"My kingdom is around here… well, more so located in the Sardinian area. Above."

"You mean where the Español occupy?"

"Yes…though not exactly within the eyes where a human could see."

"But for other immortals to see?"

"Yes, even hybrids can – if they believe."

Esteban paused. "It sounds like a grand place," he said slowly. "But knowing your words, it's not fun at the center of it all, is it?"

"No," sighed Nicoletta. "My father – he's a tyrant. Anything that fights the tide, he will crush beneath him. My sorellas obey him blindly, but my mama–" she stopped, putting her hand to her mouth as an ugly noise erupted from her throat. She recalled her mother, kind eyes and all. The angel wings that would kindly look over her as she was put to rest. The lullabies she sung. The stories she could tell. "My mama … she didn't want us to blindly obey. She said disobedience is sometimes a good thing, and she–"

"She stood up to your padre?" Esteban finished. He saw the pained look in her eyes, and knew then and there that she had seen so much.

"One day, when I was sixteen fae years old," Nicoletta began, her voice wavering as tears sprung to her. "My mama put her foot down. She said to my father, let the children choose their destinies. Let them have the chance to make a choice, like I did. And then he – he –" she choked on the last words, recalling how her father struck her mother with a force of magic so powerful that she...

The Wood Sprite crumbled to the ground, her wings wrapping around herself as she sobbed. Esteban pulled her in a hug, fierce and tight, wrapping his own wings around her. "Shhh... está bien, Nicoletta. No tienes que decir nada más," he tried to soothe her cries.

"No, I have to," Nicoletta insisted, gripping Esteban's neckpiece. "Pater meus homicida est. My mother was killed."

Esteban's eyes widened. "Lo siento mucho." His arms stroked the back of her head gently. "I had no idea..." An uneasy knot tied up in his stomach. Signora Livia was dead - the legends carried more of a weight than he thought. If Constantino and Zacarías knew... "I– I'm sure she was a good being."

"She was," Nicoletta sniffled. "A good angelo. She taught me to fly, to sing and how to spin a story." She tried to smile but couldn't, her mouth forming in a thin line. "She was kind, intelligent, full of conviction. She only wanted the best for us. My elder sisters didn't see it, but I did – and I am always thankful for her. I try to tell my younger sister of her, since she was only five fae years when the incident happened... but it's not working. Father's got a way of luring them all under his wing."

"What are your sisters like?" Esteban asked, quietly. He wondered, just how messed up her family was … almost just like his. "And I must ask, did your mother ever … want to be with your father?" That question – it was more so him wanting to know if the stories were true, to an extent. That the fae ruler was a kidnapper and a—

"My eldest sister, Crimilde, is … arrogant. She thinks she's the queen of everything. My second sister, Dionisia, isn't much better - though she's a bit more cruder in tongue." Nicoletta looked down, away from him as she thought of her last sister. "My younger sister, Zaira, she's the most agreeable. She's only thirteen fae years, and she's sweet … though her outlook on mortality and other creatures is concerning." She frowned deeply. "There's this idea amongst fae – all living creatures owe us, and that any consequences of our magic aren't of our own fault."

"That's…horrible." Esteban winced, seeing similarities between their families already. "Is that why you grow so protective of human children?"

"Yes," said Nicoletta with a nod. She looked up at him, their eyes meeting. "Human children suffer the most from the consequences of fae magic. I want to rectify it all, but I can't – not when I'm confined by magic. Ancient magic that denies any right to intervene." She shrugged. "But I try to fix it in other ways…to guide them along their journeys, make sure they succeed." She tilted her head at him then. "What about angels? Are you all restrained? Or do you have freedom of some sort to intervene?"

"In some ways we are more free," Esteban started, smiling although it was not all happy. "We can intervene more in the humans we guide, though our interventions vary. Sometimes we can physically approach them, but only when appearing as though we are another human – shapeshifting, essentially." He shifted into a mortal, same olive tone but dressed in a commoner's clothes. "Like this."

"You shapeshift too?" asked Nicoletta, impressed. When he nodded, she grinned and shapeshifted to a mortal, though with pale skin and blonde hair that barely reached past her shoulders. "So do I."

He looked at her in awe. "¡Impresionante!" he exclaimed. He took her hand and kissed it. "No importa qué forma tomes, todavía te ves hermosa."

She blushed and bowed her head lightly. "Grazie. Sei molto bello tu stesso."

They began to walk alongside each other in their mortal forms as Esteban continued to tell of the limits an angel had. "We cannot … step out of line when interacting with a human. If we do, even the slightest, and the higher ups find out … we're punished severely."

Nicoletta had a grim look on her face. "Wing clippings? That's what my father threatens me with."

"That, along with much worse," Esteban replied grimly, frowning now. Her father threatened her with that? Maldito puto. "It depends on the severity of how much you step out of line." He hopped over a bump in the path. He glanced behind, noticing how she slowed down to take in the surroundings as fireflies flew around. The light made her look more radiant. "Some faced getting wings clipped and exiled, others … well, there's a capitán we have – he's ruthless, and any slight stepping out of line riles him up." He shuddered as he thought of Baldomero's words.

"If any of you is caught with a hada… you can either surrender what you know of them over to me, or I will make sure you pay for harboring such a thing - greatly."

"The capitán forbids any relation between fae and angel, and if we break the rules, he'll…" Esteban made a slicing notion across his neck. Nicoletta winced at this, yet gave him a curious look of why? to which he responded, "There's a legend. Capitán Baldomero had an amante: an angel named Livia."

Nicoletta's eyes widened. "That's my mother's name," she whispered. There was a legend behind her mother? She hadn't known.

Esteban's frown deepened, yet he went on. "She was kidnapped by fae and forcibly married off to the ruler. Since then, the tensions increased. Zacarías and Constantino know this, and they want to—"

"My mother wasn't forced."

A silence cut through the air like a dagger. The angel looked at the fae— or hybrid? She had the features of both— with a look of disbelief. "What?"

