The sun was setting.
It vanished somewhere beyond the horizon,
descending into Mictlan.
The funeral of the guardian spirit's mortal vessel had begun.
The procession was led by Cuathli and Citalli. Behind them walked the priests, bearing the chosen one's body. Behind them came the sacred brides. All stood straight and proud, eyes fixed forward. Behind them, other priests carried the bodies of the thirteen who had given their hearts for the consecration of the temple.
In the air drifted mournful music; it seemed as though the entire world had sunk into grief.
Tlacotzin's body was laid upon a stone bed in his burial chamber. To each side stood four smaller stone beds, prepared for the acolytes.
The girls appeared calm, but it was only a façade. Their faces were masks hiding the pain that tore at their hearts. With all the strength of their will, they held back their tears.
As Cuathli and Citalli recited the farewell prayers and the fragrance of copal spread through the chamber, the girls thought only of one thing.
Tlacotzin looked just as he had the day they first met him — as when he slept, drowsy from pulque, in the ritual cell.
But this time he would not wake.
Their whole world seemed to shrink to them alone — and to their loss.
At last they emerged to the surface. The tomb was sealed and closed, to remain untouched until the day when one of them would die and join their beloved in the spirit world.
Now they stood on the temple terrace. Citalli addressed the gathered crowd.
"Tlacotzin, guardian spirit of our city, has begun his journey to the sacred garden of Xochipilli. He leaves behind his legacy."
She gestured for the girls to come forward. They stood before her, forcing every fiber of their being to keep their faces and voices firm and steady.
"You are the wives of Tlacotzin. Though he has left the mortal world, your marriage has not lost its power. You remain bound to him by the sacred bond of union."
The four girls spoke together:
"We, the spiritual brides of Tlacotzin, guardian spirit of our city, vow to remain faithful to him and to guard his legacy. The memory of him shall bloom like a flower, and his music shall never fade."
"May Tlacotzin, your spiritual husband, bless you with his grace and remain beside you," said Citalli.
Then, upon Tlacotzin's altar, a basket of pink orchids was burned.
"With this act, you have become priestesses."
Music filled the air once more, and dancers below began to dance.
For the first time, Tlacotzin was honored as a guardian spirit.
The celebrations ended.
Mortals returned to their homes to rest.
The sun traveled through Mictlan, and the moon shone among the stars.
In only a few homes, oil lamps still burned.
Yet in one place, no one could sleep.
Four young women wept bitterly.
Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel wept as they never had before.
Now they were priestesses — no longer mere acolytes, but full priestesses. Once, they had imagined that many years still lay ahead before they would earn such an honor. They would have gladly remained acolytes forever… if only Tlacotzin could still be with them.
But he was gone. And they were now his spiritual wives and priestesses.
They wept quietly, their sobs raw and endless. They had known this moment would come; they had prepared for it for so long.
Yet nothing could have prepared them for the depth of this sorrow.
They cried without a single word of complaint — only soft, aching wails that trembled in the darkness.
At last, they shed every tear that had gathered in their hearts throughout all the days of preparation.
They ate a small portion of the supper they had been given and went to rest.
Each of them wished only for one thing — to see Tlacotzin one more time.