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The Land of the Forgotten held its usual stale, hollow silence, the only sound being the echoes of crumbling rock under Xibalba's feet.

His wiry, white hair wearily hung over like frayed rope, his red skull eyes, lacking their usual luster, had turned into a darkened maroon and were sunken in, giving him a more deathly appearance than usual.

He had the smell of hard liquor on his breathe as he drunkenly stumbled into his chambers and slumped over his throne.

"Leave me alone, Xibalba! I have had enough! Just go and leave! Get out of my sight!"

It had been almost four centuries since his separation from La Muerte, but those words still burned as hotly as they had done then. A century in an immortal's time was like a year in humans, but to Xibalba, a century without his amor felt like an entire lifetime. Time seemed to move slowly in the Land of the Forgotten, and drearily so.

He had tried to impress her, win back her affection with flowers, trinkets, wagers, and apologies. He tried everything he could think of, but to no avail. He had lived for thousands of years, but women were still a mystery to him.

He was relentless and stubborn, but so was she. Eventually, he began to lose hope on ever winning her back and fell into a pit of despair and rage. He started taking out his wrath upon mortals by making them wage war upon themselves, feed on their fear, and kill many long before their time. He even gave his medal of eternal life to a thieving miscreant named Chakal to spread more chaos and fear. It was the only way La Muerte would ever pay attention to him.

He enjoyed proving that mortals were weak-minded and black-hearted as he was. It meant that he was right, and that his wife was wrong. But after a while, he had become so predictable with his behavior, his lover would hardly even bat an eye in his direction anymore. She would only sigh, say he would never change, and restore whatever chaos he had created back to its original state.

She had taken the fun out of messing with mortals. It was then that he truly fell into depression.

What was the point of it all? Existing in this wasteland, preying on mortal fear, merely so the forgotten would suffer in silence and fade away? He wasn't their king. He was their babysitter. Maybe not even that. Anytime that he had tried to care for his subjects, they were highly undesirable in demeanor or had already begun to fade away; eventually, they all did.

His love, his corazón, was his only reason for living. And now, she was gone. Lost to him, forever. All because he had cheated on a bet.

He was such a fool. In one moment, he had everything in the palm of his hands, and the next, he had nothing. Nothingness and void. It was then that dark thoughts began to plague his mind.

Would she care if I was gone?

Would she even notice if I was?

What interest did he hold in her life? She was surrounded by kindness and goodness, ruling a land of happiness and eternal fiestas. Even her own essence was that of sweetness. And what was he? Just someone unpleasant whom she had often quarreled with, a nuisance in her otherwise perfect life.

He adored her- nay- worshiped her! But she did she ever feel as strongly as he did? It was always he that begged for her attention, he, that had bent the ancient rules and his decisions at the touch of her hand, just for her.

He was the King of the Land of the Forgotten. Maybe he should truly become the King of the Forgotten and do what all the others before him had done and just fade away...

Mortals had it easy. Their lives were easier to snuff out, a fleeting, flickering flame among many to be dowsed and smothered into smoke. But gods were immortal. Or at least, had very long lives. Most would have likely believed the former, but there was always a way, for nothing is ever eternal.

It wasn't that it was difficult to kill a god, rather it was hard to execute and none would have dared to try it, especially on themselves. One could not technically kill a god; there was no power in that. One could not kill a force of nature. But one could easily forget. If one had stopped worshiping a god, then the god would simply fade out of existence. Memory was power, in more ways than one.

It was why he had snuck into the Candlemaker's dwelling, hiding in the shadows of the candlelight. The maker was out, celebrating the Day of the Dead with La Muerte with the mortals above. Xibalba was not as keen to celebrate, seeing as how he would have to had dealt with the many forgotten during this most celebrated holiday later. Usually, he would have gone up there to cause some mischief, as it was one of the few days he was allowed to the surface world and could walk around freely among the living. It was when he would spend his most memorable days with his wife. But not this day.

Sitting on the Candlemaker's cloud lay the Book of Life. In it, contained the stories of every living being. This was how the Candlemaker knew all of their secrets, but he had tried to give them privacy in most of their affairs, since he never had time to read their stories anyways. Unfortunately the book could never let you skip to the end of a story still being written, so it was nearly impossible to predict an outcome of one person's story. It was a way of giving the person power over their destiny.

But in his blackened, tar-covered heart, Xibalba knew that his story would go on forever, and it was one he would not desire having to live through. Shutting the book with an echoing thud, a dull moment of peace and serenity settled over him at the concluding thought that his story would finally have an ending. It was the first time he had felt happy in a long time.

With that thought in hand, he had quickly slipped back into the shadows and tried to avoid disturbing any of the candles on the way out, but not before pausing at the doorway. Humans had often had the tradition of a last meal before their execution, so he decided to borrow some of the Candlemaker's spirits for just the occasion. Taking a long swig of the deep crimson-red bottle after popping off the cork top, he let the tingling feeling of drunkenness overtake him as he walked up the broken staircase.