"My mother wasn't forced," she repeated, her teeth gritting. "My father is a monster, but he's not a rapist. Those legends omit something." She stepped toward him. "And that is the fact that Livia chose to marry Re Torquato."

"She…she did?" stammered Esteban, unable to wrap his head around it.

"She did." Nicoletta nodded, eyes narrowed. "She told me once, long ago, that she chose to marry my father to relieve herself of her duties. That she was intrigued by the world of fae, not knowing the costs – and she wanted to break away from her angel life. So she told my father she would be his queen."

"… but, but the capitán said—"

"I don't know what happened between them. My mother spoke of a suitor once, perhaps it was him, but she said while she liked him … she didn't want to serve under the same ranks as him anymore."

Esteban choked up. So all he knew was a lie. Livia had chosen the fae ruler — she hadn't been forced, no; she just wanted a higher power. It sounded like some sick joke. "So this tension between our kind— the reason you can't be accepted among us in the heavens— it's all because your mother didn't want her rank! Because Baldomero doesn't know! Dios, Nicoletta, do you know what this means?!" She shook her head. He grabbed her by the shoulders. "This was all a misunderstanding! This whole feud, it's redundant — it's unnecessary!"

"Yet it will never end, because as long as the capitano and the rei live, there's no sense of good relations." Nicoletta pulled away, sighing as she crossed her arms. "You and I will be stuck visiting in secret, up until I fade away into nothing when my time comes, while you live on for much longer — because I am half, while you are whole."

Esteban held a hand out to try and comfort her. "Maybe…maybe if I tell Capitán Baldomero, he won't — he will stop. And then if we work hard, we can fix things, make them right," he suggested. It sounded … like a decent idea, actually. If there was enough hard work, then their destinies could change. He wouldn't have to be a knight — he could be what he desired to be, all because he wouldn't have the obligations of duty, because he'd be seen as a heroic figure for ending the feud. And he would be able to see the Wood Sprite without anybody stopping him, not even Zacarías or Constantino. "And then you could have a place."

"A place where?" she snapped at him, stomping forward angrily. She shifted back to her regular form, yanking his hand towards hers, causing him to shift back to his regular form in a fit of startling. "Look at me, Esteban. I am a hybrid. Né pieno né vuoto. I am the result of an ill-fated union, and the proof that this feud can never end — for if my parents couldn't do it right, then what makes you think we can stop it?" She yanked his hand to her wings. "My wings—they are an angel's, yet I would never blend in with a flock. And other fae? They only see me as an heiress — strip away my titles, and I'll be tossed aside." She looked down, tears of frustration forming in her eyes again. "I will never belong to either."

He gently stroked her wings, causing her to breathe sharply. "Nicoletta…you do belong," he said quietly. "You belong in this world, amongst others, no matter what you are — and there is no shame in what you are." His hand moved to her face, caressing her cheek gently. "You are the best of both worlds. If anybody can't see it, that's their issue. You have so much radiance, despite your rough beginnings — and I would gladly fly beside you even if it means taking a lone path. To me, you will always belong - regardless of title or hybrid status." He used his thumb to wipe her tears away.

At that, Nicoletta giggled. It was quiet, almost inaudible over the sound of the wind blowing, but it was undeniably a giggle. And then, after a second and louder giggle, she began sobbing. Wordlessly, Esteban gathered the Wood Sprite up in a fierce embrace, and Nicoletta leaned her head on his shoulder. Esteban began to rock them both back and forth.

After a minute or two, he began singing. His voice was low but calm, a strange tune to it…

"So excuse me forgetting,

But these things I do…

You see I've forgotten,

If they're red or they're blue.

Anyway, the thing is – what I really mean…

Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen."

It wasn't that Nicoletta hadn't ever cried before. She had cried, many times in fact. It was just … she never cried in front of anybody. Not for real – not anything more than a single tear or sniffle. Even her younger sister hadn't been permitted to witness her real crying, her loud and unrestrained wails, so far as she knew. No matter how upset she had been, she had always managed to hold in her tears until she'd reached the privacy of her own chambers.

But she was crying now, and she was crying here. With Esteban. Not just crying in front of him, either, but actually letting him hold her and comfort her. It was bizarre. Not bad, but … bizarre.

"Where- where did you hear that song?" Nicoletta managed to ask, once her sobs halted. She looked up at Esteban's face, searching for something in those red eyes. What it was, she didn't know, she just – she had to find something.

"I … came up with it just now," Esteban replied, smiling slightly. His eyes shone and it dawned on her then.

Oh.

Oh, I like him.

"Are you alright now?"

His question snapped her out of her thoughts. "I – I think I'll be okay," she replied. She leaned up, kissing his cheek. "Gratias tibi…"

He blushed. "De nada." It dawned on him too then, that: oh, I like you.

And just as it seemed things were going right, a sound of harsh flapping of wings followed by a shout interrupted them.

"Nicoletta!"

Both whipped their heads, Nicoletta's eyes filled with dread as she recognized the two fae that began to approach. One fae of snow white with long hair, the other of an aqua hue with medium-length hair, feathers cascading on the sides of her face. Their wings were a shorter span than hers, neither as feathery – a bit more insect-like – but still enough to appear threatening if needed.

"Crimilde, Dionisia, how—?!"

"Zaira told us you'd snuck off," replied the fae of white, eyes hard and narrowed. Her voice harsh and cold. "I figured you were off tending to some human child. I didn't think that you'd be with one of their kind."

"Their kind?" Esteban repeated, his own eyes narrowing at the two. "Excuse me—"

"You know the law," Dionisia hissed as she flew over, hovering near her younger sister. Her own glare was even more harsh then her elder sister's. "Mustn't be caught with an angel... especially not in such a scandalous position." She feigned shock, all while Nicoletta shook her head furiously. "What shall Father say when he finds out you threw yourself in the arms of this angel like a puttana comune? Especially given the arrangements he's been trying to make—"

"It is not like that," Nicoletta hissed. "He was comforting me." Yet she didn't shift in his hold. His arms wrapped around her further, a bit tighter, as if trying to shield her – and at this, she relaxed further. He felt nice, in many ways no one else did. "And you cannot throw 'puttana' around at me when you've enchanted various widowers to bed you."

