Title: expecting
Fandom: The Book of Life
Summary: Courting, marriage, estrangment, reconciliation—now the prospect of parenthood for La Muerte and Xibalba.
A/N: With all the Gravepainters fic, I really wanted to join in, but I feel normally slow with fic, and I've been seeking inspiration on what exactly to write about this new OTP of mine. Finally went with my gut and started exploring the idea of them and parenthood with this fic. It already has some vague details that relate to other plotbunnies that'll be elaborated on in later fic. Besides the movie as an obvious source, also looked to the movie's "Art Of" book for inspiration and reference. (It's a great "Art Of" book.)
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Book of Life.
The news had been startling, to say the least. Left La Muerte and Xibalba actually rattled. Oh, they had discussed it before, in the days before their estrangement, and started again after their reconciliation. But it was always on their terms, with regards to the nature of their existence—they were not humans, for whom it was much easier to do. Why, they could even do it accidentally. Create new life, that is. Fashion a nascent fledgling into being.
But their talk of such matters of parenthood and nurture had been mostly idle chatter and a curiosity sparked, with occasional bouts of seriousness. Before their estrangement, La Muerte and Xibalba had filed their entreaty, without really thinking it would be granted. These days, being blessed with a child of their own was rare for their kind.
When they received news that they had been given permission and that they had moved up into the period of "expecting" in the whole celestial beaucratic process, and would be called at some later date to donate samples of their essence for the alchemic birthing—well, La Muerte was fairly certain Xibalba's jaw dropped farther than when Manolo had asked forgiveness from Toro Muerto.
Afterward things became a blur of high and confused emotion between the death deities, where they flew from excitement to sudden anxiety, and to what felt like every other emotion scrambling for their attetion. There may have been hugging, panicking, arguing, back to hugging. Only after the Candlemaker had pulled them into an arguably even bigger and more crushing hug than on the eventful Day of the Dead that featured the couple's reconciliation, did La Muerte and Xibalba regain awareness of something: they had to start preparations for the impending child.
Each attended to their own lands, looking at them with new eyes. Well, for Xibalba, it was more of an increase in his current tangled feelings about his realm, which could be summed up as pure frustration. That increased tenfold.
For La Muerte—yes, her view was new.
It had started innocently enough. She was simply examining the Land of the Remembered, when she became somewhat distracted from her analysis, drawn into admiring the view from one of the many balconies. Then she realized there were no barriers. The new infant could simply topple off from that height.
La Muerte reminded herself that the child would be of her kind, with a certain amount of power even at a young age; and if it fell, it would never reach impact, it could fly away before that happened, would that be instinct or would La Muerte and Xibalba have to teach it—of course, they would always catch it—
But it wasn't as if La Muerte ever toppled off things, her movements were controlled fluidity, she could take care of herself, but surely that would not be the case for the new baby; though it would be of her kind, it would still be vulnerable, and the thought of it falling from any careless balcony in her land made La Muerte very uncomfortable.
Another round of fireworks broke out, and La Muerte stared at them, wondering if it would be too bright for the baby's eyes, too loud for little ears—and that round was followed by even more fireworks, and there could be so many fireworks here, would it all be too loud and bright, to the point of deafening and blinding for her new baby? And her own hat, her own self—she could produce her own fire, her own fireworks. She'd have to be even more careful with those powers.
La Muerte's eyes darted to another excess of riotous drinking, whole fountains of wine flowing freely and endlessly. For once an inkling of disdain ran through La Muerte. She wouldn't want that level of debauchery near her baby, surely.
The death goddess's eyes tried to take her entire city in. It was so vast, a maze—would her baby get easily lost—?
Reason tried to assert itself: there were—rather unfortunately—children and infants in the Land of the Remembered, and they were fine. Falling from balconies could not hurt them, and she could not recall that happening to anyone. For the most part, there were attempts to keep more adult fun separated from the youth, and to reserve quieter places for anyone who wanted to rest. Reason tried to say a child of La Muertea and Xibalba would not be so frail, even in infancy; and that she and her husband would care for it well enough.