After all of that grief, he had finally retrieved what he had been seeking. Pulling the book out from his robe, he drearily propped it against his chair and turned to his section of the book. One interesting thing about the gods was that the Candlemaker was not in charge of their candles of life.

La Muerte had many of hers on her sombrero and on the edges of her dress, while Xibalba had his proudly mounted on his shoulders and his crown on his conquistador armor. It was so that one god did not have more power over another.

He took one of the green-flamed candles eternally burning on his armor and began lighting some of the pages on fire. Gradually, he began feeling the memories on the pages slipping away. It had felt good, almost like a burden lifting off of his shoulders. But it wasn't just the memories of his past that he wanted to burn. It was the pages that had not been written. Bookmarking the beginning of his story, he clumped the pages together until he turned to the last page written which held a small animation of Xibalba holding his candles over the animated book's pages. He tore all of them out, feeling something inside him die as he did, stray papers falling to the floor like dead leaves.

He began throwing his candles onto the empty pages, the paper lighting up quickly in a sickening green blaze. It wasn't until that he saw a woman clad in red appear on the page that he stayed his hand for only a second.

"XIBALBA!" it wrote loudly in cursive. Loudly? How could a story express sound? Had he actually heard a voice?

Quickly, his gazed shifted in surprise to La Muerte standing behind him in disbelieving horror.

"What are you doing?!" she yelled, grabbing onto his arm to keep him from throwing more of his candles onto the fire.

"Disappearing, mi amor, was that not what you wanted?" he mumbled with a slight tone of bitterness. Confusion flashed over her at his response before she slowly put everything together, but she did not waver. Her grip on his arm now shook not only in anger, but in sorrow as well as silent sobs wracked the back of her throat, threatening to burst like the damn of tears beginning to build up behind her eyes.

"Oh Balby, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry! I should have never said those things to you..." she said tenderly, placing her other hand on the side of his face.

"It's too late, mi amor. I am already starting to forget..."

"It's not too late. The Candlemaker, we can get him to fix-!" she began before Xibalba cut her off with a fierce kiss. Gradually, she released her grip and fell into his arms. When her guard was down, he took the opportunity to throw the final candle onto the fire.

"NOOO!" she screamed, too late to stop the burning inferno as Xibalba held her back with adamant restraint. The papers now crinkled and curled together, slowly covering with white wax and dulling green flames. Xibalba looked at his distressed ex-lover with a sad smile, already feeling himself wane and fade away, like the dimming of a dying candle.

"Guess I was able to pull one final trick before I go. I am happy to see your face one last time, La Muerte. If I had to remember anything again, it would have been your touch, my love."

"No... Please don't go. I need you, you fool..." she whispered sadly, tears streaming freely down her face as she began to choke on her own words.

"No you don't, my love. You never did. Soon, I will be nothing. Nothing but a memory, forgotten like all the others... Perhaps you will be happier without it. Adios, mi amor... I love you..."

The king quickly faded away into a collection of sparkling light and black smoke that fell onto the melted candles below. The smell of black licorice hung in the air as La Muerte collapsed onto her knees, left sobbing in a puddle of wax, burnt paper, and a small silver crown, gradually wondering why she was crying in the first place. But some part of her knew why.

She had finally gotten her wish. She was now alone, now and forever...

After months of waiting, the anticipated Day of the Dead had finally arrived, and preparations had been absolutely chaotic for La Muerte. Marigolds had to be in bloom, pan de muerte placed on every alter, and parades organized, but looking down at all her work, both in the living and the underworld, she had no complaints. Seeing the cheery faces of all the families celebrating their loved ones always made her feel like it was all worth it. Until Xibalba had to ruin it all with his incessant whining...

"Really, my dear, you have no idea how cold and vile the land of the forgotten has become," he sighed dramatically towards his estranged wife La Muerte as he skulked away.

"Just like your heart, Xibalba. Just like your heart..." She chuckled humorlessly before a small, sad frown appeared on her face, her expression hidden behind her husband's retreating back as she brightened the candles he had put out on a mortal's grave.

"Why must I rule a bleak wasteland while you enjoy an endless fiesta in the Land of the Remembered? It's simply unfair," he complained, noticing an old man honoring his dead wife in the corner of his eye. Secretly, he reached out to touch him and extinguish his life before his hand is slapped away by his wife.

"Xibalba!"

"Whaaat? It's his time... more or less..." he exclaimed, feigning innocence before a dark devilish grin spread across his face.

"Uh uh. Not today, my love," she scolded, not wanting him to spoil the joyous celebration. One that she had spent so much time and energy on. It was like everyday, day and night, in the Land of the Remembered. Parties were always being held, feasts consumed, parties celebrated. It was basically one endless party after another and gradually, it was a bit taxing on her soul.

"Come on, my dear. Trade lands with me. I beg you!" Xibalba whined as he stepped out in front of her, not wanting to take 'no' for an answer.

