The Drums Of Life

The Ayōxōchitl ignited—not in flame, but in root.

Centered between their chests, it remained white: a ghostly bloom untouched by fire. But from its base, crimson roots burst forth—sprawling like veins of memory long buried. The pain was immediate. Divine. The kind that did not simply burn flesh, but rewrote it. That etched spirit into skin.

Their chests became maps. And each map spoke of origin.

Kamelotl's body took first. The red roots tangled outward across his chest in branching crests—bold, rhythmic, star-shaped. From each of his six axolotl gills, obsidian-lined and feathered, grew finer roots—downward, slender and vivid, meeting the broader crimson lattice. Six rivers of Ix Kame's blessing braided themselves into the heart of the design. Each root sprouted smaller ones, like the roots of mangroves breaking through flooded earth. His chest was not just adorned—it pulsed like a living forest.

For Cenotlatlacatl, the pain was quieter—but crueler.

Not flame. Not blade.

From his heart, he started to feel a searing and numbing pain—

a burning so intense his mind processed it like running water.

This sensation entered his very soul,

almost like it had been placed upon a forge.

The pain struck him like cold against warm skin—

like arctic wind, biting at its very touch.

And from the center of his heart, dew seeped out,

condensing into a single, radiant crescent just above it.

A silver crescent.

Formed from Xarátenga's mist, the mark curved gently over his heart,

surrounded by the blooming Ayōxōchitl,

its crimson roots splitting like stars across his chest.

Turquoise shimmered like tears left behind by the moon.

It did not pierce him. It reshaped him.

Not with fire. With memory.

He clenched his teeth. He did not cry out.

But the mist inside him rose like breath from a shattered mirror,

and in that moment, he knew—

He would not leave this world unchanged.

They writhed.

Sacred root and ancestral mist had carved their way into soul and sinew, leaving the two beasts trembling in the dust. Claws dug into the stone. Blood pooled beneath their bellies.

Then came the voice.

Not gentle.

Not divine.

Dog.

Xólotl stepped into the circle, paws cracking like drums on bone. His spectral body glowed with white fire, and flames of cempōalxōchitl danced around him in ghost-blooms. He grabbed them both—by the forearms—his obsidian paws leaving scorched prints behind.

"Cuīcatl tlayōl—teōtl in timotēch!"

"Grit your teeth, focus on your target,

and bloom together to reach your destination!"

They did not rise willingly.

Cenotlatlacatl howled.

But it was not in pain—it was in rage.

The moment his feet touched ground, curses spilled from his tongue in blood-soaked Nahuatl, each word forged like a blade.

"Tlāloc—yohuān tletēuctli—tēnin notlāzotl!"

Tlāloc—god of flood and wrath—I spit my name at you!

"Tezcatlipoca—tonāmiquiliztli icnotl—nimitstlatlaz!"

Tezcatlipoca—giver of life and exile—I curse you!

He cursed Tlāloc for drowning him in guilt, for flooding his path with sorrow.

He cursed Tezcatlipoca for dragging him from the womb, for sculpting him in broken mirrors.

The breath they gave him—he no longer wanted it.

The memory they planted—he would burn it into their skies.

Still, he stood.

Shoulders low. Back bent like a jaguar ready to pounce on a god.

Every curse he spoke was a vow—I will not kneel again.

Kamelotl rose beside him, tail-hand twitching.

His laughter had stopped.

Now he only breathed—ragged and rhythmic—

jaws clenched tight, gills pulsing with the sacred roots still burning down his neck.

Then he moved.

Slowly, he raised a foot…

and brought it down hard.

A stomp.

Then another.

And another.

The ground shook beneath him.

His tail curled into a fist and began thumping too—

low and steady, like a drumbeat beneath the earth.

Thump-thump.

Tap. Tap.

Spin.

Each beat stirred the soil.

Flowers unfurled.

Fire swayed.

Even the river giggled.

Cenotlatlacatl's claws twitched.

He looked at the Hound—at Xólotl—who simply nodded, eyes gleaming beneath his floral mask.

So Cenotlatlacatl stomped too.

At first unevenly. Then in time.

Until their pain became percussion.

Until the sound of their transformation became ceremony.

Their blood was still dripping.

But now it danced.

Two monsters.

Two sons of the underworld.

Drumming their agony into power.

Learning to walk again—by rhythm alone.

And when they finally stopped,

the earth had marked their steps in blossoms.

They watched as the sky split along the crimson seam—

an arc began to form, golden-red and pulsing,

riding along the blood-path that the day leaves behind when it dies.

And on that arc…

sat a god.

Throned in radiant stillness,

his body a silhouette of obsidian muscle and soft gold.

His eyes closed, his face peaceful—

but smiling.

