1948

Land of the Remembered

"I'm gonna catch you, Juan!"

"Nuh-uh!"

Sartana raced on, flapping her wings as fast as she could as she chased her younger brother. They were both sixteen god-years and eleven god-years respectively, the older having become a spitting image of both their parents while the latter seemed to resemble their mother more. Wrapped around Sartana's waist was a guitar, gifted to her by Mama years ago for her quinceañera, the day she went from a mere girl to a mujer. It was a special gift she cherished, its magic aura strong and powerful, able to soothe the souls in both the Land of the Remembered and Land of the Forgotten alike with its tune. But it was also meant to protect, to fight if she ever had to - but thankfully, it never came to that yet.

Around Juan's waist, he had his own gift from his eleventh birthday, which had been months ago. It was from Papa, a little carving knife, so the boy could create any little wooden figures he so desired. Which often led to Juan going into Mama's garden, occasionally carving wood from the trees and making little figurines. Sartana would find herself prying him away, scolding him for such behavior - "It's Mama's tree, not yours. You can't do that, Juan." He would pout in response and instead show off the figurines to Mama and Papa, who would laugh while admiring his work. Much to Sartana's chagrin.

But she adored her brother, she did. She would often sit in the patches of the grass within the gardens and play a song for him, all while he ran around her, trying to mimic a dance to the rhythm. Often she found herself playing a little tune, small strums of the strings … the air filled with a serenity as the world seemed to stop around them, for just a moment. If not that, she would play with him, just as she was doing now, since none of their other hermanos or hermanas would anyhow.

"I'm almost there!"

"Noooooo, haha!"

Juan's footsteps stamped into the ground as he hurried towards the tree in the center of the garden. He was almost there, just a few more steps and he could climb up -

Suddenly, the little skeleton boy found himself swooped up into the arms of his elder sister. "GOTCHA!" she yelled triumphantly.

"Tana!" he whined, squirming in her arms. "That's no fair! You only caught me because you have wings and I don't." He pouted adorably.

"Not my fault I can fly," Sartana teased him. She ruffled the top of his head. "Chisguete."

"I'm not a chisguete!" Juan squeaked, eyes narrowing as he wriggled out of his sister's hold. He stood on the tip of his toes and proclaimed, "One day, I'm gonna be as tall as you! Maybe even taller, like Papa!"

Sartana laughed. "In your dreams, flaquito!" She lightly pushed him, not too hard, so that he wobbled a bit.

Juan pouted until he glanced at the tree. He ran over to it and plopped down beneath it, then took his carving knife from his belt and began to hack away at an old branch. He held the branch in his hands, slicing off the skin as a shape formed from each cut. He hummed while doing so, away in his own little world.

Sartana walked over and plopped down next to her brother, a small smile on her face. She watched him carve a figurine - one of a strange creature, neither angel nor god - and decided to pull out her guitar, strumming a tune.

"Hay un amor tan triste

Profundo en tus ojos,

una especie de joya pálida.

Abierta y cerrada, dentro de tus ojos,

Colocaré el cielo dentro de tus ojos…"

She had heard it from somewhere. Sometimes, when she would walk by Papa's study, she would hear him hum this song - this particular tune that fascinated her. It had a calm sound, but beneath it she sensed a melancholy. After all, that was all that escaped Papa when he sung it.

(If she closed her eyes while playing, she would envision herself dancing.

Dancing with Ernesto de la Cruz, a musician she admired since she was fourteen god years. When she had been fifteen, her other quinceañera gift had been to give him the death touch - she didn't want to out of spite, but rather it was her duty as a death goddess; it was merciful and quick in comparison to what her father would've done - and she'd danced with him right before her shoulder touched his.

The way he winked at her. It made her heart soar. Maybe one day, she could be with him if she found him in the Land of the Remembered? When she was older though... and when Amparo would stop teasing her about it.

But this song - it made her think of him. In the sense that it was a sad love, hard to obtain.)

It was a nice song. But it was bizarre too. Sartana couldn't find the origins. Any time she asked, Papa would respond with:

"It's not something you need to know."

Sartana didn't understand why. She was Papa's favorite. Even if he wouldn't say it aloud, everyone knew. So why wouldn't he tell her? He knew she loved music. Why wouldn't he tell her about this song, that was seemingly so special to him? It hurt her a bit. She didn't persist though. She always had a fear, deep down, of irritating her father – of getting on his temperamental side. Ever since she saw him argue with Tío Chamuco once.

She recalled fragments of the fight, not the whole thing – but she heard enough and saw her father almost strike her uncle. He never did, perhaps due to brotherly restraints? But nevertheless, she didn't want to be the one he raised his voice at…even if she knew it was foolish to have such a fear. It was Papa, but … she just didn't want to push it.

Sartana pushed that thought aside, once Juan spoke up. "Hey, what's that song?" asked the younger skeleton, raising an eyebrow. His handwork was nearly done. He was just finishing up cutting the edges when he heard the tune. "I never heard it before…"

She shrugged. "I heard Papa sing it once," she replied, fiddling with the strings of the guitar. "I tried to ask him what it was, but he wouldn't say."

"Private matters," Juan muttered, rolling his eyes. "Like always." He had noticed his father's way of keeping secrets. Hush hush things, not even letting Mama in on them. One time, he and Amparo had found a blue feather while playing around in his study. A feather that looked almost like an angel's, but not quite. They tried asking, only to be met with —

"How come he never likes us to know things?"

Sartana was silent for a moment. "Maybe he wants us to remain innocent," she suggested. Though it sounded ridiculous - she wasn't innocent. Not in decades since she walked in on him and Mama -

"It's nothing dirty though." Juan crinkled his face. "If it was, he could easily censor it." He looked at the figurine as he finished carving it. "But he doesn't talk about it in general."

