A/N: Alejandro makes some harsh judgments before coming to an important realization.

CW: Depictions of grief and depression

Chapter 3: Dead Hearts Are Everywhere

Encantober Prompt Day 7: Donkey

It did not take long for Alejandro's bitterness to lose its edge. He had always been a compassionate man, and remained so in death. But although his anger abated and his bitterness fell away, there was left a small, hardened, self-righteous part of him that remained quietly indignant with his wife, the Madrigals, and the entire town.

It pained him to see Lucia hurting, and yet – he judged her, because watching her lose herself and ignore their daughter hurt him. He knew it was wrong even as he thought it, but he believed that had he experienced the same tragedy as she, he would not lose himself as she did. He would never ignore the cries of their child.

And yet, his judgment of her actions – or inaction - was softened by the magnitude of his love for her.

The Madrigals, though, and their relationship to the town, to the villagers in the Encanto – his judgment of them remained. It was without animosity or hostility; it was detached, but it was harsh. For the first time, he felt as dead emotionally as he was physically. Now feeling nothing but a sort of numb disinterest, he watched them all with a clinical eye, entirely for the purpose of piecing together the true state of affairs of the Encanto and its leading family. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark.

After watching the family for days, he came to a conclusion:

They were all donkeys, in their own ways.

All beasts of burden. And all extremely stubborn.

Luisa, of course, was often treated by the town as a literal donkey, at the beck and call of every self-centered, ridiculous request. Why did the church need to be moved at all? The Bible itself said God did not dwell in temples made by human hands. Moving the church was pure vanity on the priest's part. Why should the river be rerouted once a week? As if Pepa didn't already cater to the farmer's needs with her rain! Why did his cuñados Sofia and Lorenzo not teach their children to shut the door and latch the gate to their donkey pens?! Why did Luisa's own parents not speak up for her? Why did she not speak up for herself? The girl's workload could be cut in half. It should be cut in half!

But she wasn't the only one shouldering burdens in La Familia Madrigal.

Alma was still burdened by her grief. Time had not lessened its weight, but it had dulled its edge. She carried her grief like a martyr, with one foot in the past, in the grave with her husband - and one foot in the future, fear making her strive for a protection that was impossible to guarantee.

Death comes for us all in the end, after all, Alejandro thought darkly. And Alma was so burdened by her grief and fear she had zero ability to be present in the moment, and it made her blind to the burdens weighing down the rest of her family. She appeared calm and collected outwardly, but inwardly was as fraught as a string on a tiple strung too tightly, ready to snap.

In fact, she often did snap. At Mirabel.

Mirabel, who desperately tried so hard to earn an approval that her abuela no longer possessed to give. Mirabel carried around the burden of making herself be seen at all, let alone making herself be seen as a worthy member of the family. Mirabel's family was loaded down with responsibility, and she was frantically piling more and more on her own back – cleaning, mending, encouraging, carrying, decorating, socializing - just so she wouldn't feel out of place. She worked twice as hard as all of them to make up for her lack of 'gift', and no one noticed unless she got in their way.

Except her mother and father.

But Julieta was burdened with cooking, with healing the town. Her gift was one that could never wait, and though she often took a moment here or there to reassure and encourage her daughters, she never had the time to really see how deeply her daughters were affected by all the expectations placed on them. Her gift was a matter of life and death, after all.

Isabela's load was perfection, always being Alma's source of calm, always reacting in exactly the right way to appease her abuela and make her happy again.

Pepa felt the weight of being expected to maintain perfect control over her emotions; to change her feelings on a moment's notice.

Félix and Agustín had the heavy burden of watching their wives carry loads they themselves could not help them with.

Camilo felt the pressure of constantly changing himself to fit everyone elses' needs at any given moment.

Alejandro could see the chains of expectation slowly winding themselves around even little Antonio, too. As most children are, he was observant, and Alejandro saw his tiny brows knit together whenever Mirabel was brushed off, whenever Abuela asked someone to do just one more thing, 'for the Encanto, for la familia, for our Miracle.'

He remembered the excitement the older Madrigal grandchildren had had when waiting for their gifts. They were always guessing what their gifts might be – perhaps flight? Invisibility? Growing hair as long as Rapunzel? The ability to glow in the dark like a firefly?

Antonio never wanted to play that game. He never wanted to guess what his gift might be.

He was three years old, and he was nervous.

Dolores' load was the secrets she overheard, in the town and within her own family. He knew she was aware of how badly Lucía was still taking his death, of how desperately she needed help taking care of Josefina, let alone herself. He knew Dolores spoke carefully cultivated words to guide her familia in helping to care for her and for the rest of the town. And she had to know about her tío, still living in the walls. She had to! How could she keep that a secret for so long?

And Bruno.

Bruno had carried the weight of the future on his thin, weathered shoulders. He'd been pushed too far, and he buckled and broke under it all. This was the village's fault. It was the Madrigal's fault. And it was also Bruno's fault, for staying hidden in the walls of his home for seven years! SEVEN. YEARS!

Bruno Madrigal was not the long-suffering saint or the martyr devoted to truth that Alejandro thought he was. Turns out, he hadn't faced the judgment and scorn of his family and the town with grit and determination. He'd hunched his shoulders and barreled through it as though through a downpour, trying to stay as dry as possible. Trying to keep his head above water.

Bruno Madrigal was a man. He was a man, he was afraid, and he was watching his life pass him by from the shadows of a broken miracle. He himself was broken, but was doing his best to patch the cracks behind the scenes.

It was Bruno, more than anyone else, who began softening that small hardened piece of his soul.