Dionisia growled. "Piccolo zoccola!" She was about to lunge, only to be restrained by Crimilde, who seemed unfazed by her sister's crudeness.

"Don't call her a puta!" Esteban snapped back, standing up, still holding the fae in his arms. "She's got more honor than you or your father do."

Nicoletta looked at Esteban, shaking her head. "Esteban, no," she whispered. "Don't—"

"She's graceful. She's intelligent. She has more compassion in her than any of you." His wings spread out defensively. "And if you want to hurt her, you'll have to go through me!"

"Very tempting, but that won't be necessary," Crimilde said rather calmly. She fixed her glare upon Nicoletta again. "Come, sorella, enough of this insolent behavior. If anybody else knows of your disappearance, it will get ugly—and we can't have that when tomorrow's the day the principe comes over, can we?"

Nicoletta opened her mouth to retort, but couldn't. If her father knew, she would face worse than a mere slap—a lashing, at best. And she couldn't be bruised when Jareth showed up. Even if she didn't know how to feel about him, she didn't want him to see her in such a state. It wouldn't be good for anybody. That, and Esteban would—

"Alright," she said quietly. She looked down, though she knew her sisters were smirking now. They liked seeing her like this, crushed beneath, down low—it was their specialty. "Goodbye, Esteban…"

But as the Wood Sprite began to walk over to her sisters, Esteban flew between them. "No!"

"You parasitic—" Dionisia began to hiss.

Suddenly two more angels flew in, pulling Esteban back. He struggled in their hold, thrashing. "Let go of—" he halted when he saw who it was. "…Zacarías? Constantino? Why are you here?" Dread began to form in his stomach. Did the capitán learn of my absence? Did he send them after me?

"You were gone for more than a couple of hours," Zacarías replied coldly. "We're not risking Baldomero having our asses for you to see some pretty fae." He sneered at Nicoletta, before his eyes trailed off to Crimilde. "Or faes." A smirk formed on his face as he looked the white sprite up and down. "I see there's more of them."

"We were just leaving," Crimilde spat at him. "We would have gone sooner if not for him."

"Ah, mi hermano is an idiota," Zacarías tsked, shaking his head at Esteban. "Don't you know not to hinder the hadas? I thought I taught you."

"Pardon us," said Constantino to Dionisia, who merely snarled at him. He was about to bite back, but chose to remain calm after Zacarías shot him a look. "He's got a tendency to be a thorn in people's sides. Forgive him for his insolence."

"What are you angels doing beyond your boundaries?" asked Crimilde with a raised brow, her mouth set in a frown. "You know how it must be."

"I went to see her," Esteban spoke up through gritted teeth. "She wanted it. So did I."

"Your desires don't matter." Crimilde's tone grew colder. "Nicoletta is set to have an arrangement to see the prince of another kingdom, so these little meetings can't go on."

Nicoletta's head hung low. Esteban could see her mouth the words, "forgive me" before she turned away. He felt his heart ache. Arrangement? He never heard of—

"Yes, of course," Zacarías responded, keeping a thin smile on his face. "I'll see to it his behavior doesn't continue. You go off on your merry way now, and we'll be on our own." He made a gesture before shoving his brother in the other direction.

Esteban tried to shove back, but Constantino yanked him by the wings. "So she's a princesa, ey?" he whispered, grinning wildly. "You have some explaining to do." The younger angel's eyes widened, and the elder licked his jaws in satisfaction.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Esteban watched Nicoletta and her sisters fly off. "Adios..." he whispered sadly, before he then took off with his hermanos.

"Her sisters sound as well-off as your hermanos do."

Xibalba snorted at this. "Claro." He shrugged, a sad smile on his face. "But they never reached their levels of low. That I could be thankful for."

La Muerte pursed her mouth. "And... what was that about meeting a prince?"

"Ah, it was a failed arrangement. They wanted her to marry this guy- his name's Jareth," Xibalba explained. "But well, my continued meetings with her complicated things."

"Did they ever get married?" asked La Muerte. She almost heard her own tone grow hopeful, and at that she felt horrible. But the way her husband was describing this story, it felt hard not to get hurt. She knew it wasn't as though she was a second choice, but...hearing him talk of past loves he never told her about until now - it sent a coldness inside her, mixed inside with that sympathy and warmth.

"I...I don't know," Xibalba coughed. He didn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, it made sense, but on the other... a reminder of what couldn't be. "Last time I saw her was the night before Chamuco, Mictlan and I left for these lands."

La Muerte nodded slowly. "Alright... and what did your brothers make of that encounter, after you went back with them?"

Xibalba tensed up. "You don't want to know."

Nicoletta was many things to many beings. To her husband, she was his queen, his beloved and someone he'd slave over day and night just to have her unwavering love. To Enrico, she was 'mum.' But to others— a specific group— she was the one that stirred a scandal, an interloper that led a knight to abandoning his duties and disgracing himself. The one that got away, to said knight.

She didn't like to recall the past, not if she could help it, but it was hard not to. The early days in Rome when it seemed like things were going right, when she found a love that would last, only for the one she loved to spit in her face — to partake in a bet and wrong her in a way that she hadn't forgotten, and would never. She still recalled the murder he'd done — the poor human foundling that she'd cradled in her arms, his lies and excuses, and the hot tears that poured from her eyes as she tried to amend it. It cost her greatly, the memory of the lashings she faced — the phantom pains in her wings still there — always echoing. The exile she faced… the many eyes on her, the way her younger sister yelled for her… she shuddered at the memories.

