Just a Memory

The Land of the Forgotten held its usual stale, hollow silence, the only sound being the echoes of crumbling rock under Xibalba's feet.

His wiry, white hair wearily hung over like frayed rope, his red skull eyes, lacking their usual luster, had turned into a darkened maroon and were sunken in, giving him a more deathly appearance than usual.

He had the smell of hard liquor on his breathe as he drunkenly stumbled into his chambers and slumped over his throne.

"Leave me alone, Xibalba! I have had enough! Just go and leave! Get out of my sight!"

It had been almost four centuries since his separation from La Muerte, but those words still burned as hotly as they had done then. A century in an immortal's time was like a year in humans, but to Xibalba, a century without his amor felt like an entire lifetime. Time seemed to move slowly in the Land of the Forgotten, and drearily so.

He had tried to impress her, win back her affection with flowers, trinkets, wagers, and apologies. He tried everything he could think of, but to no avail. He had lived for thousands of years, but women were still a mystery to him.

He was relentless and stubborn, but so was she. Eventually, he began to lose hope on ever winning her back and fell into a pit of despair and rage. He started taking out his wrath upon mortals by making them wage war upon themselves, feed on their fear, and kill many long before their time. He even gave his medal of eternal life to a thieving miscreant named Chakal to spread more chaos and fear. It was the only way La Muerte would ever pay attention to him.

He enjoyed proving that mortals were weak-minded and black-hearted as he was. It meant that he was right, and that his wife was wrong. But after a while, he had become so predictable with his behavior, his lover would hardly even bat an eye in his direction anymore. She would only sigh, say he would never change, and restore whatever chaos he had created back to its original state.

She had taken the fun out of messing with mortals. It was then that he truly fell into depression.

What was the point of it all? Existing in this wasteland, preying on mortal fear, merely so the forgotten would suffer in silence and fade away? He wasn't their king. He was their babysitter. Maybe not even that. Anytime that he had tried to care for his subjects, they were highly undesirable in demeanor or had already begun to fade away; eventually, they all did.

His love, his corazón, was his only reason for living. And now, she was gone. Lost to him, forever. All because he had cheated on a bet.

He was such a fool. In one moment, he had everything in the palm of his hands, and the next, he had nothing. Nothingness and void. It was then that dark thoughts began to plague his mind.

Would she care if I was gone?

Would she even notice if I was?

What interest did he hold in her life? She was surrounded by kindness and goodness, ruling a land of happiness and eternal fiestas. Even her own essence was that of sweetness. And what was he? Just someone unpleasant whom she had often quarreled with, a nuisance in her otherwise perfect life.

He adored her- nay- worshiped her! But she did she ever feel as strongly as he did? It was always he that begged for her attention, he, that had bent the ancient rules and his decisions at the touch of her hand, just for her.

He was the King of the Land of the Forgotten. Maybe he should truly become the King of the Forgotten and do what all the others before him had done and just fade away...

Mortals had it easy. Their lives were easier to snuff out, a fleeting, flickering flame among many to be dowsed and smothered into smoke. But gods were immortal. Or at least, had very long lives. Most would have likely believed the former, but there was always a way, for nothing is ever eternal.

It wasn't that it was difficult to kill a god, rather it was hard to execute and none would have dared to try it, especially on themselves. One could not technically kill a god; there was no power in that. One could not kill a force of nature. But one could easily forget. If one had stopped worshiping a god, then the god would simply fade out of existence. Memory was power, in more ways than one.

It was why he had snuck into the Candlemaker's dwelling, hiding in the shadows of the candlelight. The maker was out, celebrating the Day of the Dead with La Muerte with the mortals above. Xibalba was not as keen to celebrate, seeing as how he would have to had dealt with the many forgotten during this most celebrated holiday later. Usually, he would have gone up there to cause some mischief, as it was one of the few days he was allowed to the surface world and could walk around freely among the living. It was when he would spend his most memorable days with his wife. But not this day.

Sitting on the Candlemaker's cloud lay the Book of Life. In it, contained the stories of every living being. This was how the Candlemaker knew all of their secrets, but he had tried to give them privacy in most of their affairs, since he never had time to read their stories anyways. Unfortunately the book could never let you skip to the end of a story still being written, so it was nearly impossible to predict an outcome of one person's story. It was a way of giving the person power over their destiny.