Reason was steadily losing to this foreign thought and feeling that flooded La Muerte's mind: that it was all distinctly different for her baby.
The death goddess presently began summoning up nice high barriers for all the balconies in the city.
After one of her citizens nervously asked if they may help her build various walls for the balconies, La Muerte accepted their assistance.
And that reminded her of the need for a suitable cradle.
After discussing some construction possibilities with architects and the like and helping to organize them, La Muerte began speaking with the merchants and craftsmen of her realm. She thought browsing, shopping, commissioning, and bartering would calm her nerves. But the merchants and craftsmen proved...a little too eager. The thought of their cradle serving their queen's child seemed such a great honor to obtain in their minds, what a wonderful way to show apprecation for their beloved queen. It was not long before La Muerte was virtually mobbed with adoring and competing merchants and craftsmen. Something like resignation seized La Muerte and made her frown, exasperated.
Xibalba for his part was trying to make things less...pointy in the Land of the Forgotten. Less sharp, just...generally safer for a baby.
It felt like he was going in circles; he'd tried similar before, and the realm had never yielded to a cosmetic facelift. Its magic, its nature was too entrenched, it would not budge, not even for its ruler, whom was treated more as its personal guardian. But a baby...Xibalba hoped this time would be different. In any case, he simply had to try.
The death god experimented with the throne room first. It was a test he had done before, but years had passed since then; he hoped the end result would differ this time. Extending and sharpening his claws, Xibalba swiped through the sharp fangs of the stone serpent that housed the throne room. The uppermost points were jaggedly sliced off, and Xibalba felt pleased, that could be smoothed further down—until the points grew back, stone cracking as it rebuilt itself into a sharp edge. The result from the first time he conducted this experiment years ago remained the same.
Growling, Xibalba turned his back on the stone fangs, crossing his arms and hunching over, deflated and feeling defeated. His companion serpent tried to hiss comfortingly, both heads showing concern and support.
To his understanding, La Muerte rarely had this sort of problem with the Land of the Remembered—but then she operated within its nature, not against it, as he struggled with the Land of the Forgotten. It only really complied when constructing a "castle" for him, providinga twisted building of sharp angles that perfectly suited its modus operandi. Anything more comforting or inviting than that, it denied.
No, the Land of the Forgotten demanded a forbidding nature. It resisted any softening of its edges. Xibalba could only hope that more experimentation would find some sort of loophole.
Xibalba went deeper into the castle, thinking the tattered banners would be of some use. When he first found them, he'd been left to assume it was the realm responding to an even deeper subconscious wish in his mind, some desperate flailing to make the best of the situation, a process doomed to failure. They were horrible decorations, shredded as they were.
The death god fingered one banner, and scowled; even the fabric was more coarse than soft. Still, he pulled them down, intending to try reusing them. A needle was simple enough to conjure within the Land of the Forgotten, a place so enamored with sharp piercing things. Something actually fabricated, that would require more of a design in mind, and he'd probably be better off trying to make it by hand. Maybe that would work, bypass the land's nature.
With a snap of his claws, the banners were undone, leaving mounds of thread meant to be rewoven into something whole, hopefully. Slowly, Xibalba began knitting. He aimed to fashion a cushion for the new infant.
When Xibalba's end result was as tattered as the banners before, he stabbed the knitting needle into the floor. Then his rage somewhat deflated into something morose as he flopped onto the floor, wings and arms spread out. Either it was the Land of the Forgotten tripping him up again, or he simply couldn't knit worth a damn (or a mix of both).
Who was he kidding, the Land of the Forgotten was, is, and never would be a place for children. (It still churned hot and boiling in his stomach whenever a child or infant wound up in his realm—once was too much, and unfortunately it happened far more than once.)
