Pacto del Quetzalcóatl
I. The City in the Sky
The people of Xochitlán were kings of the mountains. Their city stood so high that the sky seemed close enough to touch, its golden-stone pyramids kissing the clouds. Below, the valleys stretched endlessly, green and fertile, rivers winding like silver serpents. The people flourished, their harvests rich, their warriors strong. No enemy could climb high enough to threaten them. No famine could wither their fields.
Because the wind watched over them.
Because the Feathered Serpent—Quetzalcóatl—had given them his breath.
Long ago, the priests of Xochitlán had made a pact. They would honor him, give him song, let his name rise with the morning sun. They would place no chains on him, ask no more than what was freely given, and in return, he would keep the land in balance.
And so the people of Xochitlán rose with the dawn.
Every morning, their voices filled the air, chants drifting up the stone steps of his temple. Not prayers, not demands—only remembrance.
"Lord of the Wind, may your breath flow through the valleys.""Lord of the Sky, may your wings carry the storm."
Quetzalcóatl was never seen. He did not demand blood, as other gods did. He asked for nothing but song, nothing but the knowledge that he had not been forgotten.
And for many years, he listened.
The winds stayed kind. The rains came when they were needed. The earth yielded its bounty, and Xochitlán stood, unshaken.
But people forget the price of balance.
And when the time came, they chose silence.
---
II. The Breaking of the Pact
It was not one act that turned the city against its god. No single moment of defiance, no grand rebellion.
Just pride.
Just the slow, creeping certainty that Xochitlán did not need the wind to hold it aloft.
The priests were the first to waver. What power did song hold against sharpened stone and steel? The warriors scoffed at prayers when their blades had never failed them. The farmers, their harvests always plentiful, saw no need to wake before dawn to offer words to an unseen force.
So the songs grew quieter.
Then, they stopped.
And on the first morning that Xochitlán woke without its chant, the wind did not stir.
No one noticed.
The skies were still blue. The fields still golden. The walls still strong.
So why wake early? Why stand in the cold of morning to send words into an empty sky?
And just like that, the pact was broken.
The priests locked the temple doors.
The wind did not return.
---
III. The Long Silence
For a year, nothing changed.
For a year, the people of Xochitlán carried on, and the sky remained clear. Their fields did not wither. Their warriors remained unmatched. They laughed at the old ways, at the warnings whispered by the elders.
If Quetzalcóatl had been real, then where was his wrath?
Where was the vengeance of a god scorned?
And yet, some noticed.
The mornings were heavy. The air too still. The great rivers that coiled through the valley did not ripple, their waters glass-like, reflecting the city above.
The wind had not returned.
Not once.
The elders pleaded for the temple doors to be opened. For the songs to be sung again. But it was too late.
The people of Xochitlán had no fear.
They had already forgotten what it meant to live at the mercy of gods.
---
IV. The Serpent's Answer
On the first day of the storm, the sun rose black.
The sky, once golden, churned with shadows. Winds howled through the streets, a voice so loud it rattled bones. The clouds swirled low over the city, thick and churning—not sky, but something else.
Something alive.
Something waiting.
The priests, now trembling, unlocked the temple doors. Their voices, cracked with fear, rose for the first time in years.
"Lord of the Wind, hear us!""Lord of the Sky, forgive us!"
The wind did not answer.
The rain came first. It fell in sheets, not in drops, striking the ground with the force of stones. The streets flooded before the people could run, the great rivers rising with a hunger that had never been seen before.
And then, through the blackened sky, the eyes opened.
Two golden slits, vast and unblinking, peering down through the storm.
The Feathered Serpent had come.
But not as a god.
As a storm.
And he spoke.
Not in words.
In wind.
A deafening roar, a hurricane's fury given voice.
"Balance must be kept."
The mountains crumbled. The rivers swallowed the streets whole. The sky itself cracked open, and the storm pulled Xochitlán from the earth.
It did not burn.
It did not shatter.
It simply vanished.
---
V. The Empty Peak
Now, the mountain stands alone.
No ruins remain where Xochitlán once sat. No roads, no stone, no bones. Travelers who climb high enough to reach the peak find only wind, whistling through the rocks.
Some say the city is still there, just beyond sight, caught in the storm that never faded. That on some nights, when the winds are high, you can hear them—
The voices of Xochitlán's people, still trying to call their god's name.
Still trying to take back their silence.
But the sky does not listen anymore.
The wind has already left.
And Quetzalcóatl does not return to those who have forgotten him.
---
Epilogue: The Traveler's Warning
There is an old man who walks the mountain paths, speaking to those who dare to climb. He wears a cloak woven from feathers that gleam in the sun, though none can say if they are truly his own.
To those who stop and listen, he offers a simple warning.
"If you meet the wind, do not turn your back on it.""If you hear your name on the breeze, do not silence it.""If you call upon the gods, do not forget to listen."
"For the sky remembers."
"And the wind does not forgive."