But in his blackened, tar-covered heart, Xibalba knew that his story would go on forever, and it was one he would not desire having to live through. Shutting the book with an echoing thud, a dull moment of peace and serenity settled over him at the concluding thought that his story would finally have an ending. It was the first time he had felt happy in a long time.

With that thought in hand, he had quickly slipped back into the shadows and tried to avoid disturbing any of the candles on the way out, but not before pausing at the doorway. Humans had often had the tradition of a last meal before their execution, so he decided to borrow some of the Candlemaker's spirits for just the occasion. Taking a long swig of the deep crimson-red bottle after popping off the cork top, he let the tingling feeling of drunkenness overtake him as he walked up the broken staircase.

After all of that grief, he had finally retrieved what he had been seeking. Pulling the book out from his robe, he drearily propped it against his chair and turned to his section of the book. One interesting thing about the gods was that the Candlemaker was not in charge of their candles of life.

La Muerte had many of hers on her sombrero and on the edges of her dress, while Xibalba had his proudly mounted on his shoulders and his crown on his conquistador armor. It was so that one god did not have more power over another.

He took one of the green-flamed candles eternally burning on his armor and began lighting some of the pages on fire. Gradually, he began feeling the memories on the pages slipping away. It had felt good, almost like a burden lifting off of his shoulders. But it wasn't just the memories of his past that he wanted to burn. It was the pages that had not been written. Bookmarking the beginning of his story, he clumped the pages together until he turned to the last page written which held a small animation of Xibalba holding his candles over the animated book's pages. He tore all of them out, feeling something inside him die as he did, stray papers falling to the floor like dead leaves.

He began throwing his candles onto the empty pages, the paper lighting up quickly in a sickening green blaze. It wasn't until that he saw a woman clad in red appear on the page that he stayed his hand for only a second.

"XIBALBA!" it wrote loudly in cursive. Loudly? How could a story express sound? Had he actually heard a voice?

Quickly, his gazed shifted in surprise to La Muerte standing behind him in disbelieving horror.

"What are you doing?!" she yelled, grabbing onto his arm to keep him from throwing more of his candles onto the fire.

"Disappearing, mi amor, was that not what you wanted?" he mumbled with a slight tone of bitterness. Confusion flashed over her at his response before she slowly put everything together, but she did not waver. Her grip on his arm now shook not only in anger, but in sorrow as well as silent sobs wracked the back of her throat, threatening to burst like the damn of tears beginning to build up behind her eyes.

"Oh Balby, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry! I should have never said those things to you..." she said tenderly, placing her other hand on the side of his face.

"It's too late, mi amor. I am already starting to forget..."

"It's not too late. The Candlemaker, we can get him to fix-!" she began before Xibalba cut her off with a fierce kiss. Gradually, she released her grip and fell into his arms. When her guard was down, he took the opportunity to throw the final candle onto the fire.

"NOOO!" she screamed, too late to stop the burning inferno as Xibalba held her back with adamant restraint. The papers now crinkled and curled together, slowly covering with white wax and dulling green flames. Xibalba looked at his distressed ex-lover with a sad smile, already feeling himself wane and fade away, like the dimming of a dying candle.

"Guess I was able to pull one final trick before I go. I am happy to see your face one last time, La Muerte. If I had to remember anything again, it would have been your touch, my love."

"No... Please don't go. I need you, you fool..." she whispered sadly, tears streaming freely down her face as she began to choke on her own words.

"No you don't, my love. You never did. Soon, I will be nothing. Nothing but a memory, forgotten like all the others... Perhaps you will be happier without it. Adios, mi amor... I love you..."

The king quickly faded away into a collection of sparkling light and black smoke that fell onto the melted candles below. The smell of black licorice hung in the air as La Muerte collapsed onto her knees, left sobbing in a puddle of wax, burnt paper, and a small silver crown, gradually wondering why she was crying in the first place. But some part of her knew why.

She had finally gotten her wish. She was now alone, now and forever...