A/N: After a long haitus, I return to the BoL fandom, due in a large part to the much-welcomed PMs from MissEmmaLights and dinogaby (you and I have the same taste in OTP songs, my friend). I would like to dedicate the following scribblings to you. You two are awesome.
Inspired by the recent tweets of our lord and master JG and the many illustrious artists who poured their blood, sweat, and tears into making this film and creating these characters, which we have the privilege to enjoy. And use for our own dastardly amusement. A sincere thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Slave Unto The Night
It was a magical time of year in Mexico.
In the small, dusty town of San Angel, summer was coming lazily to a close, spinning in the last slow movements of a dance that smelled like a warm sea and flowers. She was drifting gently, gratefully into the arms of the cool fall nights which embraced her, tenderly as a lover; nights that were as clear as glass with a view straight up into the stars, nights that whispered of change and promises, vowing that after a stormy, wet winter, spring would return once again.
Nights like these, a young goddess breathed deeply, tasting autumn on the back of her tongue, were made to be loved. She released her breath in a wisp of steam that rose into the scintillating sky and faded as she watched. "If only this night could last forever," she whispered after it.
"No, if only this night were finally over!" the sharp reply came from her left."I can't stand it, La Muerte, I just can't! Not a moment longer!"
Pulled back to planet Earth, the beautiful sugar skull cast her companion a long-suffering glance. "It will be over soon enough, La Noche. You'll see. Everything will be perfect."
But if La Noche heard a word her sister said, she didn't show it. Her eyes were locked onto the foggy glass window in front of her as though she'd drop dead if she dared to look away (which was impossible, of course, as La Noche had never been "alive" to begin with).
Around the pair of deities, the streets of San Angel echoed with joyous laughter as citizens wandered the night, enjoying the last vestiges of summer and simultaneously welcoming the cooler weather. The square was littered with passersby making a late-night paseo, stopping at a café for a quick cup of coffee, or cooling their feet, weary from a day of labor, in the bubbling stone fountain. Children scampered back and forth across the cobblestones, lovers murmured sweet nothings into each other's ears, and old men played dominoes under the blazing blue gas lamps surrounding the square. It seemed as though every inhabitant on the little island had agreed that they would make this one night a party throughout the town, and everyone was invited.
Normally, the crowds would have made La Muerte nervous. After all, even though both she and her twin were nearly three centuries old, they were still mere teenagers by godly standards, and as such their powers had yet to fully manifest. La Noche had finally perfected her invisibility spell only this morning, or else neither would have been where they were now, crouched in front of the antique San Angel bar, El Tigre de Tijuana, peering into the windows like bandits preparing for a robbery.
Invisible or not, to the outside eye, La Muerte was fairly certain that they would make a strange sight. She and La Noche were huddled together under her scarlet wool rebozo, since La Noche had simply refused to wear anything appropriate for a fall night and had instead picked out her very favorite Aztec outfit, complete with an entire array of quetzal feathers and honestly very little else. La Muerte, ever practical, had been only too happy to share her warm shawl after she had caught a thoroughly miserable La Noche eyeing it longingly, her golden bangles making little chiming noises as she shivered. Between the two of them, they kept quite warm beneath the enormous woolen shawl.
Unfortunately, no amount of warmth could help the cause of her sister's present shaking, which La Muerte suspected was from something other than cold. With a guttural swear, La Noche threw off the blanket, leapt to her feet and began pacing tight circles a short distance away. La Muerte rose, laughing gently as she secured the rebozo around her shoulders.
"I don't know what you're so nervous about," she said. "It isn't as though it's the first time you've seen him, after all."
"It's the first time in years, hermanita," La Noche hissed, kicking viciously at the dust with her bare white feet. Her turquoise skirt flared around her knees, and the sugar crystals in her skin winked in the light from the window. "Ever since he came back from war."
La Muerte smiled. "Your own knight in shining armor."
Her sister's responding glare almost melted the candles on her modest silver tiara. "This isn't a joke, La Muerte."
"I'm not joking!" La Muerte insisted, but though she tried, she couldn't quite wipe the grin from her face. Rare were the moments that she witnessed her twin sister so emotionally charged; La Noche was renowned far and wide for her calm, aloof demeanor, detached from life as though she were a star in the heavens, millions of miles away. So when something finally managed to penetrate the goddess' icy, collected exterior, La Muerte couldn't help feeling a little sense of triumphant amusement.
Managing to subdue her smile, she moved forward, making a peace offering of the rebozo. But La Noche, incensed, only huffed and moved stubbornly away, arms crossed and face sour, the blue feathers in her hair trembling as she shivered.
Her sister rolled her eyes. "Come here and get warm, you'll get sick standing out there in the cold."
"Gods don't get sick."