The last time she saw Esteban, it had been after her exile. Beneath an oak tree, that was where she screamed at him, cursed at him for getting her banished, for murdering a helpless being, and she didn't listen to his pleas. It was an accident, he'd said. I didn't know, I— all rubbish in her eyes. She flew off. The morning after, she'd watched from afar on a cliffside as a large ship sailed away with the conquistadors— and three non-humans in tow.

She tried moving on after that. Tending to the desires of the human children, as she always had. Somewhere down the line, after her greatest victory in the wooden boy with the borrowed soul, she had met Jareth again, now ruler of a kingdom of goblins and many other bizarre creatures, the fae living there being much different than those from her old lands. She sought a home there - and found one in his castle, originally in the guest chambers. But then they began connecting. She learned he wasn't entirely different - he had a fondness for throwaway children, taking them away from adults that couldn't give a damn for them. She saw him take care of one, no older than the boys and girls she would care for, and decided then, perhaps.

(It was a slow courtship. He flattered her, offered her everything under the stars for her - all for her love. She liked him, but it took a while for her to really love him - but when she did, it was underneath a peach tree. He taught her to dance, and within his multicolored eyes she saw a shine. She saw something almost familiar, but not quite - a kind of love one only heard of in tales passed through the words of old travellers.

After that, the next time he asked her, she accepted. It was at dawn of a midsummer night they were wed. Enrico came several summers after that - her utmost joy, seeing features of Mama within him, yet he had eyes a mixture of her and his father, and oh, those ears...definitely Jareth's.)

She carried on with her duties, alongside raising the little foundling she and Jareth had. Though now, he wasn't so little anymore. Not as little as he had been when she decided to visit—

"Mum?"

Nicoletta's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, one that could make her smile without any falter. "Yes, mio figlio? What was it you were saying?"

Enrico shook his head. He was now thirty-one years of fae age—a slow growth process, he'd gone through. Their aging was complicated, sometimes fast and sometimes slow; all at once even. The training over the years he received didn't help. But he appeared healthy, mostly. His skin remained as pale as his father's, eyes the same hues—full of a life—and his black hair had grown a little, now tied into a short ponytail. Scruffy yet well combed all at once. He wore a simple brown shirt and black pants, with boots. His pointed ears were twitching in expectancy. He looked fit to be a principe.

Yet his words contradicted that. "I don't know if the throne is something I'm cut out for." Enrico's mouth pursed in thought. "I know you and Father trained me for this, but … my heart yearns to travel the world." He glanced off at the window nearby, watching as pigeons flew by. "Staying here and ruling over the maze and kingdom – it's not something I'm cut out for."

Nicoletta gave a sympathetic smile. "I had a similar thought process when I was even younger than you are, right now," she started. Her son gave her a skeptical look. "I did, yes. I thought I wasn't cut out for my own role, but eventually you learn to accept it. I had yearned for more, but when I reached for that, I got struck with harsh reality."

"It's not like that, though," Enrico argued quietly, his brow furrowing. "I'm not going to sneak out to see someone I'm forbidden to see. What I desire is to merely leave these confines…to get a taste of the outside world." He noticed the hurt look on his mother's face at his wording, and felt guilty immediately after. "Mum, I didn't—"

"It's alright," she told him. "I – I understand what you are saying to say." Her brows furrow. "But when I explored the world … I saw so much decay." She still did, and she still saw the consequences of her actions – especially when she chose to give omens. "I don't want you to see what I saw." She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezed it tight. She only wanted the best for him. She didn't want him to repeat her mistakes, to fall and get hurt—it was something she couldn't handle the thought of. "I just want you to be safe."

"I will be safe," Enrico assured his mother, squeezing her hand back in his. He smiled slightly, his ears twitching in a manner that wasn't happy nor sad. "You don't have to worry about me. I won't get caught up in secret relationships." He heard of this tale many times — of a forbidden love, and the pain that came from it. "And I won't stray too far to see the decay. I simply desire to see the center of the world above."

Nicoletta's breath hitched in her throat. The center of the world above — that was Mexico, where he and his family… "I don't know," she said, uncertain. "It's a treacherous journey to take, mio figlio."

"But Father says a harsh road taken is better than a road not taken at all," Enrico told her. His voice then lowered, "Sometimes, truth hurts - hurts like hell. But it's better to know than to not know at all, wouldn't you say? After all, you were the one to bring a wooden boy to life using the soul of his past one."

A sad smile appeared on the Wood Sprite's face. "You make a good point," she whispered. She reached out to touch his cheek, tears in her eyes. "Mio chicco, when did you get so wise?"

Enrico shrugged, smiling. "I had good parents."

She hugged him tightly. "And we have a good son." They hugged for a while until she pulled away. "Alright, if that is what you desire … you may leave for the above world as soon as you'd like."

"What was that?"

The two turned to see Jareth at the doorway. He scowled as he looked between them. "What's this of the above world?"

"Nothing," said Enrico quickly, standing up with his hands behind his back. A bad habit of his. "Nothing big, I assure you."

"Nothing — nothing, tra la la?" Jareth's tongue clicked in displeasure. "Don't lie to me now. I can sense it." He looked to his wife. "You told him no, right?"

"Jareth," she began, in a pleading tone. One that sent him shuddering in a delight. "He's more than old enough to go – and he won't repeat any mistakes of ours, so please." Her eyes shone with her plea. "Don't make this hard."

Jareth sighed and went over to his wife, taking her hand and kissing it. "For you, my love, anything." He looked at their offspring, their sole heir. "You may travel to that world, but be careful – nothing is as it seems. It is big, nasty and cruel – no place to stay for long. And take the majordomo with you."

"It will be a couple of days," Enrico told his father. "That's all." He grinned widely, his ears twitching with an excitement. He heard many tales, now he got to experience it himself. He left the room, leaving his parents together.

Nicoletta glanced at her husband, giving him a tired smile. "Thank you, Jareth."

Jareth shook his head. "My dear, you ask for so much sometimes – you and him," he said with a huff. "And yet all I ask in return from you, it's so simple...yet you never really give it to me."