"What's that?" Sartana asked, staring at the figurine of wood. "Is it an angel? Or is it -"

"It's a fae." Juan twirled the figurine between his fingers. "Based on what I saw in a dream - you know, one of those dreams."

"Oh, that's- wait, a dream?" Sartana blinked in confusion. "What kind of dream?" She hadn't ever recalled such creatures appearing to gods in their dreams. In Papa's brief stories about fae, he would mention they went to human children. Not the child of a former angel - and even then, Juan wasn't that much of a child. Not like Dario, Thiago, Amparo, Hugo, Victor, Montserrat or Matias - all younger and more appropriate to get a visit from a fae in terms of age.

"She … she told me that I'm such a curious child," Juan said slowly, recalling the encounter. "My fascination with things that seem bizarre - it's like how Papa was, when he was a young man." He paused. "Said I was destined for great things. To be a king someday. But that I should be careful with my curiosity, for if I wander too much …" He shuddered for a moment, frightened by whatever it was that could befall him if he didn't adhere to the fae's words. "I don't know what she meant, but I'm too scared to find out. What if my destiny is cursed?"

Sartana's eyes widened at this. A fae came to her brother in his dream and told him such a thing? She felt concerned and angry. Angry at the fae for bringing such a scare upon her hermanito, and concerned at what this meant - concerned at what could happen, and how this fae worked. "What did she look like?" The young goddess' fists balled up as she asked this. I have to find Papa, tell him about this, find out what this means and... and make sure she doesn't come and bother Juan again.

Juan paused. "She's … turquoise. Her eyes are teal. She has two sets of wings. No legs. The wings have so many eyes, like those higher up angels Tío Chamuco told us about that one time. A long, snake-like tail too. Her head has feathers, almost like a crown - Aztec style," he described. "And … her voice was bizarre. It had an echo, but it was gentle, yet firm - like she was royalty. A queen mother."

Sartana gave a nod, then stood up, taking her guitar with her. "Alright. Gracias, hermano." She began to walk away.

"W-wait! Where are you going?" Juan called out to his sister, eye sockets widening in slight worry. Was she going to...?

"To Papa. That fae can't scare you like that and get away with it," Sartana replied, before she stormed off to their father's quarters.

Juan gulped. Oh no.

To Victor, anything bright and shiny was a toy, be it a new sewing machine, bottles of milk, or a shelf of old pictures. Xibalba leaned down and picked up a picture frame, careful to avoid pieces of broken glass. Later, when he had the heart to sweep, he'd muse over why the nights only seemed to bring him more work.

He could barely look at it. There had been great debate with Zacarías Chamuco over whether to put it up at all, not when the face would grace his memory all the time. When the last time he had seen her, it wasn't on the best terms.

Besides, what would it say if he put it up?

Still, there was a place for remembrance just as there was a place for prayer, a prayer that the tar god didn't seem ready to forfeit. Standing up, he placed the photo back near its spot on the shelf's upper center. In the morning, he could fret over getting a new frame.

"Papa?"

He turned to see Sartana walk into his quarters. He tried to straighten himself out, appear calm and collected when greeting his eldest child. "Hola, mija," he said, giving her a small smile. "What brings you here? I thought you were playing with Juan in your mother's garden."

"I was." Sartana looked around, before shutting the door behind her. Placing a lock so no one could barge in. Turning to face her father, she saw him look concerned. As he should be, for what I'm about to say. "But then Juan said he had a dream last night. One of those dreams."

Xibalba's smile faded. "What was it about?" he asked, fearing the worst.

(Dreams can be a gateway for what's to come in the future.

For gods, they could be omens. Good or bad. If it was bad, it spelled misfortune or even a fate worse than death. If good, it was a triumph above all else.

If it was uncertain, then it was frightening. No one knew what would happen...)

"A fae came to him," Sartana explained. "Turquoise. Two sets of wings, no legs, many eyes and-" she was stopped as her father seized her shoulders and his eyes met hers, filled with this look she had never seen. "And... and she had a snake-like tail... and she said that Juan was as curious as you, and that he should be careful because-"

"Enough." Xibalba's voice was low and harsh. It was enough to make his daughter flinch and cower for a moment. He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut as he was clouded by the memories of her. She that haunted him every night- no, every waking moment of his life. For centuries and centuries. He couldn't even say her name aloud, at least not when there were others around. Only when he was truly alone could he utter her name in a quiet voice.

Nicoletta.

He knew his daughter was talking about the sprite. No other fae had such wings, such lack of legs, such a tail - only she fit that bill. And he wouldn't bear to try and interfere, to risk what he had now and … to take the risk of seeing her again after so long, when he had his own family now. When he had his wife, Muerte, and - and when Chamuco was still around. Mictlán might have been long gone, but the eldest brother still remained - and he couldn't go through those times again. Not now, not ever. Besides, how could he face her now, tell her that he … that they couldn't …

She must know though, Xibalba thought, his teeth gritting. If she's gone to Juan. If she says he's as curious as I, she is aware that La Muerte and I married … that I moved on. That made his heart ache more. How come it was his son she went to, and not him? Did she … did she still hold a grudge? Was her heartbreak still persisting after all these years? Had he really hurt her that much?

Xibalba opened his eyes and turned to face his daughter, trying to appear stern to mask the pain he felt. "Fae are not something we mess with. It's best we move forward and forget this," he told her sternly. Please don't bring her up. I don't want to remember. I don't want you to -

"But she's horrifying Juan with her 'omens' of an uncertain future," Sartana argued, her own red eyes narrowing back at her father. She was growing defensive, her wings unfolding and flapping with an anger. "She can't get away with frightening him like that! We have to do something, to get rid of this … this puta turquesa—"

"DON'T CALL HER THAT!"

Sartana cried out in shock and stumbled back, landing on her behind as her father's wings unfolded, a wildly angry expression on his face. His mouth curled into a snarl, his eyes filled with such vice and disdain — such she only saw directed at Tío Chamuco. She feared she overstepped, but how? She was only — wait, he said "her" as if he knew of this fae. As if it was personal.

