with the gods for his curse. Frustration for the past he was forced to live through. Frustration for this babbling monster, saying more ridiculous things he didn't understand. Why did Tlāloc want him dead anyway? He wasn't to blame—not fully, anyway. And if the god of storms wanted his death, why didn't he just come take him himself? Why force him to go through this bullshit?
Cenotlatlacatl raked his claws at the beast, muscle remembering where instinct failed. He felt it—that flicker of control. For the first time since his descent, he didn't feel like a broken husk. His body answered. His limbs coiled and struck with purpose. Rage burned hot, and beneath it, something even stranger: pride.
Let's see who comes out of this one alive, you ugly bastard.
Their claws shredded flesh. Teeth tore through him, carving channels into his scaled skin. All he could manage in return were ragged tufts of the creature's fur, jagged scratches that didn't seem to slow it down. He needed something more—something with weight, with power.
His thoughts darted to the sickly green ash burning on his forehead. Maybe that mark could help. Maybe Mictecacihuatl had meant more by it. But he didn't even know how he activated it in the first place. He hadn't meant to snuff out the torches before—he'd just been afraid.
"Ughhhhhhhhh!"
He roared through his gills and mouth, bubbles of rage erupting as frustration surged again. He had never been one to pray. And the last time he tried, Quetzalcōatl ignored him completely. That was how he ended up in this gods-forsaken, submerged, over-glorified crypt to begin with.
But now… now he thought of one goddess. The one who bore witness. The one who gave him her flame. Maybe her curiosity had been fleeting, but in this moment, it was all he had.
The battle had long since passed the point of elegance. This was no duel. It was survival. Two cursed things, flailing and tearing at one another like rabid dogs. The ahuizotl had already ripped his leg clean off with a snap of its thick, water-warped jaws. Cenotlatlacatl gasped, watching in fascinated horror as the limb began to regrow—pale flesh wriggling back into shape like worms threading through bone.
Maybe I can never die, he thought.
Then he checked himself. I can probably burn to death.
And that wasn't how he wanted to go.
The scent of rot returned—foul and gag-inducing. The ahuizotl grinned as it chewed the torn-off leg. "Tastes like slimy fish," it slurred mockingly, slapping its long-fingered tail against the stone.
He didn't have time to be insulted.
Cenotlatlacatl bolted toward the sacred pool, leaping into the dark water with a splash of urgency. Behind him, the ahuizotl dove after, slick and swift, gliding like an otter through the liquid darkness.
Like a barracuda chasing its prey, the Ahuizotl with jaws snapping right at Cenotlatlacatl's tail. Sometimes biting off the very tip which would cause a slight pull causing Cenotlatlacatl to slow down a little. As they swam he started to notice that up ahead the tunnel walls tightened. He was running out of space—and time.
Just before the bend, a sudden jolt yanked him off course. The ahuizotl had caught up—no, more than that. It had clamped its long, wet fingers around the base of his tail.
Cenotlatlacatl twisted mid-swim, a bubbling snarl spilling from his gills and throat. They collided in the bend, grappling, raking at each other in the dark. The beast bit into his shoulder, tearing deep. He howled in pain, wrapping his tail around its neck in retaliation—but the ahuizotl laughed, gurgling with pleasure, and returned the gesture with its wrapping his free hand around Cenotlatlacatl's own tail, choking him back, choking him back.
They spun in a knot of limbs and fury, both trying to crush the life out of the other. The ahuizotl's grin stretched wide. It reveled in this—the irony, the dominance. It had him now. Bound by his own tail. Just as it had dreamed. A perfect moment in its twisted fantasy—ascension into Tlāloc's court, into Tlālocan itself. Tlālocan within his grasp, so close he could taste it. It tasted like slippery fish.
Cenotlatlacatl's vision darkened. His lungs screamed. Panic surged.
Desperate, he clawed at his own tail. Focusing every fiber of his being on this moment of self-mutilation, he clawed over and over at his tail, dyeing the water crimson. With a final desperate yell, he tore it free.
Before the creature could react, he swung the severed tail like a club, smashing it into the ahuizotl's face again and again. The water filled with blood and bubbles.
The grip loosened.
He tore himself free and surged forward—limping, bleeding, his tail a half-regrown stub dragging behind him.
His body flailed in the water as panic gripped him. Every motion sent pain arcing through his limbs. He didn't know how long he could swim. The wound was still raw. His power, uncertain. He was alone again.
And then—he prayed.
Not to Tlāloc. Not to Quetzalcōatl. They had turned their faces.
No… he thought of her. The one who bore witness. The one who gave him her flame.
"Oh Queen of the Dead…
Mictēcacihuātl…
I know I'm not a priest, not a noble, not even worth your breath. But I know you didn't give me this mark just to see me gutted like a fish. Please. I need guidance. Just a flicker. A whisper. A sign. Something".
Panic began to claw at him again, but he fought it down. As he swam, he tried to center himself—not on instinct, not on rage—but on something higher. Something divine.
He focused inward, imagining the ashlight on his forehead. That mark. That gift.
"Oh Queen of the Dead…
Mictēcacihuātl… just grant me a chance here. I beg of you, I can't belong to you yet. Please!"
No answer came. Only silence.
His lungs burned. His gills flared.
Then—
A cold pulse ran from his forehead, crawling down his spine. A shadow moved in the water beside him. Not the ahuizotl.
A veil.
The water around him thickened, not like sludge, but like woven silk—woven night. His movements slowed, not from weakness, but from something greater passing through him.
Behind him, the ahuizotl hissed, as if struck by something unseen. It paused in the water, eyes darting, confused.
From the mark on Cenotlatlacatl's forehead, a faint trail of green shimmered through the water—not light, but absence. A thread of ashlight.