Nicoletta frowned at this.

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, pretending she didn't know. But she did, and it always made her guilty. She couldn't stand the guilt. "I swear my loyalty to you and only you. Isn't that what you desire?"

"You know what I desire." Jareth's voice lowered, his mouth now pressed to her neck in a trail of kisses. "Just fear me, love me, do as I say – and I will be your slave." With each word, a kiss. It made her shudder, and he relished in it, until she jerked away. "Please, it isn't much…"

"But I already love you," she told him, her brow furrowing. "I married you, had your son, raised him alongside you best I could. What else do you need?" She knew the answer, but she didn't want to hear it. Never, not when it reminded her—

"You don't love me as much as him," Jareth said, eyes narrowed. He had heard her say his name. When she talked of him, she spoke with a sorrowful nostalgia. Her eyes lit up in a way they never did with the blonde-haired fae. He would dance with her and while she smiled and moved along, their rhythms contrasted. She would kiss him but he could sense it wasn't as passionate as he was. "I am merely your second choice."

Nicoletta turned away. "That's not true." Another lie. "I do love you." She did, really, just not as much as— "But you must understand, it's hard to forget a first love."

"It's been centuries, Nicoletta," Jareth hissed, grabbing her hand tightly. "When will you move on? Allow me to love you in the way he couldn't properly—"

"Jealousy is an ugly look, my dear." She frowned at him, touching his cheek. "It doesn't fit you."

He frowned back at her. "Then give me a reason to not be."

"Jareth—"

"If you will excuse me, I will be in our chambers." He began to walk away, giving her one last glance. "When you are ready to forget about him, you are free to join me." With that, he left.

The Wood Sprite sighed, her hand gripping her chest. Why must it be so complicated? she thought, pained. If only he didn't make it so hard...

"This Nicoletta sounds like trouble." La Noche's face turned up in a scowl. "It's a good thing you—" and him, for all his...faults, she wanted to say, but couldn't. To acknowledge her older sister's demise and the bastard that killed her, it hurt still, even centuries later. "—stepped in when you did."

"Stepping in wasn't enough though." Chamuco's scowl deepened. "Xibalba kept seeing that troublesome hada, even after we'd warned him many times to stay away... a temptress she was, wrapping him around her dainty finger!" He recalled saying that before, to a young Hugo — when the boy was more innocent, not so hurt by his eldest sister's banishment or the handicapping* of his second sister; when times were a bit easier.

Last he saw of Hugo, he had long moved into his own home somewhere in the Land of the Remembered, starting out his own art gallery. He was showing promise, though oddly his art began to slowly contain visionary works of a human...but the lava god presumed it was just a momentary lapse in taste.

Sartana, on the other hand, had been exiled back in 1962. Fifty-six years had gone by now, and often Chamuco wondered about his troublesome niece. How was she now, with that half-spawn child of hers? The human that broken her heart— Jorge Rivera— had died about five years ago, and he'd seen his nuisance of a hermano do one of the few good things in his life: torture the bastardo. But the thought of Sartana lingered. Last he read of in the book, she was a villainess about — a big one in Miracle City, causing havoc wherever she went. Her nieto, a human-skeleton hybrid child— he winced; why must his niece's family line be tainted this way? At least the human genes didn't show as much— named Django, seemed to follow in her footsteps.

And then there was Amparo. Poor girl, she had been only sixteen when it happened. In a fit of heartbreak, Sartana lured Amparo to the Book of Life, where she tried to find a spell that would grant her a power — to get rid of Jorge for good. It backfired and Sartana's "spell" struck Amparo, nearly costing the young goddess' life. Luckily, most of the injuries had been able to heal... except for one — her left arm, completely blown off into nothing but ashes. As a result, an eye for an eye was taken — Sartana's wings were cut off, and she had been banished to the living realm. Since then, Amparo had been... a hard case.

Amparo believed her sister hadn't meant to hurt her. She would always speak in defense of her when she could, upset that her name wouldn't be said aloud. And when it came to her own condition, she would get upset when being treated for it, claiming she was being treated like glass. Xibalba and La Muerte tried to treat her regularly as her remaining hermana and hermanos were, but Amparo was always frustrated regardless.

Nowadays, she remained closed off. Not as bad as Hugo, but still...only confiding in her hermana y hermanos, not her padre or madre.

"But eventually…her grip on him wavered, and we pulled him free," Chamuco went on. "It seems to me though, despite him having your sister as his wife and nine children with her, he never did get over it. He has always blamed me for the 'breakup'." He shrugged nonchalantly.

La Noche frowned deeply. "So that's why you two…" Her fists balled up. How he do that to her sister? Chasing after the one that got away... the little— "It's not your fault though! You were only helping him. Why can't he appreciate that? Mocoso! He should focus on what he has now instead of what he can't have."

Chamuco chuckled at this, a smirk forming as he took her hand and kissed it. "Right you are, mi amor," he told her. Her face flushed at this. "Sadly, mi hermano can't be as intelligent as you are."

"It seems you are the only one with his head placed right on his shoulders," said La Noche, smiling slightly as she batted her eyes at him.

"Oh, Lunita…"

But as Chamuco leaned in to kiss her, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, someone familiar.

Amparo stood by, a few inches away. Her markings had seemingly dulled out, her hair having grown a bit longer, tied in a different braid, and she wore a black dress with white calavera patterns. In her hair was a marigold. She had an unreadable expression on her face as she looked up at her uncle. "Tío?"

Chamuco's eyes travelled between his niece and the noticeable absence of her left arm. "Sí, mija?" he coughed, trying to focus his eyes when she caught him.

"I'm going to the land of the living." Amparo shifted her feet, her right arm– her remaining arm– rubbing at her neck. "I can't stay cooped up like I have."

"But mija," started her aunt. "Your arm – even if you use a human form, they'll notice."

"No me importa," she stated blandly. "I'd prefer that over the treatment I've faced over the last ten decades."

