Goodbyes

The Itzotec camp was alive with a quiet, contented energy. A little over a week of steady, uneventful travel since leaving the trading post had brought them near the edge of Coatl-Cuahuitl, and the prospect of returning to the familiar, predictable dangers of the outer jungle felt like a homecoming. The mission was a success. The precious cargo of honey and feathers was secure. Tlico, for the first time on the entire journey, looked relaxed. He sat by the fire, sharing a small gourd of potent pulque with Xochi, who accepted the drink with a rare, small smile. The other porters were laughing softly, their terror during the first leg of the journey replaced by the easy camaraderie of a job well done.

Etalcaxi stood apart from them, a dark silhouette at the edge of the firelight, staring into the impenetrable blackness of Coatl-Cuahuitl. His face, hidden from the others, was a mask of grim resolve. He should have been celebrating with them, the triumphant commander leading his caravan home. But every rustle of the leaves, every nocturnal insect's call, was her voice, her music. A deep, aching hollowness had taken root in his chest, a feeling so foreign and unwelcome he did not know what to do with it. He knew he had to see her one last time. To leave without a word, to simply vanish, would feel dishonorable. It would feel like the act of a coward.

He was framing it as a matter of honor, but he knew, in a secret, shameful part of his soul, that it was a desperate need to see her face, to hear her voice, one last time.

He turned back to the fire. "The perimeter feels unsettled tonight," he announced, his voice carrying the familiar weight of command. "I will take the final watch myself. Get some rest. We move at first light."

Citli, ever loyal, started to rise. "Let me come, Commander—"

"No," Etalcaxi said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Rest. That is an order." He gave the young warrior a firm, reassuring nod, then turned his back on the warmth and light of the camp and melted into the jungle.

His steps were heavy. On his previous clandestine journeys, his feet had been light, his heart pounding with a thrilling anticipation. This was a walk of finality. He practiced the words in his mind, arranging them like stones in a wall, a defense against the emotion he knew he would feel. I have a duty. My life is in Tlacaxinachyotl. I will never forget you. He repeated the phrases like a mantra, a prayer to the god of warriors, a plea for strength.

The magical path guided him through the darkness. It opened before him and sealed behind him. It led him back to where it all began: the moonlit cenote.

The vibrant, warm colors of the day were gone, bleached away by the stark, silver light of the full moon. The limestone walls were a ghostly white, the shadows a deep, inky black. The water was a flat, reflective sheet of polished obsidian, mirroring the star-dusted sky above. The scene was beautiful, but it was a cold, somber beauty.

She was there. Ixtic sat motionless on the large, flat rock at the water's edge, the same rock where he had first collapsed, where she had healed him. She was not wearing her crown of glowing flowers. Her dark, wild hair was unadorned, a simple cascade of blackness against the silver of her skin. She watched him approach, her expression unreadable, her usual playful energy replaced by a deep, somber stillness that seemed to absorb the sounds of the night. She already knew. He could feel it.

He stopped a few feet from her. The usual electric charge that crackled between them was absent, leaving only a melancholic, heavy quiet. The speech he had so carefully constructed on his walk over now felt clumsy and loud in the silence.

"Ixtic," he began, his voice sounding rough and foreign. "The trade is complete. The caravan has what it came for. We leave Coatl-Cuahuitl tomorrow morning, at first light."

She said nothing. She simply watched him, her green eyes dark pools in the moonlight. Her silence was a vacuum, and he felt compelled to fill it, to rush ahead with the words he had prepared.

"I must return to the Valley of Tlacaxinachyotl," he continued, the practiced words tasting like ash in his mouth. "It is my home. I have duties... a command... a life there." He took a hesitant step closer, his voice softening. He believed, with all the conviction of his proud heart, that he was being kind, that he was doing the honorable thing. "These last days... the time I have spent with you has been a gift from the gods. A treasure more rare than any gem, more sweet than any honey. I will never forget you. The story of the beautiful, strange girl of the jungle will be a part of my own story. Always."

He finished his speech. He stood there, his chest tight, his heart a painful knot. He felt proud of his own honor and sensitivity, of the respectful, heartfelt way he had handled this difficult moment. He expected her to cry, to rage, to plead, to show some sign of the heartbreak a woman would feel.

Ixtic remained perfectly still for a long, unnerving moment. Her gaze was fixed on him, but it felt as if she were looking right through his well-meaning, pathetic words, seeing the frantic, selfish fear beneath them. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, flat, and held no warmth, no emotion at all.

"Finished?"

The single word dismantled his entire prepared emotional defense. It was not a question. It was a dismissal.

"I..." he faltered, his confidence evaporating. "Yes? Do you... understand?"

"I understand the little words," she said, her voice still a chilling monotone. "'Leave'. 'Goodbye'. 'Forget'." She tilted her head, a slow, curious motion. "They are human noises. Like the chattering of squirrels in the canopy. Full of sound and panic." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Meaningless in this jungle."

She rose gracefully to her feet. Without another glance at him, she walked to the edge of the cenote and stared down into the dark, reflective water, her back to him. Her posture was rigid, her shoulders set. This wasn't sadness. It wasn't the posture of a heartbroken woman. It was the gathering of power. A deep, cold resolve. A genuine chill of unease prickled Etalcaxi's skin, a feeling that had nothing to do with the cool night air. This was not the reaction of a spurned lover. This was the stillness of a hunter that has just watched its prey, fat and content, walk willingly into a snare.

After a long, silent moment that stretched into an eternity, she turned back to face him. The somber mask was gone. Her face now held a look of serene, unshakeable determination that was far more frightening. Her voice was soft again, a musical murmur, but it was a decree.

"One more night," she said. "A farewell for the great warrior before his long journey home."

He looked into her eyes and saw no room for argument, no space for denial. He saw an ancient, implacable will. He had come here to end things on his terms. He now understood, with a dawning, sickening dread, that his terms were never on the table. She had simply been allowing him to make his little squirrel-noises.

A shiver ran down his spine. "One more night," he heard himself whisper, the words an echo of her command, not a choice of his own.

She stepped toward him, her movement a slow, deliberate glide. Her expression was not one of love, or passion, or even sadness. It was an expression of ownership.