"P-Papa… you – you know her?" Sartana stammered, blinking with confusion. She didn't understand. How could he know of the fairy? The gods didn't really speak with the fae, and it couldn't have been from when he was a knight, because angels didn't … but then her father's eyes avoided her own. He looked down, as if lost in thought. It couldn't be, she thought, shaking her head. He couldn't have. Not Papa. But the way he grew defensive - it said it all. "Wh- what is she to you?" She got up, her wings flapping furiously as a thought came to mind. What if he – what if they – but it couldn't – "Tell me!"

"Nothing that concerns you," was Xibalba's response, his eyes narrowing. His tone a warning to not tread further, to turn away and go. He wouldn't tell his eldest daughter about Nicoletta. He wouldn't tell any of his family about her, not when the last time he did, it cost him all he loved. Besides, if they knew, what would they say? The betrayal they would feel, the anger and jealousy — he couldn't risk that. So he would keep her his secret. "Go to your room, Sartana. Play with your guitar. Forget about this."

"No, I won't." Sartana shook her head furiously. She took a step forward, standing on the tip of her toes, frustrated. Why was he hiding this from her? She was his hija, he should tell her about these things! What could be so important about this fae? Was she some novia of his? Some secret love? The thought made her stomach churn and her heart burn with an anger. "You can't hide things from me, Papa. You're defensive — you've got involvement with this hada." She began to circle around him, interrogating him. "What is she to you? What's this past you have with her? You can't just defend her so suddenly and then say 'it's nothing'!"

"Mija." Xibalba's voice became sweet, a smile stretching across his face. Appearing sincere, almost, just as his tone. His wings folded back, his eyes blinking with a calm nature. It made his daughter stop, halting in her tracks. She looked at him tilting her head and he kept up the smile. He had her fooled … good. "It's one of those stories you wouldn't like. She is as much of something we don't discuss as we do with Tío Mictlán." He held back a wince at the mention of his brother, praying silently that his first love would never know he threw their names together … but he had to, so his hija wouldn't know. "Remember when you asked about him? 'Papá, ¿cómo es que el Tío Mictlán y la Tía Micte no están con nosotros? ¿Cómo es que no hablamos del tío?' How we had to explain how he was a murderer, and that he killed so many people… including your aunt? That we didn't want any of you to know because of how his crimes affected your mamá?"

Sartana looked down, wincing as she remembered. She had been thirteen. Her hermanos y hermanas much younger. She had been the first to ask, and they followed after her. The answer they got still haunted the back of her mind, made her shudder as she thought of her uncle, the one that slaughtered so many — his two masks looking down upon her whenever she'd have nightmares, tempting her to join him. She always refused and then he would try to — she trembled, wrapping her arms around herself. The young goddess always woke up early in the morning because of him. "Sí, I remember… pobre Tía Micte…"

Xibalba felt a sting, recalling how La Muerte had broken down the day she learned of that. It hurt his heart and soul to see his vida in such pain, all because of his own bastard of a hermano. She never blamed him but deep down, he always wondered if he had just tried to do something, to intervene before anything could have happened - to alert everyone of Mictlán before he'd ascended to godhood...

"We don't talk about it for a reason. This fae, she's only a little different." In that she isn't a murderer. But I am. I wronged her in the worst way I could have. His hands balled up. "So now that you understand, please... can you go to your room? We will talk later." There was a plead in his tone. He couldn't do this now. Memories of holding Nicoletta in his arms, racing with her, exploring Rome's land with her - it was all suffocating, choking him until he almost felt a sting in his eyes.

Sartana didn't persist. She recalled the stories of her aunt and uncle, the tears she would see in Mama's face - the anger on Papa's - and the way the sorrow cut through the air like fangs. It was a hard memory, one that made her wrap her wings around herself as she remembered Mama burying herself in Papa's embrace - and yet the young goddess had thought for a second that he hadn't been entirely faithful. That there was another mujer... how foolish she was. She felt embarrassed and guilty, so much that she just nodded and said, "Okay." Her voice was low and quiet, and she went to unlock the door.

I'm such an idiot.

Xibalba watched as his eldest hija left in a rush, slamming the door shut behind her, sighing and then glancing to where he kept the frame on the wall. He was thankful she hadn't noticed, or else -

"Nicoletta...lo siento." It wasn't going to fix anything. Of course not. But a part of him just wanted her to somehow sense him, to know he truly wanted to atone for his wrongs. For that bet, the bet that ruined everything … the bet Chamuco suggested he make.

The one where he both won and lost.

Amparo slipped away from the corner of the hall, having heard her father and sister's argument. Not the exact words, but she heard their voices raise, and how Papa shouted at Sartana. It frightened her to see this. The two were so close, thicker than bandits, but that argument - it was like being faced with different people entirely. She looked at where her sister ran off to, down to her room - and there she took off.

She wasn't much younger than Juan. Only nine by god years, with black licorice hair tied into a single braid, the deep red and green eyes of her father's, sugar skull skin, some facial markings of gold and green - her mother's daughter, Tía Noche would say. The black dress she wore made her look more like her father's child though, right now.

She always looked up to Sartana. Her older sister would always play with her when she was younger, lifting her high up like how Mama would say Tia Micte did when she was her age. "Brinca, brinca!" Sartana would chant, grinning widely while Amparo squealed and kicked her legs happily. She would sing lullabies when Mama was too busy. She was a caretaker.

So of course Amparo had to know what was troubling her sister. She knocked on Sartana's door. "'Tana?"

"Go away, 'Paro," came her sister's muffled voice from the other side of the door. Miserable, it sounded.

Amparo frowned. "I … I heard you and Papa arguing."

Silence, and then - "How much did you hear?"