Chamuco's brow raised, but he decided he wouldn't say anything further. The temper of his nieces and nephews – a mixture of their padre and madre, which was something to behold. "Very well." He clicked his tongue. "Shall I let your parents know?"

"I would prefer you didn't," said Amparo briskly, her eyes darting around. "They won't let me go without company."

Chamuco and La Noche looked at one another, before both nodded. "Muy bien, si eso es lo que deseas," said Noche, trying to hide whatever concerns she had behind a care-free tone.

"It is." Amparo nodded at them, then began to walk away. "Cuídate, tío. Tía. Y tío? No te metas en problemas con Papá," she said, before she disappeared in a flash.

"¡No hago promesas!" shouted Chamuco after his niece, though he knew she couldn't hear him. He shook his head, yet a frown tugging. On one hand, it was a bit amusing to see his niece rebel on his brother, but on the other… she was an undesirable. What chance did she have in the living world?

"Do you think she'll be alright?" asked La Noche, concerned.

Chamuco glanced at his wife. "I don't know, mi amor."

As long as she didn't run to anybody that wasn't a fellow god, she would be fine. Or else– no, that wouldn't happen. Never again.

Fifty-six years. That was all it took for Sartana to reach this point in her life. Over ten measly decades of pain, joy, heartbreak and all that – wrapped up in the bow of a broken family. Often she looked at her claws – sharpened over the years from a need to grow, to strengthen herself – and she would wonder how it came to this. But then, she already knew.

Sartana had listened to her father's words when she was sixteen. She followed the advisories of the Wood Sprite. She tried her best to not stray from the good path. She did all she could. She was calm. She restrained herself. But it wasn't enough because then one day, she met Jorge Rivera. That was when her life changed for the worse.

She thought he loved her at the start. He told her he did – and she believed every word, giving herself to him. She let his seed grow inside her with their child. She accepted his proposal, thinking foolishly that he would go through with it and make her his esposa. She thought everything would fall to place.

It didn't.

Jorge left her at the altar. Sartana waited for hours and hours, until she grew irritated and worried, so she had gone searching for him. That was when she found him…in the arms of another. She asked him why, and he told her he never wanted to tie the knot with her. That was when her heart broke in half and she returned home.

She sought a way to make things right. She asked Amparo for help, as she was one to often read the book and could get to the place where it was easily. Amparo had agreed and they went there, found the book and tried to conjure a spell. A spell for Sartana to try and get back at Jorge, but it backfired – her magic struck Amparo and her hermanita … she lost an arm. Oh, how dread filled her alongside remorse! She tried to help, tried to do something, but Mama and Papa had walked in and seen the remains of the arm … seen the damage she'd done.

She didn't get to explain herself. What could she say? Her parents took care of Amparo while she was left at her uncle's scrutiny, and he told her, "You are the consequences of your own actions." She couldn't argue with that; she chose Jorge, someone that wasn't faithful, and then chose to take the wrong route. She became what they didn't want of her.

That didn't mean she didn't feel the pain of the banishment, the clipping of her wings—being thrown to the living world, left to her own devices. She had to start from scratch. Had to steal to feed herself, and later her baby—Machete, born with three arms, hybrid of skeleton-cyborg; half-god, half-human. When she laid her eyes on him, she promised to protect him from all the pain the world had to throw at him, even if it meant taking the brunt of that.

(She tried to have Jorge acknowledge him. More times than she could count. Constant visits that ended with her being chased away or worse, caught up in a fight that left her disheveled. More often than not, she lied to Machete, saying it was a stranger. Because how do you look your young son in the eye and tell him that his father refuses to acknowledge him, and that he's willing to do anything to avoid it?

Eventually, Machete found out when he was fourteen. As all illegitimate children do, he learned of his origins, though uglier than most. Sartana braced herself for a barrage of insults and whys, but it never came. Instead Machete hugged her and told her, "I don't blame you, mama. It's Puma Loco's fault."

He was too nice. She didn't deserve such a good son. She who couldn't give him a proper home, a father that would acknowledge him, the stable life that she once had when she was growing up—)

So it wasn't a shock when she turned to villainy. She had to steal more often than not, even when Machete became an adult. It was her life's force now. But she didn't attack- not unless it was a Rivera... and more often than not, it was the Riveras that got in her way. So forgive her for acting defensive, perhaps accidentally catching up a little Frida Suarez— little girls shouldn't accompany superheroes to fights; arms could get blown off— but she never harmed anybody. Not without reason. She had her own family to look out for— first it was Machete, then later came Machete's wife Mayte (an ex of Puma Loco's son, White Pantera), and then finally their own son, Django.

She had to set an example for Django, teaching him about villainy, since he so desperately wanted to join his nana in on it when he turned thirteen. So she taught him all she knew, even giving him his own mystic guitar. They had come to close many times to defeating the Riveras, and one time she had come close to marrying Puma Loco—

But then that puta's curse kept swinging back in! "You will find love," the fae told her, but it had all been lies. In reality, she'd probably cursed her— she had to have done it, as some petty revenge on her papa for his own crimes committed centuries and centuries ago. Why her? Why, why, WHY? What had she done to deserve all this series of misfortune? Didn't she deserve some chance at love?! It wasn't fair!

Life isn't fair, though. She learned that the hard way. Forced to raise a child alone. Left at the altar twice. Dealing with defeats by the family of the one that started this whole clusterfuck. How does one go on? Besides her mystic guitar's endless powers, giving her one to never truly die—a blessing and curse all at once—there was another factor…besides her family in Miracle City.

Listening to music from Ernesto de la Cruz. It calmed her in a strange way. Talking to his poster, it made her feel reassured in her lowest points she wasn't such a horrible mother or grandmother. Though he was long since disgraced now for…well, murder… she still had that old idolization—that old affection that never really faded. Call it silly, but it helped her in bizarre ways—and hey, life's bizarre enough when you're an exiled goddess stuck in Miracle City dealing with El Tigre and his puto of a grandfather.

