The days had begun to heal the wounds of Citlaltépetl, but the blood stained brightly, and the smoking words continued to haunt Caquipilli. He had remained camped at the base of the mountain for now over seven days, waiting for a certainty of his purpose to dawn and renew his spirits, finding nothing but rage and resentment at the difficulties faced him.
On the eighth day, he sat in the darkness, contemplating. Cold breezes blew through the foilage, refreshing the heavy air and cooling his temper.
"What you hold in your hand is all that you have," he answered himself at last, holding open his empty right palm.