"I heard him yelling." Amparo rubbed her arm, shifting uncomfortably. "Something about 'don't talk about her that way'. What does that mean?"

"Papa says it's none of our business." An upset tone filled Sartana's voice. "Even though this mujer had an omen for Juan - an ambiguous omen."

Amparo felt uneasy. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"...sí. Papa will be mad if I do tell you though."

"I won't tell him, I promise! Cross my heart and all!" The younger goddess crossed over her chest, even though she was aware her sister couldn't see her.

Sartana opened the door. Amparo beamed up at her older sister and rushed inside the room, while the elder death goddess shut the door. "So what's this about Juan and an omen?" asked Amparo, hopping onto the edge of her sister's bed.

Sartana looked at her hermanita and sighed. "Juan said he had a dream. In it, a fae came to him, one of turquoise and -"

"A fae?! But they don't come to children of gods!"

"Yes, well apparently she came to Juan." Sartana frowned deeply, a thought surfacing. An unpleasant one. "Said he should be careful about his curiosity, since he's so much like Papa..." Did that temptress try to lure my father in years ago? Is that why she tries to frighten my hermano?

"She knows Papa?" asked Amparo, raising an eyebrow.

"See, that's the thing - Papa knows this one. But he won't talk about her. It's a forbidden subject." Sartana crossed her arms. "I think it's different from the other one though."

Amparo breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh good. Every time I think about Tío Mictlán, it gets sad."

Her older sister's next words knocked that breath out of her. "I think she was his ex lover."

"WHAT?!" Amparo shrieked and nearly fell off the bed. The thought of her father with another - it was unthinkable! He was devoted to Mama and vice versa! How could he—? "That's a horrible assumption, Tana!"

"Is it?" asked Sartana, a hint of challenge in her voice as she plopped down on the bed. She held her fingers up, checking off, "Because Papa yelled at me when I dare insult the precious fae. He grew defensive when I asked. He changed the subject. He doesn't do that unless he's in deep."

Amparo wanted to argue, but she couldn't. Not when Sartana was Papa's favorite. He loved them all, but all the kids knew deep down who his precious, favorite child was: the one that had a way with the guitar, ironically similar to that of a certain musician that he meddled in the life of.

She sat on the ground, pulling her knees to her chest. "Papa loved someone else? But…how can he do that to Mama? That's so cruel… it's not right…" Her parents loved each other. They were supposed to. They couldn't be unfaithful…

Sartana's fist balled up. She couldn't stand the thought of it either. The idea of this fae in her father's arms, embracing him in a way only her mother should—it made her want to scream! She wanted to find that fae, give her a piece of her mind and—!

Then something stirred in her mind. What if it wasn't a present relationship? What if it was in the past? That … that would make a lot of sense, actually. It would explain Papa's behavior, and why he was so secretive.

"Maybe he's not cheating on Mama. Maybe the hada is a past fling."

Amparo looked up. "You mean like how De la Cruz was a tease?" she asked, tilting her head. It was hard for her to wrap her head around the idea of Papa being like that guy…

"NO!" Sartana yelled, hopping up on the bed, her wings flapping out. She felt her face flush, a bit of defensiveness over her crush. "Ernesto's not a tease, tonta! And — and I mean, like how sometimes… people like each other, but then they drift apart because they're too different."

"De la Cruz is a tease. You're the tonta for not seeing that," Amparo shot back, rolling her eyes. "There's many up in the land of the remembered claiming they used to be his novia. You won't be his first, if you ever cross his path."

Sartana growled at her younger sister, her blush growing. "'Paro, shut up."

Amparo smirked and shook her head. "No can do," she said. Then she paused, letting the other words sink in — of people drifting apart. "But maybe you have a point about Papa and the hada… after all, Mama used to have novios long before she met Papa. Tia Noche said that once." It still didn't sound right. It was puzzling, and there was more to it — but the young girl didn't know what.

"Maybe Tío Chamuco can tell us if we're right or not," Sartana thought aloud. If only he was here to —

"Sartana, mija?" Xibalba's voice sounded from the other side of the door. "I would like to come in."

"The door's unlocked, Papa," replied the young goddess. She looked at Amparo. "You should go to Juan. He'll need some comfort since Papa won't help."

Amparo nodded and then just as Xibalba opened the door, she rushed out. The tar god watched as his younger hija ran off. "You didn't tell her anything, did you?"

Sartana humphed and crossed her arms as she plopped down on her bed. "Nada. She just wanted to play," she lied.

"Mija—" Xibalba started, sitting next to her. His eldest turned from him with a scoff. He sighed, trying to figure out the words. "We gods don't interfere with fae. It just isn't done."

"But she gets to interfere with us?" Sartana retorted, standing up. Her wings flapped out. "You had something with her. That's why you're lenient."

"Sartana—"

"No! You had something with her! Padres don't yell at their hijas over mujers they have no involvement with."

Xibalba stopped. A sorrow formed in his eyes and he looked down solemnly. "I didn't want you to know anything about her. She was … something I wanted to keep a secret."

Sartana looked up at him, her eyes filled with confusion and hurt. "Why though? Why would you keep this from your own familia? From mama?"

A sigh escaped the tar god. "Because," he began. "It is a long story, that of which you aren't ready to handle. There are things that will alter your perspective, for better or worse - and especially how you'll see your tío."

Sartana paused, taking in his words. She didn't know what he meant - it was so ambiguous, yet it didn't sound all that good. And when it came to Tío Chamuco, she grew more uneasy. She and her uncle never really had that close of a connection, not as he did with her sisters and brothers. Perhaps it was because her father and uncle never got along, so she found herself wedged between. "What did Tío Chamuco do?"

Realizing his hija wasn't going to stop until she got an answer, Xibalba sighed and shook his head again. "He and I - we made a bet, and it affected Nicoletta … the fae …" he began, rushing over words in an attempt to push away the memories. "She used to be my lover and although I love your mother dearly, she was my first love - that's something you don't forget. When you experience it, you will understand my position."

