The rain fell around La Muerte—never on her. The flames of the candles on her hat and dress waved back and forth as she walked across the wooden bridge, her eyes on the smothered flicks on either side. She had her hands clasped in front of her, head lowered as she looked upon the still figure laying underneath the tree. "Oh, Manolo," the goddess whispered, brushing her fingers across his forehead, tracing the markings that he would wake up to in her realm.

Her old realm.

She would not even be able to meet the boy she had claimed as her champion. Cupping his cheek, La Muerte sat upon the earth, her legs out to the side, hip upon the ground, one hand braced against a root. The goddess' fingers brushed through his hair, trailed over his gaunt features. "I am sorry, Torito," Her voice was like the gurgle of chocolate fondue as it fell from a fountain, bright eyes closing as she rested her forehead against his. "May you rest in peace," The words were breathed over his skin and his black hair fluttered. "May you be remembered by all."

Slowly, La Muerte stood, clasped her hands in front of her, and bowed her head. She did not cry, she did not curse. The rain fell and her candles flickered before marigold petals flew up around her, swirling across her dress and over her hat as he body disintegrated into gold and followed them.

Lightning raged across the sky, thunder following it like a bull. The sunrise had been long gone when the anger of the skies was echoed by boots against wood.

"Manolo!" The shout somehow rose above the rain. "Manolo!" Carlos Sanchez ignored the water currently soaking his hair and his suit, cupping his hands around his mouth as he yelled his son's name. Beneath his feet, the wood of the bridge was slippery and he cursed when it almost pulled his heel out from underneath him. The bullfighter almost teetered into the lake but caught himself in time, breathing out and admiring the candles along the edges.

He saw the tree rising up out of the rain and walked towards it. "Manolo!" Carlos shouted again. "It's cold, Manolo!" He tried to drown out the sky and the sky grumbled back but quieted for the father. "Come home!"

The dirt was turning into mud, sinking beneath his feet—and Carlos saw it. That damn wooden guitar laying out on the dirt. Grinning cheerfully up at him, the painted skull looked as if it was mocking the bullfighter, holding a secret that the man didn't know.

Fingers were spread, curled up limply, grasping towards the sky. One leg was braced against the ground, making a soft point at the knee while the other was laid across the ground, turned on it's side, toes pointed towards San Ángel. The black hair that had been combed was now ruffled, sticking out in places.

Manolo's lips were parted, forming a syllable that could no longer be heard, his eyes half lidded and staring at the branches of the tree.

The cry that ripped through Carlos was carnal, echoing across the lake and ripping through his ribcage like a coyote's fangs. "MANOLO," he screamed and the thunder responded, booming and shaking the leaves above his head. Muscles gave out, the father falling to his knees beside his son, hands hovering above his chest and neck. The tears were thick and heavy, echoing the rain that pounded against the wooden bridge, pattered on the lake, and made the tree shudder.

Carlos reached forward and gathered his son to him, holding the young man as if he was merely a boy once more. Manolo's head rested against his chest, his eyes still staring blankly forward and the torero brushed his hand along his son's cheek, brushing away the dirt and just holding the cold body closer. There was no movement in the young man's chest, no twitch in his limbs.

"Manolo," the father whispered, closing his eyes and pressing his face against the soft, black hair. "Manolo."

There was no answer and Carlos hadn't expected one. Alone, he lifted his son into his arms, carrying him cradled as if he was a babe once more, and walked down the pathway to San Ángel. No one stopped or greeted him, all eyes upon Casa de Posada.

That suited the bullfighter just fine, his tears mixing with the rain as both streamed down his face. Each step was a struggle, Carlos unable to look down at his son and, yet, unable to look away.

"Did you find that boy?" His mother said, not looking up from her knitting when he pushed through the door. "Mijo—"

Carlos could not stop the fresh wave of tears that spilled over his cheeks, his eyes red around the edges, son still held close to his chest. "Mamá," he whispered, voice choked and the word catching against the skin of his throat. The bullfighter swallowed. "He's gone."

