Everything exploded into a churning pocket of turquoise and brown. The shocking cold of the water was a like a punch in the gut, stealing the air from Etalcaxi's lungs a moment before he was fully submerged. He was sinking, tumbling end over end in the disorienting rush of his own momentum. Bubbles erupted from his mouth, shiny spheres rushing upward toward a distant, shimmering light. Clouds of black mud and green slime billowed from his body, polluting the pristine water around him. The pressure built in his ears, and his lungs began to burn with a desperate, fiery need for air. Instinct, raw and primal, took over. His warrior's body, trained for survival, acted without thought. He felt his feet touch a soft, sandy bottom, and he kicked off with all his strength, pushing himself upward, away from the crushing darkness and toward the distorted, heavenly light of the surface.
He broke through with a huge, sputtering gasp, his body convulsing as he coughed up water. He shook his head violently, water flying from his hair, trying to clear the roar from his ears. For a long moment, everything was a smear of color and a cacophony of his own ragged breathing. Then, his senses began to clear. The roaring faded, replaced by a gentle, rhythmic splashing. His vision sharpened. And he froze.
The anger from the chase, the stinging humiliation of his defeat, the desperate fear of the fall—it all vanished. extinguished by a wave of pure awe.
He was floating in the heart of a cenote. The cenote was a perfect, massive circle carved from the earth, its high limestone walls smooth and gracefully curved, as if shaped by a gentle hand. The water he floated in was not the murky brown of a river or the simple blue of a lake; it was a startlingly brilliant turquoise, so clear he could see the white sand of the bottom far below. From openings high in the surrounding walls, graceful waterfalls cascaded down, their gentle splashing the only sound in the space. The incessant musical humming was gone. Lush, vibrant green moss, thick as a jaguar's pelt, covered every surface, and from this verdant tapestry bloomed fragrant clusters of orchids in colors he had never seen—fiery orange, deep violet, a pink so bright it seemed to generate its own light. And directly above, from a circular opening in the earth's ceiling, a single, perfect beam of sunlight shone down, cutting through the gloom to illuminate the center of the pool, a sacred sun-ray from the heavens.
Still treading water, Etalcaxi did a slow turn, his movements reverent. He took in the full, breathtaking panorama. This was not a place of the mortal world. It felt hallowed. A place where the gods themselves might come to bathe. The air was clean and sweet with the scent of wet stone and blooming flowers. The raw, savage energy of the jungle could not penetrate these walls.
The last of his adrenaline drained away, and in its absence, pain began to make its presence known. A sharp throb from his ankle, which he had twisted on the root. A dozen stinging reminders from the scratches that crisscrossed his arms and torso. And a deep, blossoming ache in his ribs, a souvenir from his clumsy fall. He swam wearily toward the edge of the pool, his powerful strokes now slow and heavy. He found a low, flat rock ledge, slick with moss, and hauled his bruised body out of the water, collapsing onto it in a sitting position, his back against the cool stone wall.
He sat there for a long time, breathing heavily, his head bowed. The gentle sound of the waterfalls seemed to wash over him. He was a pathetic sight, and he knew it. His jaguar-pelt loincloth was torn and caked with stinking mud. His skin, usually a flawless canvas of bronze muscle, was marked with red scratches and rapidly darkening bruises. His hair was a tangled, wet mess. He was not Etalcaxi the Champion; he was a half-drowned rat.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and caught his reflection in the perfectly still water beside the rock. A stranger stared back at him. A wild-eyed, mud-streaked, defeated man with hollows under his eyes and his mouth set in a grim line. The full, crushing weight of his humiliation returned, a physical sickness in the pit of his stomach.
"Defeated," he whispered to his own reflection, his voice a low, bitter rasp that sounded alien in the tranquil space. "Defeated by monkeys." The absurdity of it... "Stripped of my spear and my dignity by a pack of flea-bitten... fruit-throwing..." He lifted his head, his eyes scanning the circular rim of the cenote high above. The canopy was thick, but there was no sign of movement. No chattering. No leering, furry faces. The monkey leader and his troop had vanished.
"That monkey..." he growled, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. "When I find that creature, the story the storytellers tell will make children weep..."