"Did you win the wager?" asked Sartana, trying to piece together things. "Or did you lose, and that's why she left you?"

"I won and lost," Xibalba answered sadly. "I beat Chamuco, but Nicoletta left me in the process. What I did to win was horrible." He looked away in shame. "I'm not proud of it to this day. And that's another reason your mother can't know, nor your hermanos y hermanas."

Sartana tried to process all this. The idea of this fae - Nicoletta? - and her father … the very thought of him doing something so bad he could lose her … and the fact she came to Juan now? What was the young goddess supposed to make of this all? Skeleton fingers gripped a guitar, a song in mind. "That tune, it's from her isn't it?" she asked quietly.

Xibalba nodded, a sad smile on his face. "I sang it to her, the night we fell in love." He recalled the way her eyes lit up. "She shone brighter than all the stars above."

"Do you love mama?" Sartana asked hesitantly. The way he talked of the fae, it made her worry. Could it be…?

"Of course," he answered, without hesitation. "She is my second love. I devote myself to her because she is the light to my darkness. She is my destiny." He stroked the top of his hija's head. "Nicoletta's love was passionate but it wavered. Your mother's never did - and that's why in the end, I will always choose her."

Sartana smiled slightly, her heart touched by the answer. She was thankful, yet she felt guilty for thinking her father would choose someone over her mother, even if brief. She hugged his waist tightly, burying her face in it. Will I find a love like that someday? she wondered. Or will I have to experience heartbreak?

Xibalba hugged her back, stroking her back gently as he added, "I know you're worried about Juan... but I think he will be fine. He's not as mischievous as I was. He will find himself and be alright." Besides, Nicoletta adores kids. She wouldn't give this out of malice. But then why come to his son, and not him?

"I don't get why she didn't come to you though," Sartana murmured, still not entirely getting it. "You know her. Why doesn't she talk with you?"

"I don't know, mija," Xibalba admitted. "I don't know."

"You think she might be a former lover of Papa's?"

"It's what Sartana suggested."

Amparo sat next to Juan on a sofa-like furniture. The boy had been there alone, trying to wrap his head around the omen. Amparo had come in, placed her hand on his shoulder and tried to be reassuring while telling him of Sartana's suspicions.

"But then why appear to me?" Juan asked, confused. "Shouldn't she take it up with Papa?"

"Adults are petty." Amparo shrugged and leaned on her hermano's shoulder. "Ever seen Papa and Tío argue?"

Juan snorted. "Too many times."

Hugo- a boy of six years of god age sugar skull skin with no markings, just as Juan, but with a more shorter yet still lanky stature and hazel eyes, adorning a ruffled navy blue shirt, with scruffy licorice hair- walked in. "What'cha doin'?" he asked, leaning above the seat.

Amparo's eyes narrowed at him. "None of your business," she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

Hugo pouted. "But I wanna know," he whined.

"It's not something you'd understand," Juan told his hermano. "You're too young."

Hugo kept pouting, crossing his arms. "You guys are no fun."

"This isn't some club meeting, Hugo," Amparo said with a roll of her eyes. "It's something that doesn't involve you, so go play with the others or something!"

Hugo let out a grunt. "Dario and Thiago keep fighting. Montserrat hogged up the playroom to build a fortress and play piratas. Matías is too dumb."

"Then go to Mama?" Juan suggested, tilting his head. "She's always willing to play…more than Papa is."

"She's busy with the baby," replied Hugo, rolling his eyes. "No one has time for me anymore…"

"Ugh, fine…" Amparo scooched over to allow her younger brother space.

Hugo beamed and sat next to his hermana, grinning. "So whatcha talkin' about?"

"I had a weird dream," said Juan, rubbing the back of his neck. "About a fairy."

Hugo's nose scrunched up. "Fairies are bad."

Amparo raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you get that idea?"

Hugo shrugged and kicked his legs casually. "Tío Chamuco said so. He said one tried to tempt Papa," he stated simply.

Amparo and Juan looked at each other. Could it be the same fae? There was only one way to find out… "What else did he say?" Juan asked the younger boy.

Hugo recalled his uncle's words slowly. "Something like… she was a tentadora and a bruja. She tried to lure Papa in with sweet words. Made him turn his back on his hermanos and duties of knighthood, up until an intervention was staged. That, and a scandal happened…" He shrugged. "That's what Tío Chamu told me."

Juan's teeth clacked together. So that's what he was dealing with? Give him mercy… "Oh, well, that's uh – that's something."

Amparo's mouth formed in a frown. She didn't like the sound of this fae, but she also didn't like the way this generalized all fae either. It didn't sound…right, to lump them all in together. "One fae doesn't present an entire group of them though," she argued.

"Yeah, well, it does give an idea," Hugo retorted.

Before Amparo could argue further, their mother walked in, a young black skeleton infant in her arms with red undertones swaddled in a yellow blanket. "Hola, mijos," she greeted her children.

"Hola, mama," they all chorused.

"Where's your father?" La Muerte asked, looking around all while bouncing baby Victor on her hip. The skeleton child gurgled and reached for his mother's hair, trying to play with it. "I need to talk to him about something."

"He's in Sartana's room," Amparo answered, trying to hide her concern.

"Oh? What kind of mischief are they up to?" La Muerte smirked lightly, knowing how her husband and eldest daughter could be at time. Thicker than banditos, causing all sorts of havoc.

Amparo shook her head. "Not mischief. They're talking."

La Muerte raised a brow at this. "About what?"

"I don't know," Amparo lied.

"Fairies probably," Hugo answered. He yelped in pain as Amparo shoved him. "Oye! What was that for?!"

"That's for telling mama, tonto!" hissed Amparo.

"Guys, stop—" Juan tried to stop them from arguing, but it was too late.