And yet, randomly, the thought of a cradle came to mind.
Xibalba slowly sat up, considering. Perhaps he could—but carved rock would probably end up too sharp, always too sharp—but perhaps it was worth a try. After checking his own throne room and castle for the material, Xibalba examined the rest of the land, searching for at least the smoothest stone. What he found, he did not haul back to the throne room. Instead he settled down building where he harvested the rock.
Slowly his clawed hands carved individual pieces of the primary structure, tested out insertion points, how they would all fit together. Xibalba then carved symbols into them, while they were still separate pieces that could still be easily rolled around in his claws; symbols for protection, symbols of La Muerte, flowers and hearts and skulls. The one thing he carved to represent himself was an image of his two-headed serpent. When he showed the creature their stylized portrait, both heads nodded their appreciation. Then he removed one glove, and assembled the cradle, fixing the pieces into place with a touch of his tarred hand.
Setting the cradle down, Xibalba noted that it remained firm, his tar proving its worth as sufficient glue. But then he slumped down, half-growling, half-sighing when he found the floor of the cradle rough. Xibalba was certain it had been smooth before. Desperately he worked to smooth it again. This time when he had gotten it to an acceptable finish, he saw the stone bulge and splinter and crack before his eyes. Xibalba swore, his wings snapping out, a few stray feathers falling in his rage and distress; he lifted the cradle up, about to toss it. The mortal world was so much simpler to manipulate, it had not the magic to interfere with his own so much, not like this land he "ruled", this hole he rotted in with the rest, this pit he was stuck guarding, this wasteland unfit for children—
Xibalba caught sight of his feathers on the ground, and paused. La Muerte thought his feathers were soft.
The death god gently lowered the cradle down. Next, he modified it so that it was entirely enclosed on all sides, rather than with bars with even tight spaces in between. (He again carved the symbols on the new walls.) Xibalba then gathered those feathers on the ground, and placed them inside the cradle. He plucked more from his wings, which was uncomfortable, but not unfamiliar, as La Muerte would pluck his feathers sometimes. Soon the death god had enough to line the cradle comfortably, and his wings were none the worse for wear, as vast as they were, and as small as the cradle was. And besides, he could already feel the missing feathers begin to regenerate themselves.
Ruefully, he ran a claw over the sides of the interior walls; still rough, but perhaps he could figure something else out. Maybe try importing objects and such into the Land of the Forgotten again, blankets to cover the cradle walls. Previous attempts had been made, and usually whatever import entered the realm immediately became maligned and twisted by the land's enchantment. Imported fabrics meant to replace the tattered banners became shredded themselves. But maybe this time...
Xibalba ran a claw through the feathers lining the cradle floor, considering. They still remained intact; as he had hoped, given that his own person hadn't at least been physically altered by the realm. But as he had been told ages ago by his elder and superior, no matter what Xibalba did, the fact remained that he existed for the Land of the Forgotten—theoretically, it would not need to alter his physical shape, as it was already in line with its directive. And all the more reason for the failure in his wagers and cheating for the Land of the Remembered; so-called destiny would not allow it.
The death god frowned, shaking his head out of familiar brooding. He returned his attention to the feathers. Perhaps they could also be stitched together, perhaps blankets for the cradle walls could be made from them as well.
Back at his castle, La Muerte teleported in, marigold petals fluttering.
"Xibalba," she called, when she did not immediately see him. Her voice remained a little strained, having only recently managed to make up some halfway decent reason to leave her citizens' frenzy for her favor. She was still feeling exasperated and irritable, though she had come here for—well, comfort, frankly. Now that they were reconciled, just her husband's presence could soothe her nerves, as it had done pre-estrangement.
"Xibalba," she called louder, raising her voice. She half-hoped he would try bringing wine, just as he did the last time she called for him from his castle. Last time it was ill-timed, but now would be just perfect.
Instead Xibalba popped in with a cradle in his arms.