"No." Smirking, La Muerte removed the shawlfrom around her shoulders and draped it tenderly over her sister's. La Noche's leather wraps and gold earrings might have been well-suited to the summer heart of a tropical jungle to the south, but in the nippy fall air they were insufficient protection. Her own white blouse and long scarlet skirt were much more comfortable, and she could sacrifice her warm shawl for the sake of her older sister. "No, gods might not get sick. But a little sister can worry, can't she?"
Almost despite herself, La Noche smiled fondly. "Little? Only by a few minutes."
"Still counts." La Muerte watched, satisfied, as La Noche gratefully pulled the wrap around her body. After a few moments, during which her twin finally stopped shivering, she asked softly, "How much longer do you think he'll be? When did you agree to meet?"
"Midnight. But it would be just like him if he was late, making me wait a little longer." La Noche pursed her lips, tracing absent patterns across the yellow marigolds embroidered on her sister's rebozo. "He does so love his games…"
At the word games, La Muerte's dulce-de-leche heart skipped so wildly in her chest that she had to close her eyes to calm herself. It was no secret to the godly pantheon that its youngest member had a vicious penchant for gambling, a strange addiction for one as otherwise level-headed as La Muerte. Nevertheless, anything, cards, bets, dice, games of chance, she was a sucker for them all, and it was often a great struggle to keep such impulses under control. On the twins' fifth birthday, their parents had surprised them with their first visit to the sparkling capital of the gods, Tenochtitlan. La Muerte had in turn surprised her parents by vanishing soon after their arrival, and after many an hour of frantic searching, they were forced to physically drag her away from a backgammon table in the Great Hall, much to the amusement of Tlaloc and Ehecatl who had been only too happy teaching the little goddess the rules of the game.
La Muerte had never met her sister's suitor, this lord they called Xibalba, and she silently thanked her lucky stars every day. While perhaps not as enthusiastic a gambler as her, she had heard that the King of the Land of the Forgotten did appear occasionally at Tonatiuh's sporadic dice tournaments; a great disheartenment to the other players since he always won, brutally and efficiently.
And were he to bet against her, she would never be able to resist.
Squinting, La Muerte examined the illuminated clock face on the opposite side of the square. "It's not quite midnight. Perhaps another five minutes."
La Noche growled, beginning to pace again. "I hate this. If it turns midnight and he's not here, we're leaving."
"I don't see what all the fuss is over," La Muerte frowned, peering into the bar. Aside from the usual patrons, bedecked in ponchos and sombreros enjoying their nightly ritual of tapas and beer, she saw nothing. Nothing remotely godlike. "If it's the first time he's back from war in, what, years, shouldn't you be overjoyed to see him?"
La Noche's pacing tightened.
"Especially after all the letters, the flowers," La Muerte continued, smiling. She had never heard of the Lord Xibalba before the night of her and La Noche's shared quinciñera, when she—distracted by the mountain of fresh churros steaming on the dessert table—had been lost from her sister's side for the rest of the evening. After the party was over, La Noche had found her in short order, wide-eyed and bubbling about the tall, dark stranger with black wings who had asked her to dance. Her parents had been ecstatic. Since that day, it was common knowledge that the young Lord of the Land of the Forgotten was enamored with the Lady La Noche, who he planned to make his wife.
And for all appearances, it seemed to be true. He had called often, sent many gifts and letters, and everyone agreed wholeheartedly that it was probably the smartest match the Afterworld had seen since the marriage of Xiuhtecuhtli, the god of fire, to Xantico, the goddess of fireplaces.
"After all," La Muerte said, casting her sister a playful grin. "You love him, right?"
Regaining some of her former bravado, La Noche smirked patronizingly at her sister and straightened, arranging the rebozo around her like a royal robe. "He amuses me. He's charming, intelligent, every inch the proper gentleman. It's just…" She paused, bit her lip, and suddenly found a fleck of dust on her loincloth terribly interesting.
La Muerte finished the thought for her. "It's just that you've been a little less than a lady, is that it?"
La Noche visibly deflated, wincing as though the other goddess' words had physically run her through with a spear. "Perhaps."
Perhaps. La Muerte cocked an eyebrow. It had been quite a few years since that fateful night of their quinciñera, quite a few years that the Lord Xibalba had made his feelings for her sister more than explicit, and quite a few years of consistent snubbing on the part of La Noche, who couldn't even be bothered to give the god the time of day. His letters had never been answered, though all of them were read with a casual air of inconsequence, and in later years a few even kept lovingly stashed in the back of a stocking drawer (as La Muerte had discovered during a quick search for her favorite blouse which La Noche always borrowed without permission). The sent flowers had initially been sniffed at and cast into the wastebasket without so much as a second glance, but lately had found themselves in a delicate crystal vase, a place of honor on the bedside table, nevertheless thrown swiftly out the window if anyone happened to notice and comment on them. And when the lord called, expected or un, the eldest daughter of the royal family was always conveniently out in town, visiting a neighboring realm, or in possession of such a frightful headache that it was impossible for her to have visitors (though, in later years, no matter how frightful the headache, the eldest daughter might have found it in herself to creep down the stairs and peer at her would-be guest from behind the safety of some velvet curtains).
