Calakas

In the place where the flowers root. 

The river flows in the color of soot. 

Where even the light of the moon doesn't shine. 

The xoloitzcuintli serenade the night with their whine. 

In this place lies an obsidian throne. 

Mictlantequitli awaits in the place where nothing is ever grown. 

They lay still—gills flaring, lungs dragging in vapor like dying bellows. Not breath. Not air. Just moisture, clinging to their throats like the river still wanted a piece of them. It wasn't enough to live. It was just enough not to die.

The obsidian bone was still in Cenotlatlacatl's hand. He hadn't realized he'd gripped it through the chaos. It pulsed faintly with ashlight, a splinter of memory solidified, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like the only thing keeping them from being forgotten again.

They floated like refuse until the current gave up. The river no longer roared. It whimpered, then breathed, then released.

A soft collision.

Their backs hit the mudline of a shifting shore—black sand, tangled reeds, skeletal lilies grown sideways from the waterline. They coughed. They blinked. The silence that followed was not peace—it was uncertainty.

No more enemies.

At least, none they could see.

Cenotlatlacatl sat up first. He turned slowly, gills twitching. The mist around them was thicker now, almost alive, forming threads across their arms like forgotten roots trying to pull them back under.

Kamelotl groaned beside him. His obsidian leg had dulled to a heavy gray. His tail-hand flicked weakly, splashing in the mud as if searching for rhythm.

They didn't speak yet.

They looked—finally.

Not across the river.

But within it.

The obsidian bone twitched in Cenotlatlacatl's grasp.

He stared into the ashlight pulsing from it—and from within that glow, the memories burned like candle wicks, vanishing before he could grasp them.

Children laughing in languages he couldn't understand.

Warriors kneeling before a forgotten goddess.

A scream cut short by water.

The visions were like a haunting echo of the undead. Like a symphony of lost souls, yearning to be remembered.

Each one blinked out, leaving only smoke behind.

Kamelotl (softly): "Are they your memories, brother?"

Cenotlatlacatl didn't answer.

The ashlight burned a little brighter in the bone.

Slowly they started to approach the rivers edge.

They rose slowly, the river's edge sloughing off their skin like old bark. Around them, the world had changed.

"These are not my memories…"

As they bore witness to these ancient memories, they came to the conclusion…

"I think it's the memories of the beast we fought earlier, or at least of the bones that were added as a collection to the beast."

Now it burned everywhere

The ashlight no longer flickered from the bone alone.

The landscape was alive with memory-flames—small bursts of fire rising from the mud, reeds, water itself. Each flame danced alone, casting reflections that weren't their own.

In one, a woman screamed in Nahuatl as her village burned.

In another, a man drowned beneath hands that wore no skin.

Some flickered blue with forgotten grief.

Some red with betrayal.

Most lasted only moments—but their weight lingered.

Kamelotl (low, overwhelmed): "There are so many..."

Shadows moved through the firelight—quick, hunched, half-formed shapes skirting the edges of their vision. The flames of ashlight twisted, shimmered, then disappeared before either of them could focus. Everywhere they turned, the flames grew.

Until they noticed the one that didn't flicker.

Across the river, on the opposite bank, a single flame rose slowly—larger than the rest.

It didn't burn like the others.

It bloomed.

A soft wind blew across the water, carrying petals—glowing orange, curling at the edges—until the flame took shape: A cempoalxōchitl, full and radiant, swaying as if still alive.

From within it, a vision unfurled—silent but absolute.

A god crouched in a pool of blood, his obsidian hand deep inside the woman's abdomen, peeling back flesh like pages.

Tezcatlipoca.

The god did not chant.

He did not pray.

He exhaled once—a breath of smoke and stars—and it poured into the infant he held, still slick with blood and not yet crying.

Cenotlatlacatl saw his own chest rise. 

"We need to get closer to hear what the vision is saying."

He charged into the river, splashing through the ashlit mist, clawing through reeds and bone-colored foam.

Kamelotl (desperate): "Wait—stop, the flame's not real—!"

But the water thickened. Then it moved.

From beneath, skeletal hands burst through the silt—emaciated, wet, snapping fingers of bone and moss. They reached for ankles, thighs, ribs—grasping, pleading, clinging.

Cenotlatlacatl thrashed.

Behind him, the pack of Xoloitzcuintli burst into motion, snarling now—teeth flashing like obsidian shards. They dove into the river too, chasing him down, barking with rage and sacred fury.

Kamelotl leapt in behind, claws swiping at the dead hands, tail coiling around Cenotlatlacatl's arm to push him forward.

They kicked.

They dove.

They swam with everything they had.

But the river was not water.

It was memory.

Every stroke dragged a new hand onto them.

Every breath tasted like old names and half-buried guilt.

They reached halfway—only for the current to twist.

The Xolo pack swarmed, circling, snapping—not biting flesh, but herding them, driving them back.

The moment they touched the far bank—it vanished.

The shore faded into mist, and they were thrown backward, coughing.

Back to the beginning.

To the black sand.

To the same shore.

To the bones that watched.

Kamelotl (breathing hard, furious): "They're not letting us cross."

Cenotlatlacatl (quiet, broken): "Because we're still not worthy."

As they lay looking up into the darkness above they heard wet paw steps approaching. They looked up, on the offensive. Trying to scurry themselves in a defensive position. Only for them to see a single xoloitzcuintli purposefully, with a sense of dignity. Trotting up to them, an ashlight cempoalxochitl in its maw. 

Once it saw it had their attention it turned around to walk back. They stood there awkwardly in a half defensive posture. Half stumbling to meet the riverbank with their faces once again. It noticed they hadn't followed him so it turned to look at them and let out a small bark. 

They turned to look at each other, amazement in their eyes. They scurried after the xoloitzcuintli, panicked like this boon could disappear at any moment. In the realm of mictlan, in the level that belonged to death itself. Two skeletal figures viewed the brothers exploits, clacking sounds could be heard in place of laughter. 

"These two mortals really are amusing, my most cherished one." An obsidian skeleton said while holding hands with Mictecacihuatl. "Of course, I have been most amused since this soul's course was uprooted. My obsidian king, now that he's this far into our realm we can finally amuse ourselves."