"Awww, you're so cute when you beg," she smirked sarcastically, not having the strength to deal with his childish behavior at the moment.

"I'm serious! I HATE it down there!" he exclaimed.

"Hey! You're there 'cause you cheated! You made your bet with that wager," she fired back sharply, leaving Xibalba silently opening and closing his mouth like a gaping fish out of water as he desperately tried to think of something to say as a comeback. Nothing came to mind.

"You're not the man I fell in love with all those centuries ago," she continued, crossing her arms as a dulled hurt laced her normally sweet voice.

"Let's... not dwell in the past, mi amor," he said slowly, blinking his eyes lovingly at his wife, which was awkwardly not returned by her growl. "Anyway uh- I was thinking...how about another little wager?~"

"You think you can calm the flames of my anger with another bet?!" La Muerte yelled. Xibalba just smiled sheepishly. She sighed, holding her head at the oncoming headache she was getting. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"A love triangle between a young girl and her two best friends...?" he gestured with his two-headed snake staff, lifting his black wing to reveal a young Maria Posada playing with her two friends Manolo Sanchez and Joaquin Mondragon behind him.

"Too easy. You'll cheat again, like last time," she squinted at him before quickly she turning away.

"Ah come on! That was one time!" Xibalba countered, abruptly putting his wing back down, his feathers now ruffled in frustration.

"One time too many!"

"Come on, my dear. Trade lands with me! It's so cold and dark and boring down there! Having to deal with the depressed and damned all the time, your life is so much easier compared to mine!"

"Easy?!" she said in disbelief. "You think it's easy having to take care of everybody all the time?! There's parties to plan and food to make and new arrivals to attend to-!"

"An endless party? I think I can manage," Xibalba scoffed with an arrogant smirk.

"Oh really? Then how about another wager?"

"What?" The deity blinked, slightly caught off guard. He did not expect this turn of events. Usually he was the one to strike up a bet.

"Yes. You're always talking about how you want to trade lands with me, how my world is sooo much better than yours. Let us see who is truly right," she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips on top of Xibalba's conquistador armor, which sent warm sparks and cold chills through him from her soft touch.

"I will trade lands with you for one week. If you can take on all my responsibilities and keep order by sunset on the seventh day, the Land of the Remembered is yours."

"Hmmm... what happens if you cannot handle the responsibilities of my world?" Xibalba asked, resting his hands on top of his two-headed snake staff and leaning in closely, interested in his lover's proposition.

"Then, I forfeit the right to ruling the Land of the Remembered. However, if you lose... you will never attempt to take my land from me ever again."

Xibalba contemplated the wager. If he took the bet and won, he would finally take the Land of the Remembered as his own! On the other hand, if he failed...

He appeared thoughtful for a couple seconds before he outstretched his hand.

"...Deal. By the ancient rules...the wager is set," he said confidently, shaking La Muerte's hand as his pointy teeth grin shone mischievously in the moonlight.

Guess he would have to make sure that he didn't fail...

Xibalba couldn't believe how easy this wager was. All he had to do was rule for a measly seven days and the Land of the Remembered would finally be his! This was going to be a piece of pastel. Literally.

The former ruler of the Forgotten settled comfortably into his new throne, consuming large piles of food, especially pan dulce and cake. Despite being made of tar, the only things that he could really taste were very sweet foods. It was one of the many reasons he had visited the Land of the Remembered so much. The feasts were incredible!

He was about to move onto the collection of fine wine his wife had stashed away before he heard a knock on the dining room door.

"Enter," he called out, too lazy to let in the stranger. A young skeleton boy peeked in before the Captain of the Land of the Remembered burst through the door, riding his horse haphazardly inside, knocking over nearby chairs and sending plates of food crashing to the floor as the horse bolted in with impatience. It nearly threw its rider off before he pulled back on the reins. Xibalba simply gawked at the intruding captain with contempt before the latter regained his composure and properly dismounted. He bowed lowly, not looking up as he pulled out his list of names.

"My lady, we have another arrival. An estranged- what a minute! You're not La Muerte!" the Captain began before he yelped as his gaze met with Xibalba's, the latter's eyebrows raised in mock interest.

"Nothing escapes you, Captain Miguel," Xibalba stated, addressing his favorite tormented Captain with dripping sarcasm. Anytime the Lord of the Forgotten had visited his wife La Muerte, Captain Miguel was not far behind with some sort errand or lost soul for her to attend to. It vexed him to no end! He didn't like that the captain had spent so much time with his wife and even though Miguel was married, Xibalba didn't trust him. He had seen Miguel's wife, and frankly, the death deity almost couldn't blame him for giving her up for La Muerte; La Muerte was heaven on Earth. But no one was to get close to her but he, and he alone. Ever.

This was why he would try and pick on the captain anytime he showed up, announced or just passing by.

"Xi-Xibalba! W-What are you d-doing here?" the Captain stammered as Xibalba leaned back lazily into his throne with his wine glass in-hand.