La Muerte blinked at it, and Xibalba jerked, looking like he'd been caught, and he immediately switched the cradle to behind his back. Her husband looked back at her, sheepish.
"Ah, mi amor, I was not expecting you—"
La Muerte dissipated into marigolds again and flittered behind Xibalba, reforming herself as she gently pushed one of his wings out of the way, so she could get a closer look at what he tried to hide.
"You made a cradle?"
"Um, tried to—it's still—the walls are too—"
Xibalba melted, thinking nothing but contented thoughts when his wife gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then startled, when he realized his hands were empty.
La Muerte held the cradle as she smirked at him, and Xibalba shot her a slightly miffed look, feeling slightly tricked. Then he recalled how he tried to pull far more serious trickery against his wife, and deflated a bit, with that touch of familiar guilt tickling his conscience.
But then Xibalba was startled out of his guilt, freezing as he felt wonder course through him while he watched his wife inspect the cradle; she did not seem displeased with his efforts. Finally, La Muerte returned the cradle to him, and something particularly warm passed between them when their hands touched.
"It's beautiful, Balby," La Muerte said, her voice sincere, excited, also in wonder, and Xibalba resisted the instinct to melt at simply her voice.
"Thank you, mi amor," he said in a soft voice.
Xibalba blinked when the grip La Muerte had on his hand tightened, and she said, "No, thank you."
For some reason feeling bewildered and not sure what to do exactly, Xibalba sputtered out his lingering concerns; "The walls—they're still too rough, they wouldn't—you know how the Land of the Forgotten is, it's...picky, with how things are built here..."
"I do know." Her voice was kind.
Xibalba rambled on. "And I thought perhaps—perhaps blankets from your land could cover them, or that I—I could try the feathers again, stitch them together—or if you have any suggestions—"
"I'd like it if you made the baby's cradle for the Land of the Remembered as well."
Now it was Xibalba's turn to blink at her. "Thought you had merchants and craftsmen down there."
Instead of feeling exasperation at the thought of them, La Muerte laughed. She shook her head ruefully. "Too many, I'm afraid."
Now it was Xibalba's turn for a chuckle. "The peasants giving you a hard time, my Queen?"
La Muerte laughed some more, giving Xibalba a friendly punch in the shoulder, and very careful not to disturb the cradle in his hands.
"'Citizens,' darling."
"Is that what they're called these days?"
The death goddess shook her head, suppressing another laugh behind a smile; she needed to catch her breath, and move forward. Grinning at her, Xibalba placed the cradle down and to the side of them, then snapped back up, gently taking his wife's hand, and she wrapped her fingers around his own claws.
"I expect a 'yes' from you, husband of mine," La Muerte continued. From her free hand, she slipped one finger through his beard, and began to twirl a white strand of it around her finger. "I really do like the idea of the cradles being made by you, father-to-be."
La Muerte's smile widened as Xibalba melted into her touch; it felt so good whenever he did that.
Eyes glazed over with happiness, Xibalba's voice hazy with joy, he still managed to make his voice clear enough when he said, "If you'll help me make them, mi amor."
"Well, some paint might be nice—"
Xibalba perked up, his eyes filling with a new light and excitement. "Yeah!" He wrapped his wings around her. "You can do all the color work, you'll know what'll match best in your realm—hey, maybe we could string lights on it too—"
"I don't know, I was thinking more of a canopy for it—the Land of the Remembered is bright enough, you know? It might be a little too much, at least when the baby's still new...just some covering for the cradle might be nice—"
"Symbols could be embroidered into the canopy—"
And so Xibalba and La Muerte went back and forth, discussing cradle designs and other preparations for the child they were expecting.
All in all, they were starting to feel less rattled about the whole thing.
Rattled. Rattle. Baby rattle.
Toys, toys, they had to consider toys for the baby...
A/N: Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Feedback is always appreciated and encouraged.