Hugo shoved Amparo back, though it wasn't as affective. "You're the tonta!"

Amparo growled. "Call me a tonta again, flaco, I dare you—"

"Enough!" exclaimed La Muerte, causing her children to stop. She pinched her forehead. "Ay, I don't have time for this… I have urgent things to discuss with your father. Juan, can you hold Victor for a while? Just until I come back."

Juan nodded and took the baby from his mother. "Of course, Mama."

La Muerte narrowed her eyes at Hugo and Amparo. "And you two, be nice."

Both looked down. "Lo siento, mama…"

"It's alright, but don't do that again." With that, La Muerte left for her eldest hija's room.

Amparo gulped. "Oh no…"

Centuries ago …

Rome

"You're going to see her again, are you?"

Esteban looked to his eldest brother, Zacarías. He shot a glare at him, teeth curling into a snarl. "Perhaps," he answered brusquely. "Why do you care?"

"Be sure to relay any information you acquire of her," Zacarías said, a crude smirk stretching across his face. "What you told us last time was a little useful, but more would work out well. Especially when we relay it to the capitán."

Esteban growled, ready to retort – to say he wouldn't do that again, that he wouldn't put her in harm's way – but then Constantino spoke up. "Remember, we will tell the council of your endeavors if you refuse. That, and your wings …" He made a slicing notion, grinning evilly.

Esteban felt his chest squeeze. "I– I'll do it…" he said, shame bubbling inside as he thought of her. He didn't want to do this, but there wasn't any other choice. He could only pray the capitán wouldn't listen or do anything— which was wishful thinking on his end, for he knew of the higher up's hatred of fae.

It was a story that was talked of frequently. Another reminder of why fae and angels didn't mix — only tragedy arose from it, and such an example was that Capitán Baldomero's lost love: the Signora Livia. A tale of woe, for it all began on what should have been a happy day.

Esteban recalled the tale. Livia came from around these areas unlike Baldomero, who was from the Castile area. She was a lovely angel of brunette hair, reddish-brown eyes and fair skin, her wings adorning many eyes— a contrast to the capitán's scarred skin, his greyish-blonde hair and wings with fewer eyes. They had courted for a while, seemingly smitten. However one night, they had been traveling through the streets of a village with some knights in tow, doing their angelic duties when a group of fae attacked. The leader had ordered for Signora Livia to be taken away, to be his.

Despite the fight Baldomero put up, losing some of his knights in the process, Livia was still kidnapped. The capitán did his best to get her back, but when he ventured through the fae kingdom where she was taken, he found that her honor was damaged. Her dignity stripped away, as she'd been married off to her captor- the king of the fae. Angered, Baldomero swore vengeance.

And that was why… Esteban shook his head. Nicoletta wasn't to fault for this. It wasn't her fault that the ruler of her land was a sadistic bastard. She was just a commoner stuck there alongside her sisters.

The angel knight took off, ignoring his hermanos' snide laughter and jeers. He had to see her again, to get his mind off of that. She was a side of fae most angels didn't acknowledge, and for that he was fascinated. He adored her laugh, her smile, her eyes – everything. He wanted to know more and more.

-0-

Esteban hurried across the plains in the direction of the forests that bordered the foothills of the Mountains of Old Rome. He glanced back and forth cautiously, knowing fully well that he was advancing upon thin ice.

The trick of his knighthood was to be on his guard and sometimes, wait. The sight of two fae generals appeared in the corner of his eyes, making him recoil. He hid behind the trees of the plains as the fae generals stalked past him, their heads raised as they marched around their domain to vouchsafe the protection of their own kind.

After an interminable moment for Esteban, who was holding his breath anxiously as he watched for them to go past, they gracefully paced onward. He let out a sigh of relief and then moved his own feet but didn't watch where he was stepping. His foot landed on a stick, making a loud snap in the silence blanketing the grassy plains.

Immediately, the two fae generals' heads shot up and he saw the large brutes dart their eyes his direction as one.

"Well, congratulations on your impeccable habit of announcing your presence quietly," a voice whispered, its inflections sarcastic. He spun around, dancing on his tiptoes and glancing back from the periphery of his eye to make sure the general hadn't seen him. Thankfully, they had returned to their posts and he had gone by unnoticed.

"I said, congratulations on your impeccable habit of announcing your presence quietly," the voice reiterated, barbed with sarcasm. Esteban found himself staring into the teal eyes of a familiar fae.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," Esteban retorted, knowing how to play this game. One needed a rapier wit and also the comprehension that sometimes, one such as Nicoletta couldn't let anything untoward go by without a remark. "And, for the record, this was one time."

Nicoletta shook her head, trickles of a coughing laugh emerging from her throat. Esteban tried to appear annoyed, but instead joy was in his look to see her and her merriment. Her eyes brightened suddenly and she grabbed Esteban's hand. "Where shall we go?"

"I want to explore the foothills first," he told her.

The Wood Sprite smiled and nodded. "Alright, lead the way then." She allowed him to move forward.

-0-

As they moved along the grassy areas of the uphill, Esteban noticed how slowly Nicoletta trudged by. She took in every sight, every part of nature – everything – as if it was her first time. As if she never been on a mountain before, let alone explored. Her eyes filled with a wonder, shining brighter than the constellations above. "It's all so beautiful," she whispered.

"I thought you fae travel often," he remarked, a smile on his face seeing her joy. She was so adorable...

"Oh, we don't get to explore like this though." She gave a sad smile. "The most sightseeing we get is when we visit other fae kingdoms, such as the time I visited the kingdom of Archaia with my sisters recently." To visit the prince, Jareth. A bizarre fellow, he was - pointed ear tips, wild blonde hair, different-colored eyes and all. All fae looked different, some more "human-like" than others, but they all had that magic that made them stick out like a sore thumb. What connected them all was said magic and how they tied themselves to humans, one way or another - and how they couldn't stand angels. Funny then that I—

"You're a diplomat?" asked Esteban, surprised. He hadn't known she would have that type of position. "That's … interesting. How does it work?"

