In xochitl cuicatl, in cempoalxochitl huehuecuicatl.
A flower-song blooms—a marigold of old sorrow.
Niman titlatlauhca in Meztli—tleica cualli tlamaniliztli ahmo techmoma.
Then came the moon's glow—but it bore no blessing for him.
In teyolia, axan tetlacatl—quema, axcan. In mitl, in tlapalli, in toyollo.
The soul lives, yes—but not as a man. It is arrow. It is color. It is broken heart.
Amo cuica Xolotl. Amo tzitzimitl. Amo calli.
No song from Xolotl. No star-demons. No home.
In teotl nechmaca ce chichiltik tlaolli—nochipa xochitl.
The gods gave him red maize—a forever flower.
Pero axan—axcan nemi in neztli, axcan nemi in tlaltikpak—tlazohkamati cualli cuix.
But now—now he walks in blood, in shame upon the earth—thankful for what?
In yohualli amo yohualli. In cuicatl amo cuicatl.
Darkness is not darkness. The song is not song.
In xochitl tlen cueponi—amo tlen nopampa.
The flower that blooms—blooms not for him.
The moon split open the waters and swallowed him whole.
The moon split open the waters and swallowed him whole.
Normally, the arrival into such realms was heralded by the howls of the sacred hounds—the Xoloitzcuintle who guided souls along the rivers of the underworld. But now, there was no song. Only the drip of water and the throb of silence where their calls should have been.
When he surfaced again, it was not in the world he had known—but in silence. A deep, ringing silence that clawed at his ears like absence itself.
The cenote was dark. The kind of darkness that breathes. It dripped from the stone walls, from the roots hanging like veins, from the ceiling that curved too far to see. No wind. No song. No dogs.
Just him. And his breathing.
Or what he thought was breathing.
He coughed, choked—and then felt the fluttering.
Gills.
His fingers reached instinctively for the sides of his head, trembling. The feathery fronds there opened and closed like underwater blossoms. "Are these gills?!" He started to scratch at his itchy arms… His skin was wrong—slick, smooth, coated in mucus, resistant to his nails. "No! Are these, scales?!" he rasped. His voice was hoarse, thinner now.
His eyes adjusted to the dark. No—his eyes devoured it. He could see everything. The walls. The algae creeping up from the edges. Tiny insects blinking in and out of existence. Everything around him a myriad of colors, the kind of colors you see when you eat the Teōnanácatl. Or so he had heard, eavesdropping on the conversations of warriors while carrying their spoils of war. Always bleeding from his bare feet. Yet these gods still chose to punish him even further.
"What is this…?"
"You know what it is," came a voice from the wall.
Then another.
"You earned this."
"You listened to the stories of the priests, you knew this fate could be yours!"
"You defiled the sanctity of divinity."
"I did what I had to!" he snapped.
The echoes continued
"Thief"
"Murderer"
"Blasphemous slave"
"I survived. I survived! No one gave me maize—not even a crust of dried tortilla in the days of our wandering. We were dogs before we were men, snarling over roots and agave thorns. No one offered tortillas or fire. Only thorns."
"You murdered."
"You stole from the dead."
"You struck down the innocent."
"You desecrated the waters."
He scoffed, wet fingers curling into claws. "What sacred? The nobles drank pulque from golden cups. The priests filled their bellies on feast days. And me?"
He spat into the dark pool.
"I was given no maize. No pulque. No rest. No woman to cry for me when I was taken. Only the thorns of maguey, sharp and cold, pressed into my back as payment."
He stood, breathing hard, the gills behind his head flaring with each rage-filled breath.
"I was born under the sun's shadow and told to serve it. But I never tasted its warmth."
When the voices continued, he no longer responded.
Let them speak.
Let them echo.
He would not listen.
He had been a porter, a beast of burden for men who dressed in feathers and gold. He carried their obsidian blades, their painted shields, their trophies of flesh. Through jungle, desert, and mountains, his back bent under their glory. No pulque for him. No Teōnanácatl visions. Just the sting of the tumpline biting his skull and the taste of dust in his throat. I had no name—only the title of *tlacotin*, whispered like a curse. Not man. Nor beast. Just labor with breath. Let them gnaw at the hollow where my name used to be. Let them make all the noise they want—it's all they can do now that they're dead and I'm still alive. No thanks to them anyway.
His eyes caught a single floating marigold—cempoalxochitl—bobbing on the black surface. Was it alive? Did it breathe, like he did now? Or was it just something else left behind by the gods, a flower with a purpose to guide the dead, now drifting with one who was cursed to elude death.
