It takes a special kind of courage to let your brother kill you, to trust that he will bring you back, that you have worked together so long in your traveling act that death-rebirth-death-rebirth is just another part of your routine. But then again, he did find a way to get you back your head after you were decapitated (Damn bats!); your younger, darker brother, your shadow twin, the Jaguar Moon who shines to your sunny blowgun glory.
To die and trust someone to bring us back. To have another half of you - another piece of your soul - who is there when the night is dark and the cave is filled with knives and bats and jaguars. Another mind to bounce your tricks off of - what would you do without your moon, bright sun? The Hero Twins succeed where their father and uncle could not - they descend to the underworld not for glory, not for praise, but for the subtle showmanship that balances the scales and heals the ancestral wound.
They were schooled well by women - what to accept, what to reject, how to find help, how to play the trick that results in laughter rather than anger. Because I wonder if they held hands when they jumped into the fire together, knowing they were to die but that the game they played would go on, that they could learn the games of the worlds they moved between - that heroism isn't just strength but also wit. That heroism isn't just speaking but also listening - listening to your mother, your grandmother, the mosquito in the frog's mouth.
Because how else could you get through it? Not alone but with your other half, with the deep magic between you that you created, the magic replenished by sacrifice, each half sacrificing to the whole.