Hello! Yes this exists, you're not insane - this is a legit shipfic. This was inspired by a friend of mine at first, who I won't name her in case she doesn't want to be mentioned. But we joked how the Del Toro fairy and Xibalba looked so alike and could've been ex lovers given he was originally from Spain, and Spain and Italy had close ties up to the early modern century. Naturally I ended up being a bit serious about this and after a talk with another friend who basically egged me on, I wrote this. Also found out the fairy is called 'Wood Sprite' in the GDT version, which isn't released yet but that didn't stop me from making two fics already. The Del Toro-Gutierrez universe lives!
So this is basically a pre-canon crossover AU fic that's "lovers to exes" and lots of bizarre worldbuilding going off what I know of these series. Going with Del Toro and Collodi's vision as a mashup for now (in design it's GDT, in story it's Collodi). And by Jorge's words in regards to TBOL, Maya and the Three and eventually El Tigre when that stuff pops up (aka Sartana's entire clusterfuck of a story arc...christ). This is gonna be a wild ride but that's okay, at least I know some will like this so I can rest easy knowing that.
Enjoy!
Xibalba was never one for professional meetings. That was a well-known fact. He and his eldest elder brother Chamuco would argue whenever such council meetings occurred. Spouting words at one another and hurling insults like no tomorrow. A clash of stubbornness, self-absorption, wounded spirits and anger all at once. Rarely did they ever see eye to eye.
Today wasn't much different. Yet another hour spent of La Muerte trying to pry Xibalba away from Chamuco, the hermanos' fists raised at each other, having struck each other's faces already. On the other end, La Noche tended to her husband's bruised arm, muttering something about hombres under her breath. It seemed fitting that the two hermanas were the wives of such incorrigible hermanos. They were the only ones that kept them from slaughtering each other at any given minute. Even the Candlemaker, eldest of them all, was unable to soothe the fires that burned within those dark spirits.
But he was able to do one thing. One thing that made this meeting different from most others.
"You know what? You two need a time out."
Xibalba and Chamuco blinked up at the Candlemaker, each with a brow raised in confusion.
"Pardon?" asked Xibalba. "I'm afraid I don't—"
"If you two can't act right, then you shouldn't be taking part in this." Candlemaker sounded almost disappointed as he spoke. His mouth tugged in a frown, eyes cast down in a slight pity, as if he knew something. But whatever he knew, it wouldn't be spoken of—not around the other gods. "You are dismissed."
"¿Qué diablos? You can't do that!" El Chamuco seethed, fists shaking with anger. "You may be the guardian of balance, but you are not—!"
"¡Déjalo, Chamuco!" yelled La Noche, yanking on her husband's arm. "Please, stop this." He glanced at her, their eyes meeting. Hers pleading, his apprehensive. "For me?"
Hermanas, tan parecidas, thought Xibalba with a click of his tongue as he turned away and began to leave. "Alright, I can tell when I'm not wanted," he spoke, putting his hands up, a hint of disdain in his voice. One that wasn't missed by anybody. "I'll go."
La Muerte looked at her husband, frowning deeply. "Balby..."
"No, está bien, de verdad." Xibalba forced a smile as he shrugged. "It's only fair since I'm apparently such a nuisance to the El Señor de la Maldición." He shot a knowing glare at the god with crimson skin. "It's nothing new or personal, don't worry."
"Nothing personal..." El Chamuco's glare intensified for a second, until suddenly his face contorted into that of disappointment. A kind of disappointment that came with a reflection. A look back on something only two of them knew of. "Xibalba, it is not my fault that happened. You were the one in charge of your own choices. You grew careless, and you couldn't think for one second that—"
Xibalba's face hardened. "Don't you dare," he breathed lowly.
"Why not?" El Chamuco snorted. "You know it's true. If you hadn't gotten so full of yourself..."
"Full of myself? Look at you, spouting this basura!" Xibalba spat. "If I remember, you got yourself exiled from knighthood because you let your own nature take ahold of you."
"Oh, this again?" La Muerte sighed, shaking her head. "It's been so many centuries, why keep this feud ongoing?"
"You didn't even like being a knight," La Noche added under her breath.
El Chamuco rolled his eyes. "Claro, claro, pero you were the one that sabotaged yourself in the end." A smirk formed on his face as Xibalba's began crumpling, and he leaned in to whisper: "I didn't have to do a thing. You did it all yourself when you lost her. Rompiste el corazón de esa pobre hada."
Xibalba opened his mouth to retort, but found himself unable to say anything. There was a truth to those words. The tendril of a memory played havoc with his mind. To this day, he couldn't look at the stars for too long, as he would notice in them an outline of someone he remembered with such joy mingled with a pain in his heart. The very first to conquer his heart, and the one that got away. The one he left behind in Europe, all those centuries ago. She that granted the greatest desires, but at a cost of proving one's self worthy.
El Sprite de Madera.
His eyebrows creased in thought. In a rush, he backed away and said, "You don't get to bring that up. You didn't know her like I did."
