The ferns parted without a sound, revealing the moonlit scene below. Etalcaxi, his face a grim mask of mud and charcoal, peered down into the cenote. Ixtic was there, just as he knew she would be. She floated serenely in the center of the pool, a silver figure in the black water, humming a soft tune that was absorbed by the gentle splashing of the waterfalls. She was the picture of peace, of a sated predator at rest. A cold, hard knot of fury and sorrow tightened in his gut.
No more games, he thought, his mind focused. No more illusions. I will face the monster in its lair.
He began his descent. He ignored the easy, winding stone path hidden behind the waterfall, the path she had led him on as a lover. That was a path for a guest, for a willing victim. He was neither. He moved down the steep, slick rock face, finding handholds and footholds with the silent, predatory grace of a night-hawk. He was a warrior, and this was an infiltration. He held the shaft of his spear tight in his teeth, the wood hard against his jaw, freeing his hands for the climb.
He landed as silently as a falling leaf on the flat rock at the water's edge—the very spot where their twisted romance had begun, where she had healed him, where she had kissed him. Ixtic, floating peacefully, was still unaware of his presence, lost in her own unknowable thoughts.
He raised his spear. He did not level it to throw. He reversed it, and with all the coiled strength in his body, he slammed the butt of the ironwood weapon down onto the stone.
The CRACK was like a thunderclap, a sound of violent intrusion that shattered the cenote's tranquility. It echoed off the limestone walls, a declaration of war.
Ixtic's humming stopped. Her eyes snapped open. She turned in the water, a fluid, graceful motion, and saw him.
Her serene expression dissolved, replaced by one of genuine, profound shock and confusion. She took in the sight before her: Etalcaxi, the beautiful, passionate mortal she had claimed, now a terrifying stranger. He was painted for war, his eyes burning with a cold, hard fire she had never seen before. His spear, the toy she had allowed her monkeys to steal for their game, was leveled directly at her heart.
"Etalcaxi?" she asked, her voice startled, laced with a deep, honest concern that, to his ears, sounded like the most cunning of lies. "What is this? What is this strange game?"
His voice, when it came, was a low, shaking growl, thick with the agony of his betrayal and the heat of his fury. "Game?" he snarled. "The game is over, monster! The lies are finished!"
He reached into the small leather pouch at his belt and pulled out the braided strand of her dark hair. He threw it onto the rock between them. The small, crushed blue flower woven into it cast a faint light in the moonlight.
"Do you recognize this?" he spat, the words dripping with venom. "A souvenir from your gathering, perhaps? A careless mistake you made while you were 'harvesting' the Nictexs!"
Ixtic stared at the braid, then back at him, her beautiful face with a look of deepening confusion. She did not understand. She was trying to connect his words, his posture, the paint on his face, into a picture that made sense, and failing completely.
He took a menacing step to the very edge of the rock, the obsidian tip of his spear trembling with the force of his rage. He unleashed his entire, horrifying theory, the logical conclusion of his terror, in a torrent of furious, heartbroken words.
"Cannibal! Flesh-eater! Was any of it real? The smiles? The healing? The kisses?" His voice cracked with a raw anguish. "Or was it all a lie? A trick to fatten the prize for your tribe's table? A way to test the quality of the meat before the slaughter?" He was panting now, his chest heaving, the words pouring out of him in a ragged, unstoppable flood. "Where are the bodies, Ixtic?! Are they in a cooking pot somewhere in this cursed jungle? Or does your family prefer to feast on the blood while it is still warm?! Answer me!"
He stood there, poised on the edge of the rock, his spear aimed, his body trembling with rage and adrenaline. He was prepared for anything. He was prepared for her to transform into some hideous, fanged beast. He was prepared for the roots of the trees to lash out and drag him to his doom. He was prepared for a fight to the death.
A tense, ringing silence hung in the air. The only sound was the gentle splash of the waterfalls and the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Ixtic just stared at him from the water. There was no fear in her eyes. There was no anger. There was no shame. There was only a look of bewilderment. It was the look of a person trying to understand a concept that was so fundamentally weird, so completely nonsensical, that the words themselves had no meaning. It was as if he had screamed at her in a language she had never learned.
Slowly, cautiously, as one might approach a rabid, cornered animal, she began to swim closer to the rock. Her movements were gentle, unthreatening. Her brow was furrowed in genuine, deep confusion. She was not afraid of his spear. She was trying to solve the puzzle of his madness.
"Eat them?" she asked, her voice soft, honestly puzzled. She stopped a few feet from the rock, treading water, her green eyes wide with a sincere and baffling lack of comprehension. "Eat... the noisy little men with the bad axes?"
Her confusion began to change, but not into fear. It shifted into something much more unexpected, much more deflating. It shifted into annoyance. A flicker of irritation crossed her face, as if his loud, mortal panic was a tedious and slightly insulting inconvenience. She wrinkled her nose, a gesture of genuine, visceral disgust.
"Why would I eat them?" she asked, her tone now laced with a faint, irritated disdain. "Such a... messy, primitive idea." She shuddered slightly, a ripple moving through her perfect form. "They would be so stringy. All bone and sinew." She met his furious, hate-filled gaze with one of simple, objective critique. "And their minds are so full of loud, ugly thoughts. They would taste awful."
He was completely thrown. He stood on the rock, a warrior painted for a final, glorious battle, his heart full of righteous fury. He was braced for a fight to the death. He was prepared for a snarling monster.
He was not prepared for culinary criticism.
Her response did not fit his theory. It did not fit any theory. The logic was all wrong. His righteous fury, the great, towering inferno of his rage and betrayal, stalled. It was like trying to burn water. It was stymied by a sliver of confusion. Her calm, bizarre, and slightly disgusted dismissal of his entire horrifying accusation left him standing, suddenly unsure.