Nicoletta paused, unsure of how to explain it. She wasn't a diplomat, she wanted to say. She was actually a principessa. But she didn't like her title. She didn't like her case, stuck the way it was, no sense of turning back – and the only reason she had been visiting that kingdom was because her father was intrigued in an arrangement. She wouldn't lie, it was more fun than most visits she made. Prince Jareth was intriguing, but he wasn't like Esteban - which made her hurt more. This was a life her Mama wouldn't have wanted for her, not if she was still alive.

"It works as diplomacy usually does except … I'm a princess."

Esteban's eyes widened. "You- you are?" His breath caught in his throat. This was –

"Yes…" Nicoletta sighed. "I'm not an heiress, but I'm still regarded as enough to the point where I'm constantly restricted." Her shoulders slumped, her head hung low. "That's why I said my destiny can't change."

She's princess of fae. I'm a knight of angels. Our paths can't cross. This is insane. Yet Esteban took a step further, all while processing this. He took her hands in his, kissing each. "Not if you don't try."

"You don't understand. My fate was written when I was born," Nicoletta stressed, frowning. "My father—he's the rei. What he says, it is final. There is no arguing or anything of the sort."

"But arguing would mean letting him know. He doesn't have to know anything," Esteban told her. "If we keep this secret, slowly but surely…"

Nicoletta looked away.

"Perhaps," she conceded. She looked at all the wonders before her. If just to experience this. She looked back at Esteban, feeling something in her chest. To know him more… "And well, we're not too different after all," she quickly tried to change the subject, to lighten up the mood. "You're a knight stuck doing something that bores him, and I'm stuck with a royal life of tending to children while having to watch them suffer the consequences of the desires I grant them…all while powerless, and eventually one day I will be settled off to some fae fellow so I can secure a council position." She shrugged. "Our lives are almost mirrors."

"Indeed…" Esteban found irony in this. A painful yet somewhat amusing irony. I can't let them know that she's a royal. If they know, they will – the capitán will – oh no. It sunk in… Nicoletta's madre, she was Signora Livia!

He had to protect her. He couldn't let her suffer from her father's misdeeds. He would have to lie on her behalf, to make sure no one knew.

"…say, mind telling me about the kingdoms?" he tried to change the subject, to wrap his mind around something else.

Nicoletta hummed. "Since you asked…"

1948

Land of the Remembered

"Was she nice?"

"She was." Xibalba smiled wistfully. "Though she had a bite to her. Not as fierce as your mama's."

Sartana snorted. "I doubt anybody could measure up to that." She paused. "If she goes to young souls, will I get a visit from her?"

Xibalba shook his head. "You won't," he answered. He didn't think she would. She was too much of his child… but then again, so was Juan in a sense. He shook his head and got up, ready to leave his hija's room-

And then La Muerte walked in. "Xibalba, we need to talk," she said. She looked at Sartana, giving a slight smile. "Mija, mind if I borrow your papa?"

"Oh, I was just finishing speaking to him," said Sartana, shrugging.

La Muerte nodded and looked at her husband. Xibalba tilted his head. "Is something the matter, mi amor?" If he saw from the corner of his eye, he would noticed the way Sartana's brow furrowed.

"It's important." La Muerte led him out of the room, closing the door behind them. When they were a couple of doors away, at the end of the hall, she told him, "I sensed a spirit nearby from last night."

Xibalba nearly choked. "What?"

"Si... but the magic - it wasn't a god or an angel. Not a full angel." La Muerte frowned. "It was…something else."

Xibalba gulped.

-0-

When the night would come, Sartana found herself curled up in her bed, tossing and turning. Her mind racked as she kept seeing flashes of feathers and turquoise. That fae. She couldn't stop - she tried to think of anything else, but couldn't. Soon, her mind swirled until she found herself within a bizarre place.

A room of darkness, few lights around. She could hardly see her own hands or feet. "Where am I?" she asked quietly.

Suddenly, two lights - two eyes - pierced through the darkness. Shining down upon her, all while a voice said, "A realm neither here nor there."

Sartana's heart almost stopped. "You." Her fists balled up. Her crimson eyes looked up, narrowing as she recognized it. "You're the one that told Juan - you and my padre -" she couldn't find the words to say. How could she, when she knew of this fae's involvement? Of her role in everything?

"I merely gave a light warning to your fratello," said the fae calmly as she lowered herself down. Her face remained blank as more light shone around, and the surroundings became more clear - a strange room of sorts, overlooking tidal waves. "And as for your father, well..." There, she began to frown lightly. "He and I haven't crossed paths in centuries. The last I saw him, he was headed here - back when it was still part of the Aztec empire, and your mother had yet to become a ruler."

Sartana frowned. "I suppose it's my turn, hmm? To get an omen, I mean." She shifted her feet, her wings flapping in anticipation - and some dread. Papa said I wouldn't get a visit from you.

Nicoletta nodded her head. "Indeed, it is," she said calmly. "I advise you to not fret too much."

"I don't need your advisories," Sartana snorted, turning her head away. "You're not my papa, not my mama - you're a stranger. A stranger that knew my father once. That's all you are." She sneered at her. "I'm not like mi hermano. You can't-"

"That attitude will lead you down a path you are not prepared for, Sartana de los Muertos," Nicoletta spoke in a stern voice, echoing throughout the room. Crashing down like tidal waves, sending Sartana wide-eyed and almost stumbling back. "On the contrary, you are in need of some advisories. Your future looks rather bleak, heartbreak in store." Seeing the girl's fears, she tried to make her tone more soothing. "Giovane ragazza … you will meet someone. You may think you find love in him, but he might not share the same course of thought - and with that will come pain."