Before any of the others could ask what that meant, he flew out of the council hall.
El Chamuco scowled at the mention of the Wood Sprite, and then glanced between La Muerte and La Noche. The former seemed more concerned, yet also seemingly asking silently, What does he mean? In that second, the ruler of the Land of the Cursed realized how vulnerable his hermanito could still be. Even under all that tar and all the years of ruling the Land of the Forgotten, his heart could never really be turned into that of tar itself.
And she's the first that is responsible.
He looked at his cuñada and gave her a shake of his head. "It's not for me to say," was all he could tell her. And it true, it was not his tale.
It was all Xibalba's.
Xibalba's fingers gripped at his snake staff. His eyes were glassy, his mind a ruckus. He was lost in his thoughts.
He remembered the old days in Europe, spent between his home in España and the days in Italia, where he had been with her. She was not only his first love, but the first friend he had back then, and the only one he really trusted. Sure, he had his hermanos, but even then they had never seen eye to eye. Especially Mictlán, never agreeable even then.
Seeing her was an escape. His shining light that brought him from the darkness of himself. An angel amongst the unworthy.
But he had ruined it.
Xibalba sighed. "It's all my own doing, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "I couldn't be the right one for you." An ill match from day one.
And even though he had long since had his own family and current love, this always lingered. The memory of the old love never truly faded. He couldn't forget her, even when he had long since left those days in Rome behind.
He still remembered it, as though it were only yesterday...
Long ago before the conquistadors set foot in Mexico, then an empire of the Aztecs, there were three brothers. Not any ordinary trio of brothers though — angels, from the heavens above. Trained for knighthood, they were made to watch over those in the living world. To become guides for them. But of course, they found themselves "too high above" that sort of thing.
The eldest brother was Zacarías, an angel of dark black hair and moustache, and dark blue eyes. His skin tanned olive, wings long yet rather thin, armor rather robust — the perfect image of an angel, only his temper hindered him.
The second was Constantino. An angel of a strange proportion — a scar ran down the middle of his face, seemingly splitting it in two. His teeth were rather...sharp, nearly resembling fangs. He had little hair, his wings were tattered, his skin covered in callouses and scratches and his armor was rather bronze. The most disagreeable one, often getting into scuffles with Zacarías.
Then there was Esteban, the youngest. He was a fine lad of a more lighter olive tone, with white hair tied into a ponytail and a moustache, and red eyes. His wings were large, most presentable. He wore a fine armor, and always had this mischievous glint in his eye. Always making wagers, always up to something that was in contrast with his angel duties — he often found himself between Constantino and Zacarías, trying to solve matters by means of bartering. A nuisance and a runt, both regarded him as.
Esteban wasn't much of a good knight. Only faired a little better than Constantino, but never quite reached the high ranks Zacarías did. He stumbled behind due to his ways, often getting into trouble. But he didn't care. It wasn't like he wanted his position — it was thrust onto him from the moment he came of age and throughout the decades that bled into centuries, he grew tired. He wanted something else. He didn't care about the mere mortals and their fickle matters. He wanted to conquer, to rule, to truly win... and not just a small wager that only brought minimum benefits. No, he wanted something grand, yet he didn't know what it was...
So one night, he had called upon his brothers and they had travelled down to Earth, where they stood on a rooftop of a building in Rome and looked over the mortals below.
"Why have you brought us here, Esteban?" hissed Zacarías, eyes narrowed.
"Look at all the pathetic humans below," Esteban whispered, pointing at those that roamed the streets. Those that went inside their shops and houses. Those that lay in alleyways. All the mortals awake for this moment. "Why is it that we must dedicate our lives to watching over them? To helping them, when they've done nothing for us?"
"El enano has a point," muttered Constantino, huffing as he glanced down at the mortals. His eyes were filled with disdain. "The worthless little earth-dwellers are of no use to us. Yet we are expected to slave away for them as knights." He let out a scoff. "And why?"
"It's a part of knighthood," Zacarías told them, rubbing his forehead in exhaustion. "We don't do things for favors..."
"But we wager," Esteban pointed out.
Zacarías snorted. "No, you wager. I do none of the sort." He turned around in a huff. "Perhaps Constantino may indulge you, but I haven't the time for that. Not when you offer such meaningless things."
Esteban scowled. "It's not meaningless, especially not now." He looked at Constantino, a grin forming on his face. "I have an idea for a wager. How about we see which one of us can … stir the most interesting conflict?"
Constantino began to smirk. "Depends, how much conflict?" he asked, temptation in his tone.
"I'd say... just until it all boils over." Esteban's grin widened as he extended a hand out.
Constantino readily shook it. "Deal!"
Zacarías turned around, glaring between the two. "Now wait just a minute!" he yelled. "You can't go around doing that! You'll get us in trouble—"
"Ah relax, hermano, we will be fine," Esteban said in dismissal. "None of the gods will know."
"Yes, but—"
"Why don't you join the wager?" Constantino suggested, eyes glinting with something unrecognizable. Something that sent Zacarías gulping and Esteban smirking. "It'll be fun to mess around with those humans."