"Don't you know? I'm the ruler of this land now."

"Ruler!? La Muerte would never hand over her domain to you!" he blurted out before cowering back behind his list under the deity's terrifying scowl. "uh y-your Highness..."

"We're in the middle of a bet." Xibalba gnawed on a chicken leg before he flung the bone onto the floor next to the pile of other bones.

"Ah... She would do that..."

"So, Captain, what do we have on our agenda today?" Xibalba asked, suddenly appearing beside the terrified captain and putting his arm around his shoulder. Miguel nearly dropped his clipboard, feeling more nervous under Xibalba's sudden change in charisma than his usual threatening manner.

"U-Uhm, w-well..." Miguel said shakily as he looked at his list of names.

"You're La Muerte?" interrupted the skeleton boy, who was forgotten until now, raised an eyebrow up at the god.

"...Who's this?" Xibalba asked Miguel, pointing down at the small boy. He appeared to be around thirteen or fourteen years of age and had unkempt black hair and a thin, lanky frame. Even without the skeleton body, his clothes sagged from being oversized. The worn leather of his sandals and torn edges of his pants unveiled him as a destitute child. He resembled all the other little urchins Xibalba had viewed suffering on the dirty streets. He was fairly average and very forgettable.

Why someone this small and insignificant wasn't in the Land of the Forgotten, Xibalba would never know.

"This is M-Mario Lopez. H-He just arrived here th-this morning."

"So? Why's he here? Isn't he your problem?"

"W-Well, it's sort of c-complicated..."

"Umm, I can still hear you two. Don't talk like I'm not in the room." Mario waved, gaining the other's attention before he crossed his arms. "I came here to ask for a favor. If you're not La Muerte, where is she?"

"...What was your name again?"

"Mario. Mario Lopez."

"-Well sorry, Mario, your queen is in another castle. I am Xibalba, and I'm the only ruler of this domain. If you have a problem, go deal with it yourself."

"You mean you're the ruler of the Land of the Remembered?" Mario's eyes bulged in disbelief. He had heard stories about the Land of the Remembered and its ruler being kind and wonderful and generous. This guy, this.. imposter- was just not!

"Yes. Well... temporary ruler. I'm not out picking curtains or anything yet, but I will be by the end of this week," Xibalba said, mostly to himself, as he folded his hands on top of his two-headed snake staff.

"Why?"

"That is none of your business. Now leave before I lose my patience." And with that, Xibalba turned his back to the young teen and began to return to his feast.

"No! I'm not leaving until you hear me out!"

"Watch your tone with me, boy. I'm not nearly as merciful or forgiving as La Muerte," Xibalba turned, growling in a low, threatening manner.

"Then I'll just stay here until you'll hear me out," Mario huffed, folding his arms as he sat down on the floor cross-legged.

"Ha. Then you will be there until the end of time." Xibalba scoffed at the teen's tantrum before turning back towards the Captain. "Miguel!"

"Y-Yes, my lord!"

"I've been noticing the food has been dwindling. Go get some more."

"R-Right away, sir!"

"And while you're at it, go make yourself useful and go get me some more of La Muerte's wine from the cellar."

"B-But sir! The souls-!"

"Will be there when you get back. Oh! And Miguel?" Xibalba added with a thought before the atmosphere suddenly turned dark as his red skull eyes stared fully at the Captain with a dark, malicious grin. "Remember to control that horse of yours, or you will soon find yourself riding without a saddle to hang on to..."

Miguel gulped a weakly muttered "y-yes." The poor captain couldn't move fast enough, stumbling onto the floor before he got up and bolted outside, his horse rolling its eyes and trotting after him.

Xibalba's smile returned back to its condescending, smooth and charismatic expression as Mario stared up in disbelief at the two-faced ruler, Xibalba's eyes fixated on the Captain bolting out the door.

This was going to be fun.

...

A light layer of ash laced the rims of a large red sombrero, occasionally fizzling out on the flames of her many, many candles as La Muerte strolled through the Land of the Forgotten. The crunching of gravel and something else underfoot was the only sound heard over the hollow chasm's soft moan.

Being too busy with her own world, La Muerte had never visited Xibalba's realm before, and it certainly was a sight to behold. The sharp and jagged spikes jutted out of every which way, and the rock below was fragmented, warped bits of what resembled the Mayan pyramids and had many dark, silver chains running down from the ceiling to the floor, as if they were columns holding up the whole place.

She held out her hand, examining the white flakes falling from the sky.

She remembered hearing some of the mortals in her realm talk about their travels up north. How, during winter, instead of rain, white powder fell from the skies. They resembled something the mortals called "snow," rainwater frozen into ice crystals. However, these flakes felt... different. These were darker and more impure in color and shape, not as intricate and dainty as a snowflake. This was ash. But from what?

She suspected it was from the lava river running below, the flakes had been falling consistently from nowhere and had coated everything. The land was ashen, barren and bleak, her loud, passion-red outfit making her stick out like a sore thumb against the bleak backdrop.

