Maria spent a dance with Joaquin during the wedding, the two of them smiling and giggling as others passed around them, cloth brushing against skin, their hands clasped tightly as they relaxed, at last, for the first time since she had woken up from the trance. Manolo was back, Chakal was defeated, and, while they had lost a few good people that day, the village was in one piece, the citizens alive. The skeletal form of Carlos spun past their view, Carmen holding him and leading, her footsteps sure and smile bright.
At long last, the song faded and their hands clapped for the bowing band before they started on another upbeat song. Maria looked for Manolo, searching for his head above the crowd, Joaquin beside her, lending his height silently even though he had just one good eye to search with.
Their friend was nowhere to be found even though his family was surrounding them.
Maria led the way to the church, figuring that her husband (what a word that was; marido) was inside perhaps taking a break from the shade—or her father, which was much the same thing as both were bright and blinding and unbearably fiery when tempered.
Music drifted through the walls, her and Joaquin's footsteps echoing. The pews, however, were empty and Maria frowned, quickening her feet and walking around the corner to go down one hallway—and stopped.
Manolo was there, sitting on the floor with his head laid back against the stone, eyes softly closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he watched something deep in his dreams. Both hands were folded on his lap and, sure enough, water was beside him.
The cup was not the only thing standing guardian, for sitting across from him was the woman who had stood upon the building. Her black hair was strewn out behind her, somehow elegant, despite the fact that it was sitting upon the swept floor of a church. Her eyes were focused on something in her hands, fingers brushing down pointed edges, smoothing wax, forming a small sculpture of a skull. Her thumbs punched in the eye sockets before she turned and looked up at them, eyes like smouldering coals.
Her smile was gentle; a quirk of her blood red lips. "Hola, Maria," she said and turned that stare onto the man in green, her face, if possible, just as soft and proud. "Joaquin." The white skin glistened from tiny crystals of sugar as she turned back to Manolo, the skulls on her hat clinking together, the candles flickering. A sound rose up in her throat; a hum that filled them with warmth, easing their hearts before they knew they needed to be eased.
Maria and Joaquin sat down, leaning against the wall and watched as Manolo's head dipped and then jerked back up, his eyes staying closed even as he sniffled and curled up tighter. His friends pressed in on both sides and he sighed, relaxing against them, the frown on his face softening.
"—I am sorry." The words rose up from the goddess as if they were merely an afterthought—something that needed to be said, yet they slipped from between her lips like ghosts. Maria and Joaquin looked up and saw her carving out the smiling, toothy mouth on her wax skull with a fingernail. "Hear my song, I know I sing the truth..." She went back to humming, her tongue sticking just a bit out of her mouth as she focused on getting the small markings on the cheeks, chin, and forehead just right.
The song faded away and, as the last note was being whisked away by the stuffy air of the church, La Muerte put down the wax skull and turned her eyes to them again. Her hands folded on her lap, the skeletal white shockingly bright against the crimson of her dress. She never prompted them, never said anything beyond those few words of song, and yet they wanted her to speak more, to tell them what had happened to their friend.
"He was dead," Maria managed and those bright, burning eyes turned to her. "He was dead, I saw his body."
"Yes," the goddess dipped her head in acknowledgement and the hat moved with her, hiding her face from view for a few moments. "Manolo arrived in the Land of the Remembered and was reunited with his family."
The young woman reached over, brushing her brown hair from her face, the wedding dress bunching up against her waist as she grasped her husband's hand and flesh the warmth residing in his skin, the faint pump of blood moving through his veins. "I do not understand," Maria murmured.
"How is he alive?" Joaquin asked, scooting closer so his shoulder caught Manolo's dipping head. The bullfighter's cheek rested against his arm, the black hair tickling the soldier's neck.
"That," La Muerte said, her eyes turning to the younger man. "Is not my story to tell." But she smiled in a way that Maria had seen mothers smile at their sons. "At least—" a laughed bubbled up her throat and her gaze became unfocused, staring at the wall, watching the far future. "—not yet."
There was a good nature chuckle and all of their eyes moved to the man they were speaking of, his eyes partially open, cheek still resting on Joaquin's shoulder. "As long as you and Xibalba don't make another wager out of it."
She waved her hand and smiled in a way that lit up the candles on her hat and her dress. "How else are we supposed to find our fun, Manolo?"
He sighed in exasperation, but the smile took the sting away. A silence settled around them and his eyes were drifting close again before he pried them open. "Am I supposed to be this tired?"
La Muerte picked up the wax skull, turning it over in her hands. "Your soul needs rest," she brushed her fingers over the eyes and, for a second, Maria thought that she would crush her sculpture between her hands; but the pressure eased and the skull had been unaffected. "It has been through much."
Maria felt him shudder beside her and gripped his hand tighter, pressing closer to him.
"But you have done good things, today," the goddess continued and offered the wax to him. "And you deserve to sleep."
"Thank you, my lady," he murmured, accepting the gift and cupping it to his chest.
She rose off the floor, her candles staying upright, graceful even as she stood. "I must go find my husband," La Muerte admitted and offered all of them one more smile. "Be well, you three." Turning, the goddess headed down the hallway, lighting up the stone as she passed. "I hope to not see you in my realm for a very long time."
