The sea wind blew vast and strong, and their hair drifted in disarray. Before the bonfire, neither of the two spoke.
Old Militia Chiwako lowered his head, sunk in memories he had thought he had forgotten. And the tattooed Chipawa gritted his teeth and clawed at the dirt with his hands like a wolf. He had only just learned of his mother's death, and also learned that his younger sister was alive. He had long imagined many things, and the answer before him was far better than his worst guess. But in this moment, he still let out a low hiss and shed tears of pain.
"Ah!... Damn the Tarasco royal house! Damn the Mexica People!"
Only after a long while did the tattooed Chipawa wipe away his tears in one motion and silently lower his head. Then he took out a sharp Obsidian dagger, cut off half a length of his hair, and threw it into the fire. Amid the acrid stench of scorching, he murmured softly, like a warrior of the Wasteland, calling in a low voice.
"Divine heaven and earth! Please accept my plea! I beg you, great ones, guide my mother's soul into the womb of the Earth Mother. She will be conceived there anew, begin again... and if she is unwilling, then let her rest there in peace..."
"The womb of the Earth Mother..."
Old Militia Chiwako pressed his lips together and watched his son pray. He had never seen a ritual like this in the Patzcuaro Lake Region, nor heard a prayer like this. Without a doubt, this was an inheritance from the Wasteland. And his own son had already been deeply branded with the mark of the Wasteland, from body to soul.
"The faith of the northern Wasteland..."
The old militiaman quietly watched