Nowadays, though, Sartana has lived in retirement. Django took up her mantle about four years ago, been causing havoc on Miracle City—which she's proud of him, she is. She just prays he knows what he's doing. Her little Django's all grown up now, just like her boy Machete. Twenty-four and fifty-six. They have their own lives figured out.

And here she is, still hellbent on revenge. Though not on the Riveras, for Puma Loco is long dead... no, it's something else. Her other family and that hada. Getting wronged by those she is related to and someone that's interloped into her life? That's a different case. That's unforgivable, particularly on the latter end. But Sartana knows that the only way to sort out this idea of vengeance is to travel to the realm of the dead— a place she hasn't seen for over ten decades.

("Mama, what's the Land of the Remembered like?" Machete asked her one day, when he was about sixteen.

Sartana's heart nearly stopped. "Why do you ask that, mijo?"

"Some guy I met mentioned it," said Machete, a sad smile on his face. "He said it was a really pretty place. But I wanted to know if that's true since you lived there once."

Sartana gave a sad shake of her head. "It was a beautiful place when I lived there," she recalled. "Lights, festivities, families all around, music and such sights to behold…" Her fist balled up, her claws digging into her sugar-skull skin. "But it became a place where I was scorned not long after what happened to your tía."

"Oh…" Machete's face fell. He touched her shoulder. "Lo siento, mama."

She pulled him in a hug. "It's alright, mijo. At least I've got you.")

Do they still say my name like it's a curse? Sartana wonders, scowling. Or am I forgotten entirely? Actually, that's much worse if she thinks of it too much—and she's always had this in the back of her mind, so she feels a pain in her chest. She used to be her father's favorite. She used to fly around with him. He promised her that one day, she would be his successor—and instead she's banished, exiled, left for nothing. She wants to scream, curse at him, but it's not his fault, not entirely.

Priorities, she reminds herself. Priorities. They'll all get what's coming to them, in the end. This she swears.

"Nana?"

Sartana turns around to see Django. He's almost as tall as his father, but not quite—and he doesn't have the cyborg arm or metal chin. He looks like a regular skeleton boy, though there's some of those…human qualities…buried beneath. He still wears that hat, poncho and all. His crimson eyes blink at her, curious.

"What are you … doing?" he asks slowly, shifting. "You've been standing there, silent." His mouth forms in a line. "It's…unnerving."

Sartana reaches out to pat the top of his head, mindful of her claws—proud as she is of them, she knows they can cut badly—and gives a reassuring smile. "It's nothing, Jangy-Wangy," she coos at him. "Nothing at all."

"Nana!" Django grunts in frustration, lightly pushing his abuela's hand away. Eleven years, and she still refers to him as a child—even when he's an adult, and he's sick of it! "I'm not thirteen anymore. You can't keep saying that," he huffs and crosses his arms. "And are you really sure that it's nothing? You had that look of intent; that one you have when you're on some scheme."

Sartana's mouth pursed. "Ah, well, perhaps – but it's a scheme that is personal. Nothing to do with you or your father." She sees the raised brow on his end, look of skepticism, and it's moments like these where she wonders if this is what she appeared to her father. But it's something she'll never know. "I'm serious. Go now, go to your little novia. I'm sure she's waiting for you to take her out tonight on your own 'revenge schemes'." Her voice gets a little cheeky at the end, and she smirks upon seeing his face flush.

"Nana, Zoe's not – she's not my real novia, okay?" Django shifts more under his nana's playful stare. "We just 'date' to get back at El Tigre and his girlfriend...that's all…" Though his face flushes further as he thinks of Black Cuervo. It had been – oh god, almost twelve years? They'd both been fourteen at the start, both heartbroken over their crushes leaving them - ironically to date one another - and it was through this strange connection that they hatched up a plan to date. Spite was a factor, at the start, and it was all fine and dandy...

…until one day, when they were seventeen, Django looked at Zoe and saw something different about her. That was when he realized, maybe it wasn't revenge he wanted anymore. But he would never admit it aloud, though her kisses on his cheeks and the way she gripped his hand tightly– yet so caringly– were tempting. Never mind the way she says his name, or how she looks at him with those violet eyes— what the fuck, 'Jango. You're not even a legitimate Rivera. Aves mujers only stick to real Riveras. Not sons of unwanted sons.

His shoulders slump slightly, until his Nana places her hand on one.

"No need to get defensive, mijo. I was joking…" She gives him a smile. "You just go and have fun, okay? And don't get hurt."

"Gracias, nana," Django whispers, giving her a brief hug before he runs off. But before he's out the front door, he yells out: "And don't get in too much trouble while you're gone! Save it for when me and Papa can show up."

Sartana shakes her head, letting a chuckle escape for a moment. Then she frowns and whispers, "I'm afraid you won't be there for what I have to do."

With that, she takes off in the other direction. Her guitar is slung around her shoulders, as she's off to planning.

Planning how to get back to a world that's thrown her away.

La Muerte shuddered for a moment. She felt something bizarre, as though someone in particular was returning. Her heart almost dropped when she realized it was—no, but it couldn't be! Not her. Not now. Not when she was just learning of...

"Mi amor, is everything alright?" asked Xibalba, concerned as he placed a hand on his wife's shoulder.

La Muerte nodded in reassurance, though it was anything but alright. "Yes, I'm alright. It's just—I think there's been some arrivals," she lied. It's a thing she tried not to make common in their marriage, but now seeing as though he's kept this hada a secret, perhaps she can get away with this lie. It's not as big anyhow. "Could you...continue your tale?"

Xibalba nodded slowly, his hands gripping his staff tight. "Alright, so we left off where Mictlán and Chamuco had taken me back." He paused, shuddering as he recalled the way his wings had been pulled. "They knew of Nicoletta's position now. It was there things got...ugly."