He wasn't alone.

Hummingbirds fluttered around him—tiny suns on wings—

some radiant, some spectral.

They perched on the arc like choirboys at rest,

some singing in whispers, some silent and still.

One of them—larger than the rest—hovered over a macuahuitl,

its wings sharp with vigilance,

eyes locked on the darkness,

where the Tzitzimime stirred like hungry shadows at the edge of heaven.

But it was the specters that made them catch their breath.

Among them…

she was there.

Tsïtsïki Sachi.

Drifting like smoke, like song, like memory unforgotten.

Her presence was not a vision—

it was a truth felt in their bones.

Their feet kept stomping.

Their claws kept beating the earth.

And the world responded.

Their mad dance had taken them back into the river—

they didn't even notice.

Water sloshed around their legs, then knees, then chests,

but still they danced.

Howls rose.

From the banks.

From beneath.

From within.

Xólotl howled first, then the unseen joined—

a pack of echoes.

The rhythm was no longer theirs alone.

The flames around them spun in spirals,

mimicking their pulse.

The river laughed and began to swirl,

not to drown them—but to lift.

And from its banks, roots broke free.

Fossilized wood, gnarled and ancient,

sprouted like something remembered from before time.

The roots twisted into a trunk.

The trunk widened into a base.

And like a living cenote reaching for the sky, a memory-tree began to grow beneath them.

It did not rise quickly.

It rose with ceremony.

With beat.

With bark.

With blood.

It carried them up.

Two marked warriors.

Lifted not by wings…

but by rhythm.

Branches twisted upward.

Not wild—intentional.

Like arms remembering how to hold the sky.

A canopy began to form.

From every bough, jade and obsidian leaves unfurled—shimmering, weightless, sharp as forgotten dreams.

And beneath that celestial ceiling, they danced.

Cenotlatlacatl and Kamelotl moved in rhythm,

sigils glowing, pulsing to the beat of their soles on bark.

The Ayōxōchitl on their chests blazed like twin suns—

roots stretching, twisting, reacting to the movement.

They danced for no one.

And they danced for everything.

The tree grew.

The canopy widened.

And soon—flowers bloomed.

Sacred petals spiraled out from the bark,

strange and radiant—flowers of all worlds.

Cempoalxōchitl. Ayōxōchitl. Ix Kame's rootblossoms. Xarátenga's moonsilk petals.

Then came the fruit.

It bulged from branches, overripe and humming.

Heavy gourds. Sweet pitayas. Corn swollen with flame.

Some were translucent. Some fossilized.

And one by one, they fell.

They rained down slowly, without violence—

striking the river below with soft splashes.

Fruit and seed landing on silt, on puddles, on flame.

From the ground, Xólotl watched.

Head tilted, eyes glowing.

To him, it was bizarre.

And sacred.

And wrong.

And perfect.

The fruit hit the dead river—

and aged instantly.

Rot. Renewal. Rot again.

A cycle in fast-forward.

Seeds sank and sprouted only to wither.

Bark grew and peeled back into pulp.

Nothing lasted.

His flames, flickering backward from his inverted steps, were slowly buried by fruit and seed.

The puddles behind him filled with rotting corn and sacred pulp.

It should've been death.

But when he blinked…

he saw something else.

The river was no longer murky.

It shimmered now—thick with color,

alive with roots and petals,

a moving cornucopia of memory and offering.

This was no longer a river.

This was a tribute.

A blooming path for gods.

Beneath the riverbank.

Not beside it, but buried beneath its spine—

lay a root.

Ancient.

Forgotten.

Dormant.

It had no name anymore.

It had no purpose—only memory.

A root that had once touched a god's footprint, and had since slumbered in eternal silence.

Until now.

As the fruits above danced their endless cycle—

blooming, falling, rotting, rebirthing—

juice trickled down.

Sticky. Sacred.

It soaked the soil, stained the stone.

And on that exact spot—

a seed fell.

Not just any seed.

The seed.

It did not burst upward in madness like its siblings.

It did not sprout tenfold nor reach for the sun.

Instead…

It listened.

And from its small, round belly,

one single root emerged.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like it knew where it was going.

It pushed downward.

Through the earth.

Through the death.

Through the memory.

And then—it touched the old root.

Not a jolt.

Not a flash.

But something older than both:

Recognition.

The moment contact was made,

the old root pulsed once—just once—

and in that heartbeat, the earth remembered something it had lost.

Not a god.

Not a beast.

But a promise.

The seed, still nestled in the soil beneath the riverbank,

yearned.

It did not know for what—

only that it was born in the middle of so much death.

Born from a fruit too ripe, in a world too broken,

but alive nonetheless.

It waited.

It listened.

It dreamed.