The only color was from the illumination of the billowing molten rock under Xibalba's castle, a twisted, spiral of a stone, two-headed snake. The air had an acrid smell to it, one of sulfur and burning ash. No one but those who could fly could enter the castle without being burned by lava bed below, an excellent defense system for the ruler of the damned. It was dark, sure, but it had its own charm to it.

She wondered why she had never visited her husband's domain before. Up until now, she had never thought it strange that she hadn't. But standing there, in the castle's corridor, some question inside her had been answered. Ever since she had arrived, she had been welcomed with absolute silence. It was a little unsettling, but fairly calming on her nerves, since her domain was one loud fiesta after another. It was alleviating to her mind as she felt the burden of noise being lifted from her shoulders, finally being alone with her own thoughts.

It both felt hot and cool at the same time, her back feeling an empty chill while her front was up against the blistering heat of the molten rock below. It was a regular bachelor pad, being fairly simple in design and extremely messy. The whole castle was in shambles. There was broken rock everywhere, remnants of rotting food in piles, and trashed and torn furniture everywhere. Everything was messy and chaotic, much like her husband's personality.

"Oh well. Might as well try and straighten up the place before he gets back," she thought aloud as she began levitating some of the broken rock and debris into the lava moat to be incinerated. "There's no shame in trying to make this place a bit more homey."

...

Miguel had been making preparations for an extravagant feast and arranging the decorations in the castle to changed to green, black, and dark blue. Xibalba was making it so that a festival would be celebrated in his honor. A celebration for his would-be victory of his bet against La Muerte. And he had Miguel running ragged. He couldn't wait until this whole ordeal was over, and neither could the other inhabitants of the realm.

The Sanchez family, a family of bullfighters that was fairly close with La Muerte, wasn't exactly happy with the news that La Muerte was no longer ruling the land of the remembered. They were fairly vocal about it, but they conceded when Xibalba had threatened to just get rid of the family all-together. They were under his roof now, and that meant they had to follow his rules.

However, the biggest pest of all was the stubborn boy that had stayed behind. Wherever Xibalba was, What's-his-name wasn't far behind. That kid was persistent!

And after a couple of days of him pestering Xibalba, the latter needed some sleep, though he would not admit it aloud.

Stepping off an ascending tiled, skull panel, he arrived at his wife's bedchambers, somehow finding a way to allude the relentless teenager. It was as colorful as the castle itself, strewn with many red and golden hues and decorated with candy skull patterns. It held a heart-shaped vanity mirror across from a large red canopy bed and warm, golden dresser. The room smelled of sugar, honey, and marigolds. Just like her, everything was in perfect order.

She always was one for straightening things up. The whole room was covered in marigolds. It was to be expected. It was the national icon of the dead, and it was her favorite flower.

As he pulled off the crimson covers, this revelation made Xibalba pause for a bit. When was the last time he had actually bought her flowers? He was thousands of years old, but he couldn't retain a single recent memory of him giving her flowers.

Even if he had won the bet, that may not even be the solution to the issues in their marriage. Maybe they had more problems than he had thought...

Before he could contemplate this further, a loud roar of the crowd derailed his train of thought. Gods above, didn't these people ever sleep?

He stuck his head outside of the window, a small flower box filled with marigolds and roses sitting below the window overlooking the whole land, which was as loud and vibrant as it was when he arrived.

"Could you keep it down!? I'm trying to sleep!" he yelled out his window, only for his threat to be drowned out by the cheering crowd for the parade. Laughter and merriment rang from the streets below as families young and old, celebrated on the street corners and sidewalks. Apparently, this realm was too cheery, even for his fear-inspiring presence.

Exhausted, he threw one of his old chicken bones and flung it randomly at the crowd. Suddenly, food and debris were thrown back at him ten-fold, a potted cactus that he suspected came from the Sanchez family hitting the side of his skull. He thought about eliminating people right here and now, but he had no idea who had thrown what. Too exhausted, he decided to momentarily give up on trying to calm the noise. Maybe the lights?

He blew out all the candles in the room with a whooshing glide of his wing and snuggled into his new bed. It was smaller than he was used to, his wings knocking into the pillars that held up the canopy. When he tried to rearrange himself, the mattress and goose-feather downed pillows enveloped him and all of his aches, like it was trying to swallow him whole.

Immediately after he had finally settled in, the candles were relit, as if by magic. He tried again, this time creating a stronger wind. Before he had even gotten into bed, he found they were lit once more.

He growled angrily, this time flapping both of his wings to create strong, gale force winds that knocked over all of the candles and many of the surrounding objects to the floor. Five seconds later, the candles lit themselves, even on the ground. Xibalba roared, angrily kicking the candles away in frustration, personally stamping down on them like he was doing flamenco, but the flames refused to go out.

They must have been La Muerte's special, eternal candles. They could never be dowsed except by the one who had lit them.