La Muerte listened as her husband told her the tale. All the while, she wondered if he would ever lie as much on her behalf—a ridiculous thought, as he did so many times to please her, something that touched her now to think of… but when it came to it, if this Nicoletta ever returned, would he ever lie for her and hide her as a secret? Or would she be his first again?

Such horrible thoughts to have. But when centuries of being kept in the dark, and when the only other thing she can think of is the child that was long exiled, what else can she do? It pained. How could it not? She knew she wasn't his first time. Not his first date. Not his first novia. But she was his first wife, and she presumed his first love. Of course, now she knew that the latter wasn't the case.

La Muerte could only pray that when this tale ended, a book could be closed, and their tale could presume. Perhaps, if she was being a little blunt, he could finally move on.

Only time would tell.

–0–

"Princesa?! You snuck off with the princesa of all fae?!"

Zacarías yanked on Esteban's ear as he yelled at him. "Canis filius! You little sack of mierda. You knew this and were going to hide this from us? I ought to rip out your feathers one by one—"

"I didn't know she was a princesa until now!" Esteban cried out, wincing hard as he tried to pry the other angel's hands off him. "How was I? I hadn't even known she was half—"

"That she's a half-breed?" Constantino snorted. "How could you not? The wings are a dead give-away." He glanced away. "And to think, the offspring of Signora Livia…"

Esteban gritted his teeth. "The legends are wrong."

"Hmm?"

"Livia chose the fae ruler."

Zacarías snorted. "And we're supposed to believe that?"

"Nicoletta—"

"Your little novia's words mean nothing." Constantino sneered at Esteban. "She's a half-breed. Product of a union that should've never been."

Esteban swiped at Constantino with his hands, giving him a slap across the face. "She's more of an angel than you are!"

Constantino recoiled, hand on his cheek. "Gilipollas—" he growled.

"This will be of use for Capitan Baldomero," Zacarias remarked with a smirk. "One of his knights, seeing the hija of his lost love." His tongue clicked with satisfaction. "A scandal of the century!"

Esteban gripped his hermano's arm. "You wouldn't tell him." His tone was pleading. "He'll—he'll hurt her."

Zacarías feigned sympathy. "Oh, will he? That's horrible. Don't worry, I won't tell him…" He pat the younger angel's head, smirk growing. "…yet."

"We can tell him once you have all the useful information on everything about her, her padre—all of that," Constantino added in, grinning widely. "Perhaps even the princípe she's seeing. Even more scandalous!" His hands clapped. "Think of the battle that will be fought."

"But...but..." Esteban tried to protest, only for Zacarías to interrupt.

"You bring more information, and perhaps I'll think to spare her." The eldest brought out a weapon. "But since a battle's been brought up, how about a round of training, hmm?"

The youngest's eyes narrowed as he was tossed his own weapon. "Fine, have it your way."

Before they could spar, Zacarías leaned in and whispered, "And 'Teba? Be sure to bring let us meet her properly. She looks rather gorgeous...for her kind."

Esteban hissed and swiped at him, with the elder angel dodging with a laugh. "Stay away from her," he growled.

"We'll see, hermano. We'll see."

It started with an innocent remark.

"I had a strange dream last night," Sandra said. She was about ten years-old and already quite a curious one—half skeleton, half doll. Had her mother's hair, tied up in a long ponytail. Her father's hollowed eyes and skin, some stitches around her face—but overall, a nice blend of both.

"Good for you, Sandra," said Jack, reading up on a letter he'd found in the mail that morning while Sally busied herself brushing out any knots in her young daughter's hair.

"It was about grandpa," Sandra added. "And this fairy lady. And Tío Chamuco, and Tia Sartana."

Jack's heart boomed in his chest. Could it be? he wondered.

"Is that so?" Sally asked, her voice wavering with unease as her eyes met her husband's.

"Mmhmm, it was," Sandra said, her face alight with a child's secret smile. "The fairy lady seems nice though weird. She's mostly nice though. Grandpa seemed to think so too, though he seemed sad as well. Tio Chamuco wasn't very happy, but when is he? And Tia Sartana was actually there too, and she's really nice with kids though she also didn't seem too happy—"

"How real did the dream feel?" asked Jack, trying to not let his own voice betray him. The concern he felt pounded in his chest.

"I dunno!" said Sandra, her eyes shining with delight. "But it felt almost like it wasn't a dream in some places!"

"Well, real or not, it sounds like quite a dream…" Sally noted. "It sounds as though this was a reunion of sorts, sweetie. A strange reunion…but your father and I—" she looked at her husband, who nodded quickly "—will be sure to let your grandparents know about this. It might make them happy to know, especially about…Sartana…"

Could it really be some omen again? Jack thought to himself, unsure whether to feel concerned or at least a bit joyed that his sister was returning. Though he didn't know for certain. His children – especially little Sandra – didn't seem to have any of the god-like qualities he and the others had growing up. They seemed to inherit the regular nature of Sally, which he had decided long ago was better. They didn't need the complications that came with his lineage.

Jack let his mind wander as he shut his eyes and shook his head. A memory formed…

He had been a young adult when he returned home one day, finding Amparo in a rough state. Her arm blown off, stuck in a bed where she would recover, but never truly be herself again.

"Sartana did this, Juan," Xibalba had said, his face creased in a pain known only to a father that'd seen his child hurt another. "I didn't want you or the others to see this, but…your sister is in a serious state. She cannot be disturbed. Neither can Sartana be approached—she's dangerous."

Jack's heart thudded in his chest. Sartana hurt Amparo? But how? Why? Fate can't be this cruel, can it?

In the days after his father had given him the distressing news – he couldn't explain the hows and whys Sartana had done such a thing but it was guessed the heartbreak had broken her mind – Jack pondered.

He remained that way as Sartana was banished later, and he found himself without his older sister. That hole in his heart deepened and though he couldn't see her in reality, she had been there in his dreams at the start. He saw it as a sign from the fae, somehow, that she'd known how much his sister meant to him.

Dreams, after all, were always a gateway.