"Tlacotzin."
Izel spoke to him. Her voice held sorrow threaded with quiet acceptance.
She handed him a small obsidian mirror. He took it and looked at his reflection.
His skin seemed to gleam faintly and pulse with light. His eyes had changed color—once brown like earth, they were now pink, like orchid petals. Even his pupils had changed shape: from round to the form of an orchid.
He sighed heavily—even his body was no longer part of the mortal world. He barely felt anything material beneath his feet, yet he could clearly sense the spiritual structure of his temple.
He smiled, but it was a smile full of sadness. He was less and less a man. His heart was now really the only thin thread binding him to the worldly realm.
Cuathli approached him. In his eyes were sorrow, pain, acceptance, and pride—but even so, he stood steady and proud.
"Cuathli, my father. No matter who might wish and how much they might desire that I live—there is no place for me any longer in the material world. I must go to the spirit realm. You must remain here a while yet, but I will be waiting for you all."
A tear flowed from Tlacotzin's eye. It was not a drop of water but a drop of gold. When it fell upon the stone of the temple terrace, it hardened into the shape of a tiny orchid.
Citalli lifted it gently and laid it upon the techcatl like a sacred relic.
Then the spirit and his priestess stood facing one another.
Tlacotzin handed her his flute.
"This flute has accompanied me all my life. Its sound gave me moments of comfort, helped keep me in the world of mortals, and helped me find my loved ones. May its voice now help others find their way."
Citalli took the flute and kissed it.
"Your music heals. Through the sound of your flute, may your music remain with us forever."
Tlacotzin smiled. Then he removed his mother's amulet.
"This amulet is my family's legacy. My father gave it to my mother as a sign of love and devotion. Let it remain with you as a sign of my love and devotion to you."
Citalli accepted the amulet and set it on the techcatl beside the golden tear and the flute.
Tlacotzin looked at the three objects. He had loved his flute and his mother's amulet dearly. He had always felt their value reached beyond the mortal world, but never before would it have occurred to him that they might become divine relics.
His sacred brides came to him. They began removing his garments—headdress, jewelry, cloak, sandals. Soon he wore only his maxtlatl.
Cuathli stepped up and began to paint new markings on him: beneath his eyes a gold band; on his shoulders and thighs, pink waves of music; and on his heart, a simple red line. The markings seemed to gleam upon him—only the one over his heart looked ordinary.
His heart, which would soon no longer be his—his last bastion of physicality and matter.
Then the priest placed a new amulet around his neck: a jade orchid and jade beads. The girls wove pink orchids into his hair. He smiled. In part he was that simple boy again—or at least he wished to see himself as such in his simple attire. He stepped to the edge of his pyramid. For a moment he felt he could lift into the sky and fly all the way to the heavens. He chuckled softly. He had no wings—at least not yet. He looked down at the crowd and spoke.
"Thirteen hearts. Thirteen steps to the heavens. Thirteen gave their lives so that I might become a guardian spirit. Now it is my turn. I have prepared for this for a long time. The time has come for me to give my heart to Xochipilli and become a guardian spirit, as the signs foretell. May Xochipilli grant strength and wisdom to those who remain in this world, that they might endure their pain and sorrow."
His last procession in the mortal world began. Cuathli walked first. Tlacotzin followed, and where his feet touched, pink orchids sprang up and then vanished. Behind him came the sacred brides.
People watched. Some with awe, others weeping in sadness, still others bowing in reverence.
At last Tlacotzin began to climb the steps of Xochipilli's temple. Here it had all begun—and here the end would begin.
As a temple helper he had once climbed this pyramid. He remembered how it had felt the first time—fear and a sense of smallness. Now he felt light. He could sense even the energy of the temple itself. He felt something else as well—like a snake shedding its skin.
He reached the platform and looked at the techcatl.
He was not afraid; he felt ready. Even if something were to happen, he could no longer return down to the world of mortals. He regretted only that he could not take the girls with him. They had to remain here. Their spiritual marriage gave him hope that they would not be entirely separated.