He was near the end of his rope before he decided to give up all together and just block out everything with his large, black crow wings. Frustrated, he muttered intelligible curses before he pulled the covers over and shoved a pillow on top of his head.

Brightness and no sleep. Great.

This was going to be a long night...

...

In the Land of the Forgotten, La Muerte was trying to adjust to her new home. She had spruced everything up, even adding a small bouquet of marigolds from her own headdress on the nightstand, although they quickly wilted after a couple of hours.

She tried sleeping, but she ended up tossing and turning in her new bed. It was a kingsized bed against the stonewall, but it had no headboard. Only two pillows and black sheets. It was too big, too hard, and too empty. Many frayed, ebony feathers lay around leftover from its previous owner and the only comfort was that the bed reeked of her lover's cologne and tar-like essence.

It was dark and cold all the time. The silence that had been a break from her otherwise loud life, was now deafening. She missed the noise. She needed the noise to fall asleep. It meant that all was well in her domain. There was also a mariachi band that always loved to play under her window that she enjoyed hearing every night as she went to sleep. She never realized how much she had missed all of that until she was left with dead silence.

No wonder her husband had been wanting to escape this place. Any being would surely be driven mad with loneliness if they stayed here for too long.

Unsure of what to do with herself, she was curious as to why she had seen virtually no one in the realm. Where were all the souls that were left forgotten in this desolate land?

The only noise that could be heard in the land was the groaning of the wind. Other than that, it was desolate. Wait a second! There was no wind here. Not in the deepest part of the underworld.

"Hello? Is someone there?" she called out, her voice ringing throughout the cavern. No one answered. Still, she moved towards where she thought she heard the sound, floating high over the lava river, moving further away from the castle until she came across a black pit.

When she looked over, she could not see the bottom. She illuminated her candles so that they burned more brightly against the edges of the abyss. She could only make out the faint, green reflection of lost, forgotten souls huddling in the darkness.

"Oh my gosh, you poor things. Here, let me help you out of here," she spoke tenderly, offering her hand down towards the lost and forlorn souls in the pit. They looked curiously back and forth from each other before one decided to tentatively reach out for her. One by one, she had helped out at least twenty men and seven women and children.

They all moaned in sorrow, many forgetting even how to speak after never having to talk to another being for many years.

"Th..Thank you... It... it was dark down there..." one of the figures whispered weakly. She looked a bit different than the others, like she was newly forgotten than the others.

"What happened to you?" La Muerte asked.

"Xibalba... He put us down here. Said we were... in the way..." spoke another, this one, a middle aged man. He wore a charro vest and cashmere pants and had a prominent handlebar mustache.

"Where is he?" asked one.

"He might be here soon...!" whispered another fearfully.

"I am the current ruler of the Land of the Forgotten. Xibalba can no longer harm you," La Muerte reassured kindly.

"You? But... you're much too pretty to be ruling this cold and cruel place..." said the man in disbelief.

"Only for this week. Then I go back to the Land of the Remembered,"

"The Land... of the Remembered?" said the young woman. "You can't be... La Muerte, are you?"

"Why yes, I am. Who are you? What is your name?"

"My name...? I... I do not remember," her eyes widened, shocked that she couldn't remember her own name. How long has she been here?

"Don't any of you remember your names?" La Muerte asked as they all looked at each other in sorrow.

"Fr... Fran..? An..? An...An...tone...io..." the man muttered before realization overcame him. "Antonio... it's Antonio. Antonio Prida."

"Well Antonio, you and your friends will not have to endure anymore pain. I'm the ruler of this land and it's about time that I started acting like it."

...

Five hours later in the Land of the Remembered, the Mariachi band was still playing underneath Xibalba's window.

"Will you three silence that confounded music! The screams from the Mazocoba Massacre were more in-tune than your pathetic singing!" He yelled, throwing a cactus at one of the players, who fell over screaming into the endless abyss below. This had satisfied Xibalba until the player had come screaming from the ceiling and landed next to his comrades, unharmed and unfazed, as they continued to play their music like nothing had happened.

Oh right. They were already dead.

Xibalba was wondering what had happened to the guitar until he found it connecting hard into his skull, along with a very angry, thrashing chicken, who clearly wasn't thrilled that the deity had dropped his owner while he was still on top of his head.

The echoes of cries sounded off in the Land of the Forgotten. For a soul to land there, a person had to have the misfortune of being eventually forgotten by the family they came from or they had sinned so terribly that they had the displeasure of being tormented there. However, while many people had come through the land, none was as tortured than Xibalba himself.

Standing above the humans, feeling all-powerful against such puny weaklings, with his cast-iron whip made out of his two-headed snake staff, he was used to punishing humans he didn't know for their sins; he enjoyed it, proving they were black-hearted as he. But even Xibalba had never prepared himself for a crime like this. Never like this...

Crack!