La Muerte sighed, glancing again into the bar. "Well, you've got to give him credit for sticking around this long. The man is a masochist."
"¡Ya, hermanita, por favor!" La Noche hissed. "I know I was a fool, alright? Give it a rest!"
Stung, La Muerte whirled, staring wide-eyed at her sister, whose anger was instantly replaced in quick succession by guilt, sadness, and finally defeat.
"I'm sorry, dulcita," she apologized softly, golden eyes downcast. She slid down the stucco wall across from the bar window and landed with a soft flump in the dusty street, cradling her head in her hands. The quetzal feathers in her long black hair formed striking patterns against with her white-sugar fingers. "I just don't know what to do."
And with that quiet, reluctant confession, any trace of amusement caused by her sister's rampaging emotions fled La Muerte's heart like crows from a cornfield. Filled with sympathy, the younger goddess approached gently, taking a seat beside her twin.
"It's been so long," La Noche continued, raising her head wearily and staring up at the sky. "What if his feelings have…changed?"
At that, La Muerte couldn't help but scoff. From many a past experience, she knew that anything (or anyone) that caught her sister's eye was as good as hers; and besides, it was obvious to everyone that La Noche was the most beautiful, most elegant, most eligible goddess in the pantheon. Any lord, Xibalba or otherwise, would have to be a paragon of fools to give up a chance with her.
So La Muerte grinned. "Don't be silly. I don't think he could change his feelings for you if he wanted to."
Nothing raised La Noche's spirits quite like a compliment. She shot her sister a side glance. "You think so?"
"Of course not. You're charming, intelligent, well-mannered, and stunningly beautiful." La Muerte paused. "Well, at least, that's what I am, and since you're my twin, it must be somewhere in you, too."
"Only more-so," La Noche smirked, "Since I am older, after all."
"I wouldn't bet on that."
"For the sake of the royal treasury, let's hope not." But suddenly, the laughing smile that had appeared on La Noche's face vanished like dew on a hot cobblestone. As the clock tower across the square began to toll the midnight hour, her eyes darted to the bar window and widened to the size of dinner plates. "Oh, anciosos me ayudan, there he is."
"Really? Where?!" La Muerte scrambled for the window to get a peek at her sister's mysterious suitor, but La Noche threw herself bodily on top of the goddess in a flying tackle that nearly knocked La Muerte's tiara from her head. The rebozo went flying. All she had seen was a pair of enormous, black wings seated at the bar.
"Are you insane? He'll see us!"
"I thought that was the point! You're going to meet him, aren't you?"
Panting, La Noche seized her little sister under the armpits and dragged her to hide beneath the window, throwing an arm across her torso to keep her pinned while she snuck a glance into the bar.
"Not yet," she wheezed, the feathers atop her head dancing madly as her shaking intensified. "I need a few more minutes."
"You've had plenty of minutes!" La Muerte growled, struggling under her sister's powerful grip. "Just go in there. Get it over with."
For a few tense moments, the only noises between the two goddesses was the laughing ambiance of the square behind them and their breathing. La Noche looked positively frazzled, eyes darting first from the window to her little sister to the mouth of the alley and back again. La Muerte tensed; her twin looked like a cornered jaguar debating whether fighting or flight-ing was the best option.
In this case, she opted for flight.
"I can't do this," she hissed, and before La Muerte's eyes, she transformed into a silver-turquoise ball of stardust and quetzal feathers and vanished over the rooftops.
"La Noche!" Just as quickly, La Muerte followed, a little shooting star of marigolds that zipped into the night. They met on top of the church steeple, both goddesses popping back into existence, La Noche looking wide-eyed and half-insane, La Muerte fuming.
"La Noche, no! You can't do this again," she hissed, the candles on her tiara flaming brightly in the darkness. "You go back there and you meet him, like you said you would!"
"I can't, hermanita, I can't!" La Noche cried, throwing up her hands. "What would I say? What would I do? I don't even know how to begin!"
Normally, La Muerte prided herself on her patience. She liked to think she was one of the more level-headed goddesses in the pantheon, compassionate, slow to anger, always willing to compromise. But it was after midnight. She was cold, tired, and hungry, and she wanted nothing more than to be back in her parents' palacio on the border of the Lands of the Remembered and the Unknown, curled up with a cup of hot chocolate, a blanket, and her guitar.
"Hola is always a great option!" she snarled, stamping one petite red slipper on the clay shingles. Pause. Focus. Breathe in and out. La Muerte closed her eyes and counted to ten before continuing, "La Noche, this might be your only chance. If you don't see him now, you might lose his attention forever."