His body tensed, a fresh surge of rage coiling in his muscles. He pictured himself climbing out of this hole, hunting down that white-patched thief, and enacting a vengeance so thorough it would become a legend of its own. He would... he would...
The anger felt wrong here. The atmosphere of the cenote itself seemed to push back against it. The gentle, constant shushing of the waterfalls, the sweet, calming scent of the orchids, the serene, dust-mote-filled beam of sunlight—it all combined into a powerful, tranquil aura that made his rage feel heavy, foolish, and jarringly out of place. The fury required too much effort to sustain in a place so deeply peaceful.
With a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to carry the last of his strength, Etalcaxi's clenched fists slowly uncurled. The tension drained out of his shoulders. The fire in his gut cooled, leaving only the cold, gray ashes of exhaustion. He leaned over the edge of the rock and scooped the cool, clean water into his cupped hands. He splashed it on his face, the sensation a shocking, welcome relief. He washed away the grime, the sweat, the tear tracks of his own frustration he hadn't even realized were there.
The water felt incredible, almost magical. It was cleaner, softer, and more refreshing than any water he had ever touched. It seemed to soothe not just his skin, but the frantic energy in his mind. A sense of deep, bone-weary peace began to settle over him. He looked down at himself, at the torn, filthy loincloth clinging to his hips. It was a remnant of his failure, a muddy badge of his humiliation. It had no place here.
With a single, decisive motion, he reached down, untied the knot at his hip, and let the ruined cloth fall to the rock. It lay there, a sad, muddy heap. Naked, he slid from the rock back into the embracing coolness of the pool. The water was a welcome balm against his bare skin, caressing his scratches and soothing his bruises. It was a gentle, liquid embrace. He ducked his head under the surface, and ran his fingers through his hair, washing away the last of the jungle filth, the mud, the grime. When he resurfaced, he felt lighter. The act had shed more than dirt. It had shed his anger. It had shed his humiliation.
He swam lazily to the center of the pool, directly into the pillar of sunlight. He floated on his back, his limbs spread wide, surrendering himself to the water and the light. The sunbeam warmed his face, his chest, his thighs. The cool water supported his back, his head, his aching limbs. For the first time in weeks, his mind was quiet. He was not a warrior. He was not a champion. He was not a leader. He was a man, floating in a pool of light, utterly at peace.
His eyes drifted lazily around the stunning panorama of the cenote, no longer seeing it with awe, but with a quiet, comfortable familiarity. The moss-covered walls. The endlessly falling water. The brilliant jewels of the orchids. He followed the line of a thick, woody vine up the wall, his gaze tracing its path. And then, he saw it.
It was nestled on a high stone ledge, tucked just behind the shimmering curtain of one of the smaller waterfalls. The cascading water partially obscured it, making it shimmer and distort, but there was no mistaking what it was. An object. A deliberate creation.
It was a crown. A perfectly woven circlet made from the same strange, glowing flowers he had seen in the grove. It was not a random tangle of fallen blossoms. It was an artful, intricate creation, the flowers woven together with a skill that spoke of patience and grace. And it was fresh.
A jolt ran through his body, a sudden, electric shock that shattered his peaceful state. The water around him suddenly felt colder. He was not the first person to find this place. He was not alone.
The serene peace of the cenote was instantly pierced by a sharp, cold point of caution. Someone had woven that crown. Someone had placed it on that ledge, behind that waterfall. And given how fresh the flowers were, they had done so very, very recently.
The feeling of tranquility was gone, replaced by the distinct, prickling sensation of being watched. His skin tingled. The gentle splash of the waterfalls no longer sounded soothing; it sounded like it could be masking the sound of footsteps, of breathing. He was naked. He was weaponless. He was utterly vulnerable.
He treaded water silently, his body tense, his gaze locked on the glowing crown. His mind, so recently quiet, now raced. Who else could be in this hidden paradise? A hermit? Another lost traveler? Or something else? His gaze narrowed, trying to pierce the shimmering veil of the waterfall, searching the cool shadows of the ledge behind it. A woman's crown, he thought. Who was she?