A young latino man cringed at the series lashings he was receiving. He was covered with blood, sweat, and scars, something that was strange for the underworld, for he had no skeleton; he was still flesh and blood, and handsome, even with his scars, beloved by all from where he had come from. But even behind this kind face, he had committed the worst crime possible. He had done the one thing thought impossible: made a god feel weak.

Up until now, Xibalba had a pretty good grasp on who he was. It was him that finally made him see himself for what he truly was: weak, cowardly, and insecure.

Crack!

"Ahhh!" The man cried out before he bit down on his bottom lip to bite back a whimper. He was starting to taste blood from having to bite down so hard and frequently, he thought he was going to lose his lip soon.

"Hmmm... finally getting some sound out of you. Forgive my hearing, I'm a couple centuries old, but I'm afraid you are going to have to speak up. I can't hear you very well," Xibalba said sadistically before bringing down the whip again. The man's back spasmed from the pain but refused to yield. "I still can't hear that apology."

The man simply just glared at him before spitting blood at Xibalba's feet. Xibalba's skull eyes then turned fully towards the man, both of the eye sockets looking directly at him that showed that the god was in his scariest and most terrifying mood. His wings spread out slightly, his black feathers bristling and rustling in increasing frustration.

"You know, I've been very patient up until now, but you are really-" CRACK! "starting-" CRACK! "to get-" CRACK! "on my-" CRACK! "-NERVES!"

The man cried out, but refused to give the god what he wanted. Stubborn, tenacious humans...

"Apologize!" Crack!

"Never!" Crack!

"Apologize for what you have done!" Crack! Crack! Crack!

"... Why would I apologize for something I don't regret?" the man finally breathed out with an ugly, smug smirk on his face. This expression, this simple, defiant expression was what finally made Xibalba snap.

With the strength he didn't know he had, he began lashing at the man three times as hard than before. The attacks on the man's back sounded like an insane drum beat, one right after the other, held in a continual rapping motion that harmonized with the man's screams.

In a blind fury, he continually attacked the man's back until he was left bleeding, begging, and quivering in a small puddle of his own blood.

"APOLOGIZE!" he roared in pure, righteous fury, sounding more beast than being with every strike. "APOLOGIZE, GODDAMN YOU! APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO MY WIFE!"

A stream of marigold petals rushed in front of him before he found himself blocked by a woman in a large red sombrero.

"Xibalba stop!" La Muerte said, arriving at the scene and grabbing onto his arm. "It's not worth it!"

"Oh yes, it is! I'm surprised you would be defending HIM, of all people! The man who defiled you against your will! He doesn't deserve to live! He deserves to die like a dog! NO! He's lower than a dog! He's an insect, bound to be squashed by those above him!" Xibalba spat maliciously, his eyes looking like they were on fire from such intense crimson.

"No! Xibalba!" she pleaded as she struggled against his strength before she began shaking as well. However, it wasn't in anger, but rather in sorrow and fear. Something the Lord of the Forgotten would have never seen on his wife's lovely face: dead vacancy and sorrow. It wasn't long before she was desperately clutching onto his robes in anguish, as if trying to anchor herself instead of him.

"Balby, please...that's enough..." she whispered weakly. He looked down at her, quickly breaking and crumbling under her tears.

"No... no, it will never be enough..." Xibalba said, barely audible, with a tormented expression as his held back fury steamed behind his blood colored, hatred-filled eyes. "But... if you say you are satisfied, I will stop..."

She closed her eyes for a moment, tears brimming and threatening to break before nodding slowly. It took what felt like hours before Xibalba finally loosened his grip on the whip and brought his arm down.

"I would kill you right now if it wasn't for her mercy..." he hissed through gritted teeth at the scum at his feet. "Now you will have to live with that kindness. For the crimes you have committed, you will not die and fade away like all the others, but live with the pain and misery you are feeling right now, for eternity. Because that is now how she will feel for the rest of her life. She will not ever be able forget what you have done to her."

Xibalba then chained him to the deepest pit of the Land of the Forgotten with a snap of his fingers and picked up his broken wife in a bridal carry. He held her tight to his chest, close enough that he could see her tears fall onto his chest-plate armor before he stopped briefly and looked over his shoulder at the sorriest excuse for a human being.

"I hope your five minutes of glory was worth it, you scum sucking son of a bitch..." And with that, he unfurled his wings and carried them off with breakneck speeds, trying to get away from that place as fast as possible, for his sake and hers.

The man had indeed done the impossible. That man, that unmentionable man, had made Xibalba, the god of fear and ruler of the Land of the Forgotten, feel weak. For there was nothing he could do to undo what had been done to his wife. All he could do was hold her, comfort her, and tell her that everything was going to be okay. After all, lies and trickery were his specialty.

But no parlor tricks or illusions could undo the sounds of drums echoing in their ears. The drumming of bodily music, the beating of La Muerte's frightened little heart, and the constant rat-ta-tat-tats of a whip on a person's back.