By the time she vanished from sight, Manolo was asleep again, holding the skull, clutching at Maria's hand, and resting his head upon Joaquin. He continued to doze through the festivities and, even when the Sanchez family sunk back into the ground, swallowed up by the earth, the bullfighter did not awaken. Joaquin carried him to casa de Sanchez and laid him down upon his bed.
Maria settled in a chair, and pulled her friend to join her, watching over her husband and her friend with wide, brown eyes. "Do you think he will be alright?" She murmured.
Looking over the bullfighter, Joaquin could say nothing else except for a quiet, "yes."
Waking up hours later to a flash and a bang, Maria rubbed at her eyes, back aching from the awkward position of sitting in the chair and leaning on the bed. She rubbed her eyes and winced when bones cracked, a shiver running down her spine like the rain upon the glass. The sheets of the bed were rumpled and messy, but they held no Manolo and she looked around before spotting him watching the storm outside.
"Mi amor," she murmured, carefully standing so the chair would not be jerked back. "What are you doing?"
He looked back at her, having changed out of his bull fighting outfit and was now wearing just an undershirt and a pair of loose pants that hung around his hips. "I did not mean to wake you," their hands came together, clasping tightly as the streetlights outside shone orange. The bar down the street was still lit up, so it must not have been too late.
Or too early, as was sometimes the case.
The rain was coming down, splashing on the road and creating small rivers that flowed down the cobble stone paths. Maria rubbed her thumb across his knuckles and smiled kindly up at him, her eyes soft as she looked over his face.
Outside, lightning flashed, sending a burst of white light through the room and the visage before her changed in an instant.
There was bone with swirling designs carved across the jaw and under the eyes that were black except for the single, yellow irises glowing in the centre. They burned like coals, like La Muerte's, piercing the young woman deep into her soul, picking apart truths and lies. It was all gone in an instant before appearing again with the lightning as it struck a second time.
"Maria?" Monolo leaned closer, his face, his skin, lit up by the orange lights outside once the blinding white had faded. "What's wrong?" Panic was rising in his tone and she watched his eyes flick over her face, searching.
Brown eyes.
Not black.
Certainly not yellow.
"Manolo," she whispered, holding onto his fingers, his palms, and felt the warmth coming from his skin, felt his pulse beat underneath her. He was alive, she kept telling herself. He was alive and she was tired, yes. It was just a dream, just a hallucination—
The lightning came again, changing his face for a second time. It distorted his hands, his neck, and what she could see under his shirt.
Flesh to bone.
She jerked and Manolo's eyes (the brown similar to the colour of a golden eagle) widened, hands reaching out for her but not touching. The tips of his fingers brushed the cloth of her dress, a whisper against the fabric before he pulled back and her chest ached at the sight. "Maria, what's wrong?"
Reaching forward, the young woman took his hand and watched his face as lightning sparked once more. "Manolo," she whispered, pressing one palm against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart against her skin. "You..." but Maria had to pause, unable to ask if he was still dead, if the illusion of life was making her hopeful before he was stolen from her again. Instead, she pulled him to the mirror on the wall, stood beside him and looked upon the glass as he followed her willingly and silent.
White light, bone, black and yellow eyes—Manolo jerked back out of her hold, staring at his normal visage in the mirror. "I—" he tried and stuttered to a halt, pressing his hands against his face, running his fingers under his eyes and along the bridge of his nose, tracing the markings that had appeared.
"Manolo? Maria?" Joaquin grunted and rubbed at his face, blinking his single, eye blearily and squinting in the dark. "What are you doing?"
There was lightning and the soldier shot up out of his chair, his gaze never leaving his friend even as Manolo backed away from both of them, cradling his head in his hands, chest unable to keep up with his ragged breathing. His back hit the wall and they watched as he slid down, knees shaking as the light flashed again and his skeleton glowed against the shadows.
Rain made a cacophony of music with the bullfighter's gasps and Joaquin moved forward to stand beside Maria, unsure if they should approach.
"You are afraid," Manolo whispered and the words were barely heard over the crash of thunder.
It was the only sign they needed before Maria and Joaquin rushed forward, reaching for him. "No, Manolo," the young woman whispered, drawing his face out of his hands and pulling him so his head was on her chest and her arms were wrapped around his back. "We are merely worried."
"I am alive," he said, forcing the words out as if the harsher he spoke them, the more true they would become.
Joaquin rested his hand between Manolo's shoulder blades, sitting heavy on his spine. "How do you know that it will stay that way?" The soldier flinched back as Maria glared at him and just shrugged. "What?"
"Of all the insensitive—"
"I won a bet," Manolo interrupted before it could get heated. "I beat Xibalba." He did not look at Joaquin, but the other man heard the fierceness behind the words despite that. "I am alive."
All three of them stayed there until the storm was calming, passing them over and heading on to torment other towns and places. Maria, at last, took Manolo's hand and pulled him away from the wall, back towards the bed. "You should sleep, mi amor," she murmured, gently herding him back on the sheets.
Joaquin pulled up the chairs and stopped when the bullfighter merely moved to the centre of his mattress and patted the areas on either side of him. Maria climbed in without any hesitation, curling up against his figure. The soldier paused for a few seconds before slowly moving, the bed dipping under his knee. Grabbing the other man's hand, Manolo pulled him in and laid his head back against one of the many pillows, ignoring the sputtering.
They curled up together as thunder rumbled in the distance and drifted off to sleep as bright eyes—one a pair of yellow, the other red skulls upon green—watched them in silence.
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Gospel