Zacarías was tempted for a moment, reaching to grab his brother's hand, only to recoil. "No." He looked at Esteban, agitation in his stare. "'Teba, this is a horrible idea. This time of the night — it is when the hadas come to tend to the humans."
"Those fae can do nothing of importance," Constantino scoffed. "All they do is grant desires, and even then they rarely ever succeed. They live uneventful lives of servitude with no higher ground to return to. They are weaker than us. What do we have to fear?"
"We don't interfere in their business," Zacarías hissed. "Altera el equilibrio y el orden. ¿Entiendes?" Out of the corner of his eye, Esteban dove off, down below. The black-haired angel's eyes widened. "Esteban!"
"'Don't interfere in fae business'," Esteban mocked Zacarias as he went to a house. Through the window, he spotted several children sleeping. He grinned mischievously. "Well I don't see any fae here…"
He teleported himself inside, walking beside the foot of each child's bed. He studied each, from eldest to youngest. "Hmm… I wonder where we shall start," he pondered aloud. "Shall we start with the nightmares of the eldest? Or the insecurities of the youngest?"
As he reached out a hand, ready to decide, he heard a voice answer for him. A voice akin to an angel's, high above his own status.
"You will do no such thing."
He turned and saw … a fae. A fae of turquoise, her eyes teal with white pupils and two sets of wings – large and magnificent, almost the size of his. Eyes adorned her wings, like those high untouchable angels – except her head was adorned with feathers, a gorgeous face. In each flap of her wings, each movement, each word she spoke – there was grace.
She was magnificent, stealing his breath away.
Esteban struggled to get a word out. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't know that you—"
"What?" She landed beside him, and he noticed she was a bit shorter. A brow raised, her tone rather amused yet also rather stern. "Didn't anybody ever teach you angels that us fae have our own time to tend to the humans? That you mischievous fallen ones can't toy around at this time?"
"Fallen? I beg your pardon, señorita," Esteban objected to those words. "But I'm not a fallen angel. I am a knight, actually."
"Are you?" She eyed him up and down. "You have the armor, but lack the manners of one. You carry yourself in mischief and strive to cause some disturbance for your own little sick, twisted joy." She turned her nose up, frowning. "And if I hadn't been here in time, you would've sent the children crying, and I would have to tend to not just a sick child, but the crying sorellos as well." She crossed her arms. "That would make my job harder."
Esteban opened his mouth to make a retort, but found he had nothing. His shoulders slumped, wings flapping downward. "Lo siento."
The sprite pursed her lips, then nodded. "Siete perdonati. Don't do it again though," she warned him. She went over to the bedside of the middle child, brushing hair out of his face and looking over him with utmost care and sympathy.
Esteban watched in curiosity, eyes widening as he saw the fae's hand begin to glow. What the...?
"You ask for a cure for your cough. Not for the sake of your own, but so that your brothers won't have to lose you – that they won't suffer a tragedy. Your lack of selfishness leaves me to grant your desire." Her hand glowed brightly as it touched the child's forehead, until the glow settled in and then suddenly…it faded.
A smile formed on the fae's face. She turned to leave, only to bump into the angel. "Excuse me…"
He smiled sheepishly. "Apologies, but … how – what –" he sputtered. "You – you cured his sickness? Just like that?"
"I grant the desires of anybody that calls to me," she answered, amused by him. "Usually, I must give conditions - but in rare cases such as these, I am allowed to grant without such things."
"… who - who are you?" asked Esteban, now intrigued. He was fascinated. He wanted to know more, see more, spend some time with –
"The Wood Sprite."
He grinned, holding a hand out. "Esteban."
She smiled and took his hand. "Tell me, do you usually come into the homes of sleeping children with the intent to cause mischief?" she asked cheekily.
"I'll answer that … if you allow me some time," he replied.
The Wood Sprite hummed for a moment, before nodding. "Very well. I haven't had company in a while, anyhow."
Esteban felt his heart soar. Perhaps a bit of divergence from plan wasn't so bad. The wager could wait for now.
If it's not obvious, Zacarías = Chamuco, Esteban = Xibalba and Constantino = Mictlán.
According to Jorge Gutierrez's tweets, aka word of god, basically what was happening before movie events: Xibalba and his brothers were angel knights. Then they got cocky and shit happened, stripped of angelhood and knighthood, then somewhere down the line they'd gone with the conquistadors to the then Aztec empire, become gods in several parts of the underworld (or land of the dead) and yadda yadda… Xibalba meets La Muerte, then TBOL happens, then after that they have Sartana and other kids (people joked Jack Skellington is their son; I am one of those bitches), and ya know the drill.
But! I wanna sorta put my own spin on this. That's also why he has a very Spaniard name, 'cause he's originally Spaniard... and also because why would he have a native name in pre-film? anyhow, I'll promise to put more stuff in ch2 and it'll be better. But this is what I got for now, so enjoy!