Supay

Have you heard of the bringer of life, Joy and music?

He's a wanderer, and seduction is his game. 

Planting seeds along his travels, literal ones and figuratively if you know what I mean. 

The sound of flutes accompany him from the empty roads. 

When you hear the sound of them, hide your wife or she might no longer be yours alone. 

Dragging along his appendages, their size making up for his horrid hump on his back. 

He dances under moonlight and in sunshine. 

For the rain he calls and his flutes are a mating call. 

If his image is gifted to you, then your seed will grow. 

A soul wandering with purpose, to bring joy and stay bold. 

The Verdict

The flowers still swayed when the war god spoke.

The sun did not rise, but its rhythm pulsed from his chest.

Huitzilopochtli—wreathed in flame and bone feathers—lowered his hand, the final beat of judgment trembling in the arc.

Huitzilopochtli's voice boomed across the arc, a verdict woven with both flame and pride:

"Let it be known—Kamelotl has won.

By rhythm, by sacrifice, by soul—

He carries the beat of the forgotten,

And his dance has carved memory into Mictlan."

Silence followed.

Then the arc glowed.

From the heavens above, Xarátenga whispered her approval.

A single beam of moonlight broke through the ash sky, draping over Kamelotl's form.

The light shimmered like dancing water, reflecting not just on his skin—but in his soul.

From the north, the silent wind of Mictecacihuatl stirred.

Her owl swept overhead, feathers glowing with green ashlight.

It circled once.

Twice.

Then dropped a cluster of seeds.

Where they landed, red cempoalxōchitl bloomed, erupting in a ring around Kamelotl.

Memory flowers. Warrior flowers. Flowers of the grave.

And from the west, a shadow loomed—then vanished.

Ix Kame, with her begrudging gaze, sent her vulture.

It flapped above him, heavy and silent.

And from its talons fell blue cempoalxōchitl seeds, which bloomed with quiet beauty—grief-colored petals rising like sighs from the stone.

Three flowers. Three blessings. One chosen.

Then Came the Flame

A crack.

A tear in the arc.

Smoke poured from nothing—as if flame had bitten the air itself.

The wind reversed. The sound fell. The sky dimmed.

From the rupture stepped a figure—Supay.

Humanoid, but twisted—a molten-dragon shape

clad in obsidian plates, wings of ash, and teeth made from flame-hardened bone.

His tail dragged smoke. His eyes shimmered like stars caught in tar.

He looked upon Kamelotl, then to the gods.

"You're a menace to the silence I have so carefully nurtured.

A weed growing in my garden of tranquility.

You will come with me, boy.

It's Judgment Day."

As he raised his hand, glyphs of fire formed chains in the air—spiraling toward Kamelotl's ankles.

Huitzilopochtli Answers

And then the sun answered.

A sonic boom of gold.

Huitzilopochtli landed between them, spear in hand, eyes aglow with battle-humor and righteous fire.

"You chose the wrong realm to invade.

We enjoy feasting on lizard flesh here."

He walked forward, cracking his neck.

"Might have to boil you down first.

Just to scrape off that obsidian carapace of yours.

More like a bug with a lizard face."

The Arc Erupts in Rhythm

The arc became a war stage.

In a flash, they were at each other's throats.

Flames collided with smoke.

Ash met sunlight.

Claw met obsidian spear.

The sky around them darkened—not night, but a volcanic dusk, glowing deep orange and choking black, as if the arc itself had been cast into a crater of the world's first fire.

The sounds of their weapons sang.

A melody of war.

A dirge for stillness.

Each clash cracked the sky—not thunder, but drumbeats of divine fury.

Feathers and obsidian rained like burning petals.

Huitzilopochtli's warriors stomped in unison—rolling thunder.

The Ajtz'ité, though defeated, stirred again. From their twisted backs, instruments bloomed once more—drums, pipes, and flutes grown from bark, bone, and sin.

Their fingers moved like beetles.

Their rhythm clashed with the war chant—a sonic duel of two broken tribes.

The arc became a battlefield of sound and shadow.

It was not war. It was dance.

A deadly one. A final one.

Huitzilopochtli danced forward with spear strikes—each one sharp, seeking the throat, the spine, the buried heart.

Supay, carapaced in obsidian and heat, moved like a falling rock with eyes.

He twisted and parried, clawed and countered, each move aimed to trap rhythm in stillness.

Every strike was a beat in a song of destruction.

A ritual.

A contest of permanence.

Who would outlast the other's rhythm?

Who would erase the other's music?

It was not just a fight.

It was another dance.

Spears clashed. Claws burned. Obsidian sang.

They fought as if the winner would claim time itself.

A Whisper Beneath the War

Amidst the battle—

It began as a breath of wind through bone.

A flute.

Lonely.

Haunting.

Enchanting.

Soft at first. Then stronger.

It weaved between the flames, past the chants, past the obsidian shouts.

Only Kamelotl heard it.

His head tilted.

That melody… it didn't belong here.

He blinked.

His foot moved.

A tap. Then another.

He took a step. Then another. A jig. Small. Childlike. Almost playful.

His roots retracted.

His arms swayed.

He danced. But not for war.

He followed the flute.

Past the fighting.

Past the fire.

To the back of the arc, where no light touched.

The music tugged him—away from the battle, away from the arc.

He followed it.

And there—at the far edge—stood a figure.

The Cihuateteo

She was pale as the moon.

Her eyes—full of sorrow, glowing with memory.

A Cihuateteo.

He knew her.

Not by name.

Not yet.

But by ache.

She tried to speak.

Her mouth trembled.

"Don't go," her eyes said.

Kamelotl's trance shattered. He raised his hand.

"Tsi…"

He reached for her—her hand nearly meeting his—

But then—

A grunt.

Crack.

Pain bloomed behind his skull.

A jagged star of agony.

His knees buckled.

And then—

Silence.

The Butterfly Motif – Final Anchor

As he fell, he heard a sound.

Not the blow.

Not the war.

But something smaller.

Familiar.

Like the wings of a butterfly in a forest,

cut down by a branch that never knew it struck beauty.

Her face disappeared.

The flute faded.

The wings had stilled.

The forest fell silent.

And Kamelotl was gone.

The rhythm of battle broke. A sudden emptiness. It was deathly quiet, the presence of Kamelotl had disappeared completely. Huitzilapochtli smiled, "I don't know if he was born under a star of fortune or under the absence of it. Yet he seems to keep getting himself in trouble that leads him further along destiny's path. Towards something greater than even we can see."

Supay looked around the arc, eyes simmering in anger. A sense of dread for his silence he so longed for. 

"Little bastard has managed to slip beneath even my claws. You might be right about his birth."

He let out a violent roar of pure rage. The arc shook. In the midst of his rage he had forgotten where he was. A giant hand descended upon him. On impact he felt pure heat radiating off of it. Once again like a meteor, in the same way he had arrived, he was being forced off the arc. 

"It's been eventful tonight… yet slumber still calls for me. Thank you for your protection…"

Tonatiuh had opened a half sleepy eye only to shut it once again. With a smile on his face he returned to his slumber….

In the darkness he awoke, disoriented, aching. With no clue as to his whereabouts. 

He got up on shaky legs or at least attempted to. Only to fall back down in exhaustion. A smile on his face. A boisterous laugh escaped his lips. He shouted.

"I'm alive!!"