He was a good man, strange but endearing, and Alejandro slowly grew to accept this new version of him – the real version of him, not the idea he'd had of the man in his head. Alejandro watched with interest as Bruno took care of his rats; how they sometimes snuck food in for him; how he would sometimes sneak out of his hiding place in the walls to get food for them, how he moved from shadow to shadow, potted plant to potted plant, dashing here and freezing there, looking almost like a rat himself.

Alejandro watched as Bruno spoke to the rats and to himself, narrating his day, debating his outfit choices, praying, reading, painting, writing, performing telenovelas (and they were, to Alejandro's surprise, quite entertaining), and – patching.

Alejandro had ample time to explore the internal workings of Casita, and she was not well. But she sheltered Bruno, and he did his best to bind her wounds and nurse her back to health. He didn't understand why Bruno was hiding; why Casita was hiding her cracks; why they helped each other hide. But they were working together somehow behind the scenes, to accomplish something that Alejandro could not yet comprehend through his limited observations.

Alejandro felt indignant. They needed help! The whole family needed help! They were all struggling to carry their own loads, loads that had been piled on their backs by Alma, by the town, and even by themselves! And they were so stubborn, refusing to admit they were struggling; refusing to ask for help. There was so much unnecessary pain! It was foolishness. If only there was some way to communicate! If only there was some way he could fix this, some way he could communicate all he could see, now that he was dead and unfettered by time and space! He could point all this out, reveal all their flaws, all their hidden secrets - he could help them – if only he could go back, if only he could figure out some way to talk to them all; perhaps his death would serve a purpose!

He started. Maybe that was it! Maybe his death did have a purpose. Maybe he was still here because – because of unfinished business. Unfinished business regarding the Madrigals? He had been the one to paint Bruno in the center of the family…

Alejandro turned the idea over and over in his mind on his way home. He always returned home for Josefina's bedtime. There was something poignant and meaningful in watching Lucía – or whatever adult happened to be there to help – tuck Josefina in, pray with her, read to her, sing to her, and love her. It was comforting to him, to see and know that his daughter was safe and loved. As he waited in her bedroom, he mulled over this latest idea of his. Perhaps he could still somehow instigate healing between the Madrigals, maybe he was sent here to see the truth and begin to right the wrongs against -

"Alejandro?" A broken voice interrupted his musings and suddenly – he was there again, aware and present in his daughter's bedroom.

"Lucía?" He murmured, and his spirit leapt. Could she see him? If she could, perhaps together, they could –

Lucía stifled a gasp as she crawled into their daughter's room, and once again, ice pierced his soul.

His wife - the woman he had vowed to love in sickness and in health, for rich and for poor, as long as they both lived – the woman whom he still loved in death; the woman who had encouraged him when he believed his art was worthless and his talent was lacking, the woman who'd helped him with his work, the woman who'd carried and birthed their daughter, who held his hand and prayed for him to recover - was crawling.

She was wrapped in a robe and her hair was still damp from the bath Sofia forced her to take, and she crawled on her hands and knees, just inside Josefina's door.

Josefina –

Alejandro felt only mild relief when he noticed Josefina was not in the room. She would not have to witness whatever – whatever – whatever –

"Alejandro," Lucí whispered again, her fingers brushing against his signature and the vines and flowers and birds and butteflies along the interior wall of Josefina's room. Her voice cracked and her eyes fluttered closed. "I can't – I can't – I can't do this, amor. I don't know how. They buried me with you and I - " her voice was rough and raw and her face was pale.

She wasn't crying. Her eyes were dull.

"Lucía?" A new voice asked, and her sister, Sofia, came into the room, hurrying in to sit beside Luci on the floor. "Luci, querida - "

Alejandro stared as Sofia wrapped her arms around her older sister and comforted her, encouraging her to cry, encouraging her to feel, to let it out and come back to the world and move forward because Josefina needed her – she needed her – their father needed her.

The icy blade twisted where his heart once beat, and he had the very harsh thought that he was not here because of some great Master Plan he just had to grasp onto and make sense of and complete. God had not orchestrated his death for some higher purpose. The only reason he was here – a dead, shriveled, apparently selfish heart in a ghostly body - was because he'd insisted on making a dangerous trip to the mountains in the middle of the rainy season.

He'd been angry at her for not comforting their daughter, before.

But the reason she was like this now – paralyzed by grief and numb from the overwhelming pain - it was his fault.

Lucía had asked him not to go to the mountains. Not nagged, not scolded, not whined – just – asked, in her quiet, pleading voice – for him to stay.

And he'd left anyway.

It must have been important though – certainly it was important enough to leave, when she asked him to stay?

But as he watched his sister-in-law comfort his wife on the floor of their daughter's bedroom, as he watched his father-in-law carry his young daughter into the room and sit on the floor beside them, speaking softly to Lucía and Josefina in equal measure – as he watched his wife slowly lift Josefina into her lap, nodding seriously, her lips twitching and her eyes blinking rapidly, determination spreading from her eyes across her face and down her spine, straightening, straightening -

He knew the truth.

(It was Bruno Madrigal who began softening his hardened heart, and it was Lucía who shattered it into pieces.)

La Familia Madrigal may all be donkeys in their own way, but now, in this moment, he – Alejandro Moreno – realized that he was the biggest ass of them all.

A/N: So Alejandro has turned a corner, and from here on out it gets better.

Okay! So you know how Neil Gaiman gives writing advice and once said there was a point when he was younger where he had ideas that he was not yet a good enough writer to tackle? That's...how I'm feeling right now. Heh. But I'm still gonna finish this and still gonna post it and, you know, if it's not exactly what I would like to express and it isn't exactly how I want it to be and the symbolism is wonky and the metaphors messy, that's okay. It's an experiment and I'm learning and it may be something to return to ten, fifteen years from now and attempt again.

Thanks for reading. :)