The three walked on, each along their separate path.
A new reverence had settled within them — for the power they carried, and the divine grace their patron gods had entrusted to their hands. They now understood the true weight of being chosen — that the face of power was a mirror, and arrogance had no place in their priesthood.
So they moved through the mist, wading through waist- and shoulder-deep waters. Each followed the trail that called to them: a shimmer of golden light, a swirl of sacred fire, a ribbon of glowing mist.
Their guides — unseen yet ever present — led them from somewhere close, and yet impossibly far. The bond in their hearts beat steady, assuring them that they had not failed. Not yet. The trial was not over, but its end was near.
Anxiety began to coil within them as they delved deeper. The surrounding light dimmed, swallowed by a vast and creeping darkness. A cold, hollow wind rose, threading through the fog and whispering across their skin.
Faces appeared in the shallow reflections — faces none of them recognized. The mist, unwilling to surrender, clawed once more at their minds. It conjured scenes of despair, of forgotten fears, of pain they had thought buried.
Each of them faltered but did not stop.
They pressed a hand to their chest — to the divine pulse that bound them — and carried on.
Though the mist kept them apart, the rhythm in their hearts walked beside one another. Their solitude did not weaken them; it was only another step toward becoming whole.
---
Jaime finally reached what looked like another lagoon. A steady flow of black water, trickling from what he assumed to be the Apanuiayo, emptied into it.
When he stepped into its depths, a chill seeped into his bones. It quenched the fire burning within him, calming his anxiety, soothing his restless thoughts. He waded forward, then began to swim, slow and steady, into the gloom.
Time lost its meaning beneath that dark water.
The cold, once a balm, began to take more than it gave. It clawed at him, the same way the mist had before — hands of shadow pulling from the deep. Faces he did not know looked up at him, their mouths weeping silent tears.
Jaime urged the golden light of his armor to life, its soft radiance pushing against the weight of the dark. The light guided him forward — unwavering, patient, eternal.
At last, he surfaced beside a small island. The place reminded him of where the iguana Xochitonal had once rested its massive body. He climbed ashore, dripping and exhausted. Alone.
The mist gathered around him. Then swallowed him whole.
light.
A bright, narrow beam shone through the fog, revealing a memory.
A young boy followed his mother closely, clinging to her skirt as she bustled about the kitchen. His small hands gripped the fabric as she mixed, kneaded, and baked. Her warm hands covered his, guiding him with laughter.
There were failed sweets, burnt bread, and tears of frustration. But there were also smiles — wide and proud — when the dough finally rose, golden and perfect.
"I want to be a baker just like you, Mom!" the boy cried, hugging the slightly plump woman. Her laughter rang out, warm and full, filling the room with joy.
Jaime watched. The smell of sugar and bread filled the air, and his throat tightened.
He had forgotten this boy. Forgotten that scent, that home. The sweetness had long turned bitter in his memory.
And then, the boy turned. He stood there, small and bright, the scent of bread still clinging to him. His clothes were a patchwork of blues, greens, and yellows, a colorful apron tied crookedly around his waist, dough still smudged across the fabric.
Jaime didn't need to be told what this was.
He stepped forward and pulled the boy into his arms. The child trembled, weeping for a mother long gone. Jaime said nothing — there were no words left. He simply held on, easing the ache, sharing warmth through the years that had grown cold between them.
Slowly, the boy's sobs faded. The scent of bread lingered as the child dissolved into light — and with him went the pain, the grief, and the forgotten dreams of a little boy who only wanted to make sweets.
---
Jimena had followed the small wisp into the cold lagoon, then across to this island. She lost sight of it as the mist surrounded her, thick and shimmering.
From the fog, a scene emerged — a small girl running through tall grass, twin pigtails flying in the wind. A tiny black dog bounded far ahead, chasing after a rabbit.
"¡Ratón!" the girl cried, her laughter ringing out as she stumbled through the brush, her long dress snagging at her legs.
"Jimena!" A man's voice boomed behind her. He carried a machete, moving quickly through the undergrowth. Several men followed a few paces back — some with bows, others with machetes, all with worry etched across their faces.
But the girl didn't hear them. She ran and ran, chasing her silly little dog deeper into the forest. Birds shrieked at her passing, and small mammals darted into holes. Armadillos rolled into tight balls, and still she laughed — a sound so pure, so alive, it made the forest itself seem to breathe with her.
The vision followed her laughter into the thicket until, at last, she arrived at a small lagoon. Ceiba trees stood tall and still around it. Mangroves wove thick roots along the shore.
There, to the wonder of the girl — and the horror of her dog — stood a great blue deer.
Its antlers forked like the branches of the ceiba, and its eyes glimmered with knowing light. Its vast body rippled with muscle, serene and powerful. With a single, effortless leap, it cleared the mangroves and vanished into the mist.
Ratón never stopped barking. Even as the forest faded, the barking carried into another scene — one of warmth and home.
A small fire burned in the clay oven. Tortillas hissed softly on the comal. Steam rose from a pot of hot cacao, and her mother hummed a gentle tune. The same small black dog barked again, now at a fat white cat lounging lazily by the door.
Jimena's younger self scooped Ratón into her arms, laughing as her father finished retelling her wild adventure. His face was stern, the lines of worry deep from having chased her into the forest.
"If everyone hadn't been there—" he began, voice heavy with frustration, but her mother only hummed, calm and patient as she cooked.
"¡Mamá!" the girl shouted, interrupting him with boundless excitement. "I saw a big blue deer — bigger than the house!" She twirled and danced, her twin brother groaning beside her, tugging at their mother's dress.
"I want to be like Papá! I want to hunt! I want to see all the animals!"
Her father grumbled, trying to hide his smile behind his calloused hands. Pride mingled with concern in his eyes — joy that his daughter shared his spirit, and fear of the dangers that came with it.
The vision dimmed, ending with the girl's laughter echoing through the mist.
Jimena stood still, letting the warmth of that memory fill her. Dreams long faded, happiness buried by years of struggle — all of it returned, gentle and radiant.
She opened her arms and embraced it, the light of the small girl merging into her once more.
The child — her child-self — was remembered.
---
Marisol gazed at the beautiful scene before her. Water circled around, rising into a clear dome that shimmered with tender, living images.
She began to cry — deep, trembling sobs that shook through her as memories unfurled. Her parents' laughter filled the dome. A small girl swung between them, holding their hands, her feet barely touching the earth. Joy radiated from her like sunlight.
The scene shifted. An altar appeared — its walls carved with countless alcoves, pillars dividing them like the spines of a great library. But instead of books, there were herbs: bundles of sage, copal, and rue; bright petals and dried leaves; their scents blending into the air, filling Marisol's heart with warmth.
Dreams of a curandera. A healer. One who would carry the wisdom and spirit of her people.
The memories overwhelmed her. She wept, but this time the tears did not sting. The small girl from the memory stepped forward, her laughter soft and musical.
"Don't worry," the child whispered, wiping the older woman's tears. Then she hugged Marisol tightly, and the warmth of that embrace flowed through her like sunlight through water.
The child dissolved into light, merging into Marisol's being. A soft mist enveloped her, warm and fragrant. The sharp scent of herbs clung to her skin — basil, rosemary, marigold.
A quiet laugh escaped her lips. "I always hated remembering all their names," she murmured, half to herself.
As the dome dissolved back into mist, a path appeared before her — a glowing trail of cempasúchil petals winding through the fog.
Far ahead, two faint figures waited.
Marisol exhaled, steadying herself. The sorrow had faded, replaced by a deep, calm understanding.
She stepped forward and began her journey toward the underworld.
At last, their trials had ended.