Sartana's chest tightened. Her hands shook, her nails digging into her sugar-skull skin. "Don't speak anymore," she said silently. "Please." She didn't want to carry this thought, to know that one day she wouldn't have that kind of love that her parents had. That she would suffer a pain such as-

"But … you will gain something from it," continued the Wood Sprite. "Something precious. Something valuable, that will be the reason you keep running. That you keep fighting, which is important." She raised a hand. "There will be many times you try again and again to find that love… you'll find a path that's tantalizing, even if not the right one. Through trial and error though, you will find your place - and with that, a love that will last."

Sartana was silent, taking all of this in. She didn't know what to believe, if she could even trust this sprite. She looked up, noticing constellations above. Shining certainly, more certain than she was – which she envied all the more. When she glanced back down, she noticed tears in the fairy's eyes. Is she crying for me? Or because she sees my father in me? the girl wondered.

"Just … keep faith in yourself," the Wood Sprite finished, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "Don't doubt yourself, and never give into the wrong temptations at the wrong time. It will all come together in the end, I promise you."

And for the first time that night, Sartana allowed herself to calm down and listen. Holding back any bite, she whispered, "De acuerdo… será mejor que no me jodas con esto."

"I don't wager on things like this. That's something your father does."

Before Sartana could ponder on those words, the surrounding changed, and the fae took off with a burst, feathers scattering behind. Suddenly, the girl jolted awake and feeling around, she found a single feather.

(She would show it to her father the next day after breakfast, when no one was looking. He would grab the feather, looking at it solemnly. He would listen as she told him of the omen, and he would say in response:

"Do as she says. I know you, mija…it should turn out fine.")

In a land unknown to most of the gods, far from the underworld yet not quite in the above realm, there was a castle. Within the castle was a room that belonged to a young fae boy, no older than nine fae years. He had a head of dark brown hair, almost black, scruffy and all yet short and more well-kept than his father's blonde hair. His eyes were a certain teal, his skin pale as his father's and he wore a simple shirt and pants.

"My son."

The boy rushed forward as his father used a series of clicks, whistles and other noises while addressing the boy – only barely tall enough to reach his waistline – whose eyes light up brighter than any summer. His little pointed ears twitched with a delighted curiosity.

"Yes, father?" he asked, teal eyes meeting multicolored orbs. He glanced around. "Hey, where's mum?"

"She is off on her duties," said the elder fey. An unreadable look crossed his eyes. His wife was always a curious thing, even when they'd met centuries ago – before he accidentally ran the labyrinth, before it chose him as its king; back when he was surrounded by predominantly fae. She was reserved yet could talk for hours if she wanted, filled with a compassion for children no matter if human or fae or even angels – often away granting desires to those children that called, or giving omens on the rare occasions. Just as he was granting the desires of those that ordered a child within their care to be whisked away by goblins.

Sometimes, this meant there wasn't as much time to spend with their own offspring, Enrico.

Rei, it means, said his wife. Jareth had wondered why such a specific name, but could not argue – not when his wasn't much better. Perhaps it was to secure the child's future, his own fate as the heir. Each sound, when vocalized, was a promise – a promise of a brighter future.

Jareth and Nicoletta were trying to bring him under their wings – ironically enough – to train him for what the future entailed. Enrico knew to speak five languages already. He knew to fight for himself, how to master enough magic to shapeshift, to move freely as if light on air – a good pupil, he was.

Jareth stretched out his arm as Enrico joined him on overlooking the land on the balcony. Suddenly, a small blue dot came into view. The wind from the other fae's strong wings brushed on the boy's face as she landed next to them.

"Bambino," she addressed the boy. "Mio figlio. I come with a story."

Enrico grinned. "What kind of story?"

The sprite looked at her husband. Jareth made a gesture. "Go on," he said. "Tell us."

"A story of a haughty god," she began. "How he would gamble, and yet how he'd rise in spite of that."

Enrico seemed enthralled and invested, letting out a gasp of awe. Jareth huffed, giving his wife a displeased look as he asked, "This again?"

The sprite stared at him. "It's a story he enjoys," she said simply. "If you don't want to listen, you can go play with the goblins and kick hens around." She began to usher their son away. "Meanwhile, I will tend to our boy."

"What did he do this time?" asked Enrico, curious.

The sprite rolled her eyes. "What hasn't he done is what you should ask," she replied cheekily.

Jareth watched as his wife began to spin a tale. One he was all too familiar with. He scowled and left, wondering why her stories would always revolve around someone that she should've forgotten long ago.

"It all starts with an angel…"

"An angel?"

"Yes, mio figlio. An angel."

Present day

Xibalba looked down, unable to face his wife. He didn't want her to see the look on his face, sorrowful and regretful.

La Muerte couldn't stand seeing him so upset, knowing now what she did know. It all pieced together. His reaction when they spoke of the bizarre spirits she sensed all those years ago, when they'd had their last child. When Sartana had been a teenager, when the kids seemed so innocent, when everything seemed so right. It explained why he and Chamuco never … and the warning signs with Mictlán...

She pulled him into a fierce hug, as if letting him go would cost greatly. "Did you ever find out more of her?" she asked quietly. "She sounds like a … nice one."

"Yes," he replied quietly, burying himself in his wife's embrace. He squeezed his eyes shut. "The myths - they were a partial lie. And Chamuco and Mictlan, they'd fed into them. They got more involved, eventually."

La Muerte raised a brow. "What do you mean, 'a partial lie'?"

Xibalba shook his head. "Her mother wasn't unwilling, not in the start. It was only when Livia held her third child that she began to rethink of the world she was bringing them up in. That's why Nicoletta had such a spirit in comparison to her sisters."

"Did you ever meet her sisters?" asked La Muerte, curious.

"Unfortunately, yes…" Xibalba winced. "They were almost like Chamuco and Mictlán, though not as bad."