Her sister was wavering. She stood at the very edge of the rooftop, staring into El Tigre de Tijuana's windows so intently that La Muerte half-expected the bar to catch fire. Her turquoise quetzal feathers quivered in the breeze, and her golden earrings winked in the moonlight.
La Muerte bit her lip and played her last card, the card she knew would get her sister's attention. "You know how you hate to lose."
The other gods could say what they might about them as twins; that they looked alike in every way, but that their personalities were total and complete opposites. That both were equally beautiful, equally passionate and ferocious, but rivals in everything they did, eager to distinguish themselves as goddesses and individuals. Say all these things and more, but it was undeniable that both shared a thirst for the game, a thirst to win. For La Noche, in love, for La Muerte, in cards.
So, when her older sister slowly straightened, her golden eyes narrowed in thought, La Muerte felt every bone in her immortal body melt with relief.
"I do hate to lose," she said slowly. Her sister grinned in triumph. She straightened her blouse, summoned her rebozo with a snap of her fingers, and opened her mouth to tell La Noche to go for it.
"But so does he."
The calaca in red froze stone-still. That phrase was unexpected. "What?"
With a small pop! and the smell of crisp night air, La Noche appeared in front of her twin and seized her by the shoulders, golden eyes boring into hers. "La Muerte, I want you to go in my place."
It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, La Muerte came to violent life. "Me?!" She shook off the teenage goddess' hands like a moth-eaten shirt, fire blazing to life behind her eyes. "¿Estás completamente loca? What would I say?"
Eyes alive and mouth grinning ecstatically, La Noche seemed to only vaguely hear her. Her mind was somewhere else, absorbed in thought, which both simultaneously unnerved and infuriated her sister. "I don't know, make something up! Tell him I'm sick."
"Gods don't get sick."
"Tell him I've got urgent business to attend to that concerns the mortals."
"You couldn't care less about the mortals and he knows that."
"True." Thus stymied, La Noche returned to herself momentarily, tapping her painted chin with a long white finger. But, apparently deciding that excuses were now part of her little sister's job description, she smirked. "Well, make something up! I have a plan."
La Muerte glared at her fiercely. "A plan that involves your little sister making a fool of herself in front of Lord Xibalba? No, thank you. I've heard he eats people who waste his time."
"Listen," La Noche insisted, grasping La Muerte's panicking hands and holding them in front of her like she was trying to calm a pair of birds. "If Xibalba has waited this long to get my attention, he'll wait a little longer. If this was a battle, I'd want a first assault to be on my own territory, a home advantage. I want to invite him to the palace."
"This is love, this isn't a chess game!"
"Everything's a chess game, dulcita," La Noche said with a far-away voice, staring into the distance as though she were plotting out her next moves already. "I can't see him tonight. Our first meeting must be in the palace. La Muerte, I need you to go in there, talk, be charming, and invite him to lunch tomorrow."
"Lunch?! La Noche, have you lost your mind? He doesn't even know who I am!"
"La Muerte, please." With firm, resolute hands, La Noche took her sister's shoulders, staring into golden eyes set in a white face that almost perfectly mirrored her own; identical, were it not for the geometric stripes across La Noche's face that contrasted sharply with La Muerte's gentle spirals and flowers.
"Please, hermanita," she repeated. "I need you to do this for me. I need your help."
La Muerte quavered, and some little part of her fumed internally. La Noche was ruthless when it came to using her little sister's compassion even against herself. Nothing would have delighted her more than to scream NO in her sister's face and vanish before her eyes. She blinked once, twice, but when she realized that she had already given in, she sighed.
"Alright."
Instantly, La Noche lit up like the full moon. She deftly kissed her little sister on both cheeks. "You won't regret this, La Muerte, I promise you won't."
She withered. "Something tells me I already do."
"The palacio tomorrow around one, alright? Lunch."
"Lunch."
"Wonderful!" And just before she vanished into stardust, La Noche nudged her little sister's shoulder and smirked. "You're the best, hermanita."
And then she was gone, the only thing left behind the twinkle of the heavens and a light, chiming laughter.
La Muerte grimaced, straightened her shawl, and cleared her throat. "Lunch. One o'clock. Right. Congratulations, La Muerte, you're nothing more than the Lady of the Unknown's errand girl."
But there was nothing more for it. So she swallowed, closed her eyes, and disappeared in a cloud of marigolds.
A/N: This took me a week to write: I'm trash. No Xibalba in this one (and, honestly, he's the one we all come to see), but trust me, my lovelies, he's the heart of the next installment. Please let me know if anything was horribly off in this (¿"dulcita" no es español? / Look, an OC-esque La Noche!). Questions and comments are always more than welcome.