"Manolo," the old woman murmured, her fingers raising up to her mouth, the wrinkles on her face deepening. She watched as Carlos pushed everything off the table and laid the corpse upon the wood, smoothing down the black and gold traje de luces covering his son's chest.

A chair groaned as the bullfighter sat down on it, cupping his head in his hands. "Someone will have to tell Joaquin," He said, shoulders slumping from funeral arrangements, speeches, and the weight of his son's spirit. "Someone will have to tell the priest."

Thin and wrinkled, a hand rested upon his forearm, almost dwarfed by the decoration upon Carlos' own suit. "Rest a little," his mother said gently, her eyes soft as she looked up on him. She turned to stare at the body of her grandson. "Let the rain pass."

Outside, the thunder rumbled as if in agreement and Carlos rested his head in his hands and never left his son's side, waiting for the pattering on the roof to disperse. He almost missed the sound of the knock at his door.

Almost.

With a groan of a man twice his age, Carlos pushed himself out of the seat and made his way towards the entryway. He opened the door and blinked, looking up on the broad-shouldered figure of Joaquin. The young man's blue uniform was dark from where he had walked in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck.

"Señor Sanchez," he bowed his head slightly in respect. "I'm looking for Manolo, have you seen him?" There was a darkness in the light eyes, a worry.

Carlos swallowed, opened his mouth, and nothing came out. He could feel the eyes of his son's best friend on him along with his mother's. "Manolo," the bullfighter managed and swallowed down the blockades gathering in his throat. "Manolo's gone, Joaquin."

Surprise dawned on the soldier's face, his eyes widening. "We must find him, then," nodding to himself, Joaquin stepped back, about to head out further into the storm when a hand rested on his shoulder.

Looking down at the ground, unable to meet the young man's eyes, the torero fought for words. "He's gone," Carlos said instead. "H-he's gone."

"Señor Sanchez," Joaquin's voice was soft and he rested both hands on the man's shoulder's. "What do you mean?"

So the Bullfighter turned, opening up the doorway for the soldier to come through and see for himself. Joaquin froze as his eyes landed on the limp figure laying upon the table, water dripped from his hair to the floor, each fall and splatter like one of the thunderclaps outside. "No," he whispered before his voice raised into an echo of the scream that had ripped through Carlos earlier. "NO!"

The older man closed his eyes, lowering his head as his son's friend ran across the room, boots thudding against the wood. Lightning flashed, lighting up the inside of the house as Joaquin brushed his hands across Manolo's face and chest.

"Hermano," the soldier whispered and rested his forehead against the pale, cold one of the man beneath him. "I'm so sorry," he continued, just as soft. Joaquin's breath hitched and a tear fell and created a damp circle on the black fabric his friend was wearing. "I'm so, so sorry."

Carlos turned away when the young man started to sob, his voice choking, the tears coming faster. He had not seen his mother leave the room—not that it would have surprised him if she had. The old woman tended to mourn behind shut doors.

Above them, the pattering on the roof started to slow and halt, the sky still covered in clouds, lightning flashing, but the rain had slowed around the town of San Ángel.

For a moment, the torero grew angry as if the sky itself had stopped mourning his son—but, in the next moment, he was exhausted and ready to sit down in one of the chairs and stay there.

"Senor Sanchez," Joaquin spoke up softly, his voice rough, eyes red. "I'm so," he had to pause to clear his throat and, even then, the words came out hoarse. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

What could he say to that? What could someone ever say to that? "Thank you, Joaquin," Carlos said, looking at the young man and giving him a tired, half-hearted quirk of his lips. He reached forward and laid a trembling hand on the soldier's shoulder.

Joaquin nodded and rubbed at his eyes, taking in a deep breath before straightening his back and walking back out into the world. Carlos watched him go in silence before he dropped back into the chair beside his son, took the pale, cold hand in his own, closed his eyes, and waited to wake up from the dream.

He never did.

It's been an unspoken agreement that Joaquin was the one to find Manolo.

I disagree.

Thank you for reading, review if you liked.

Gospel