He sighed.
The time for the ritual had come.
The acolytes who would assist in the rite stood at their places. The bed of flowers was ready. Tlacotzin held in his hands the ritual bone flute he had received when he was proclaimed a flower of Xochipilli. Cuathli stepped forward and began to speak.
"Xochipilli, Prince of Flowers, who hears every melody—here is Tlacotzin, whom you chose as your offering and our guardian spirit. According to your will, he has come to give you his heart. May this ceremony open the path into your divine garden for your chosen one, and grant our community fertility and abundance."
At that moment Tlacotzin began to play the flute. He played as well as he could—it was, after all, his last melody in this world. His beloved sacred brides began to dance to his music. They put all their hearts and souls into every step. It was their last dance to his music, and for that alone they wanted to be at their very best. They danced light and delicate, like butterflies among flowers.
At last the music slowed, and the girls, with dancing steps, drew near to him. With gentle motions they removed all his clothing, ritually stripping away his worldliness. Their movements were slow, hallowed—and full of sorrow.
Then they knelt upon the bed of flowers.
"Xochipilli, Prince of Flowers, accept our sanctified union and through it grant fertility to us, to the land, and to our community."
Tlacotzin embraced Meya. They had prepared for this moment all along. He longed to take his beloved in his arms and give himself to passion—but he could not. This was not a lover's rapture but a sacred rite.
They touched and kissed. With every movement and caress Tlacotzin felt energy pass through them and into the earth. These were their final moments together, and he wanted them to be as sweet as possible—but the ritual was the ritual. The community mattered more than personal pleasure. Even so, he tried to give each of them as much of himself as he could.
At last the act ended. Tlacotzin rose, and the girls remained kneeling upon the bed of flowers.
He went to the techcatl. His steps were sure but heavy. He stood straight and took his ritual bone flute in both hands.
"The signs pointed to me as the one who must give his heart to Xochipilli. Here I am, and I am ready."
One thing remained. The flute symbolized his life's bond to this world as Xochipilli's chosen. Now his life was ending, and he had one last duty. He had to destroy the flute to end his role as the chosen one. He pressed on the flute with both hands. The bone cracked with surprising ease, sounding a sharp snap. He let the two pieces fall; they clattered softly on the floor. He wanted to bend and lament, but he managed to keep himself upright.
Hands of the acolytes touched him.
It was time…
He allowed himself to be led calmly to the sacrificial stone. He braced himself against it, and the acolytes helped set him in place. Around him the acolytes began to play a melody at once joyful and sorrowful. The sacred brides bowed and folded their hands in prayer. The acolytes drew Tlacotzin out in the position of the offering. Cuathli approached, holding the ritual knife. He stood over him with ineffable sorrow in his eyes—as if all the grief of the mortal world had gathered in him. Yet he did not weep. Tlacotzin smiled at him to give him courage. Cuathli smiled back, painfully, and raised the blade to the sky.
"O Xochipilli, Prince of Flowers, who hears every melody—here is Tlacotzin, whose heart you have marked as a gift for you, the one who is to become our guardian spirit. His road here was strewn with the pain of abandonment, but in the shadow of your pyramid he found a new family. Let the spiritual marriage you have blessed endure unbroken, even when he stands at your side. Receive him unto yourself and make his path to your realm straight."
Cuathli turned the blade toward Tlacotzin. The youth arched his back to ease the priest's work.
The blow was painful, but not as he had imagined. He managed to keep from crying out. When Cuathli tore out his heart, he felt himself emerge from his body—like a butterfly leaving the cocoon. A moment later he hovered above his heart. The priest carried it to the sacred fire. Tlacotzin wanted to embrace and comfort everyone around him, but he could not move from above his heart. Nor could they hear him. All he could do was bathe them in a tender gaze they could not see.
When his heart touched the fire, he felt wings unfurl upon his back. He rose into the heavenly garden on a column of smoke.