The rage burned out—not because it had been extinguished, but because it had run out of breath. His chest heaved once more, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, his hands unclenched.
And in its place came something quieter, but no less powerful.
Curiosity.
He stared at his fingers. Webbed—soft and pliant, but unnervingly strong. They itched just before the skin peeled back, revealing claws that slid from soft membranes like hidden obsidian.
The crown of gills behind his head pulsed like second lungs. They drank from the air, but hungered for more—something beneath. Something in the water.
"The water…" he slowly walked back to the edge. His legs guided him out of a mixture of curiosity and a hunger for the truth. "What am I? Maybe if I look at my reflection it'll just be a cruel joke played on me by Tlaloc. Maybe this was a lesson, a god's jest—no more than a fever dream brought on by cursed water and guilt."
He took a step forward. Then another.
And the world changed.
No longer could he live in a delusion, it could no longer be denied. He was no longer human…
"Ha!" escaped his lips—or what passed for lips on this new creature he had become. This giant salamander with a bulbous head and wide, expressionless eyes. The frilled stalks that crowned his head—neither ears nor horns—quivered with breath and sensation.
A fractured memory drifted into his thoughts, of eavesdropping on the priests while he served food to the nobles. A tale of twins—one brave and bold, taking the plunge into the sun as a sacrifice for the benefit of all. The other, hesitant, unprepared, frightened at the thought. He changed forms: first a stalk of Maiz Talolli, then into Maguey Mexotl, and lastly the Axolotl.
This realization hit like an obsidian mirror shattering in moonlight. He was… "An Axolotl..."
He was at a loss for words, his sanity slipping away with the last shreds of his human image. Then he began to notice the colors glowing around him.
The darkness was no longer darkness. Where once there was pitch and stone, now shimmered shapes and shadows, cast in impossible hues—violet glows, deep emerald pulses, the silent rhythm of things unseen by human eyes. The rock no longer looked dead, but alive, etched with veins of blue and gold that moved like slow lightning under the stone.
The air vibrated against his skin. Not sound. Not wind. Something else. Sensation. Memory. Pressure. Meaning. The breath of the old gods.
He laughed—a breathless, startled laugh. Was this madness? Or power?
Colors had scent—violet like rot, green like ozone. Shadows weren't cool anymore—they burned with secrets. The roots that had once looked like ropes now shone with threads of silver sap. It was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
It frightened him.
Mesmerized by the colors, he walked in a trance. His feet were wet. His hands brushed against moss that glowed like fireflies. A cempoalxochitl bloomed in the dark where no flower should.
Then—
He heard it.
A wet, whimpering sound. Small. Fragile.
Then he knew—it was a baby.
He froze. Eyes narrowing.
He took a slow step forward.
A sound, finally something outside of his head. He quickened his pace, doubt plaguing his heart. A thirst for something living pushing him forward.
Behind the clumsy humanoid Axolotl, the moon's path dwindled to a close. Still no hound sang a song for that path. Only, silence.
Normally, the arrival into such realms was heralded by the howls of the sacred hounds—the Xoloitzcuintle who guided souls along the rivers of the underworld. But now, there was no song. Only the drip of water and the throb of silence where their calls should have been.
When he surfaced again, it was not in the world he had known—but in silence. A deep, ringing silence that clawed at his ears like absence itself.
The cenote was dark. The kind of darkness that breathes. It dripped from the stone walls, from the roots hanging like veins, from the ceiling that curved too far to see. No wind. No song. No dogs.
Just him. And his breathing.
Or what he thought was breathing.
He coughed, choked—and then felt the fluttering.
Gills.
His fingers reached instinctively for the sides of his head, trembling. The feathery stalks there opened and closed like some strange flower. "Are these gills?!" He started to scratch at his itchy arms… His skin was wrong—slick, soft, resistant to his nails. "No! Are these, scales?!" he rasped. His voice was hoarse, thinner now.
His eyes adjusted to the dark. No—his eyes devoured it. He could see everything. The walls. The algae creeping up from the edges. Tiny insects blinking in and out of existence. Everything around him a myriad of colors, the kind of colors you see when you eat the Teōnanácatl. Or so he had heard, eavesdropping on the conversations of warriors while carrying their spoils of war. Always bleeding from his bare feet. Yet these gods still chose to punish him even further.
...
Behind the clumsy humanoid Axolotl, the moon's path dwindled to a close. Still no hound sang a song for that path. Only, silence.