Ever since La Muerte and Xibalba had reconciled, they had been steadily repairing their relationship, one step at a time. Xibalba tried to be more honest, she had tried to be more open-minded. They even tried to take up new hobbies; they began trying new things to keep the marriage fresh. It was still a lot of work. Four hundred years of estrangement could do that to a couple. But it was a start.

One particular interest La Muerte had spied was from some of the new arrivals had immigrated from another land, one with exotic music that she immediately fell in love with. They were previously travelling clan, a group of traders and dancers and musicians. Regular street urchins to many, but brilliant, good, and kind people to those who knew them. And the way they played music was absolute magic. They could pick up any song if you hummed a couple of verses and created harmony like they had been playing for years. La Muerte could have sworn they had power that could have even rivaled hers when it came to happiness. Memory was power, but so was music.

Curious about them, La Muerte had gotten to know them better to the point that they had considered her one of their own. They were very trusting and good people. They had played songs from both their homeland and locally, and taught her the moves to the dance along, like so many of the their daughters had. And now, in her room, she felt herself swaying to the music they played for others in the Land of the Remembered outside below her window.

Swaying her hips to the music, her long hair swirled around her in the wind as she danced, gliding around without a care in the world. It was so liberating to express herself in this way, she didn't know why she didn't try this before. Music was part of the festivities here in the Land of the Remembered. She felt like with every step, she was leaving all of her problems on the backdoor, expressing thoughts and feelings she didn't know she had.

She could feel the ecstasy and adrenaline pour into her very being as she danced, feeling like she was flying high. She was so overjoyed that she didn't even notice that Xibalba had entered the room.

"Amor, what are you-?" Xibalba began before he was quickly pulled close, his wife not losing a beat.

"Oh, just dance with me, Balby," she said gleefully before she pulled him along in-time with the beat. He followed awkwardly, not sure what to do or how to avoid stepping on her toes, but eventually fell into the sway and rhythm of the music with the reassurance of her smiles, a grin slowly spreading across his face as well.

Soon, both of them found themselves lost to the music. They pranced, waltzed, linked arms, pranced, shook, flamenco'd, and spun around, laughter ringing through the air like the tinkling of bells. At one point they were so caught up in the music, they didn't even notice that they were no longer dancing on the terrace, but gliding through the air.

As Xibalba spun her around like she was a ballerina, gliding around without a care in the world, her large sombrero fell to the floor with a start when the music had died down and she had realized they were in the air. Before she could break away, he pulled her close and kissed her deeply, her eagerly returning the kiss as she felt her heart soar higher than before.

Guess the music did have a spell on it after all.

Cold was the first thing Xibalba felt when he awoke from his nightmare. It wasn't of anything terribly vivid or even horrific. Just dark emptiness and the bitter cold that chilled one's bones to the point of feeling an overwhelming emotional sting from it. He had felt... so cold. Alone. Yes, it was the feeling of loneliness he had felt. He hated it. He had often tried to silence this incessant feeling, but no amount of power, lust, or drink could ever suffice to quench his need for company. This maddening feeling... it was the sensation that often haunted him in the Land of the Forgotten. He could feel himself involuntarily shake from the remnants of the nightmare, along with his quickly dropping body temperature.

He was ashamed. Xibalba, the god of fear and ruler of the damned Land of the Forgotten, was afraid. He was the most terrifying thing most people would be greeted by when they entered the underworld, but all he was scared of was himself and his situation. He felt like a scared, small child who had crawled under the covers in his parent's bed for safety and security. But he had no covers to crawl under. He was utterly alone. He didn't want to be alone. He bothered his wife frequently because of it. He disliked how cold and empty his domain had been to the point of putrid, vile hatred any time he had returned.

Many who had come to the land thought that it was cold because of the snow falling. Quite the contrary. The flakes that fell were not of ice particles, but solid ash leftover from the ones that had wasted away centuries before. The land was so far beneath the surface, instead of being colder, it was hotter from the lava that surrounded Xibalba's serpentine castle.

The cold that they felt was not from the land, but from the very souls that inhabited it. Not many knew this, but the Land of the Forgotten was not only filled with those with no ancestral reverence, but thieves and liars and all manner of cruel, foul, and evil human beings that could not live peacefully in the Land Above or in the Land of the Remembered. It wasn't that the living forgot them; it was that they did not want to be remembered.

So it was Xibalba who was in charge of setting forth their punishments and arranging their tortures. But after a century or two, the god grew bored with tormenting him subjects. There was no fun in destroying the wicked if they had already accepted their fate.

And these people, these terrible, rotten-to-the-core people, were the only company he had. It was a wonder he had any kindness in his blackened, tar-covered heart. He had La Muerte to thank for that. Her stubborn, naïve optimism was fairly contagious, in fact, it was sometimes the only thing that kept him going. He often felt himself contemplated with himself when she added her two-cents. It made him almost want to be a better god.

He was a king. A king of nothing. He was so useless and weak. Xibalba, the god of fear, was afraid. Afraid that he wasn't good enough. Afraid that he would be left alone, again... He couldn't do anything right, not even win a childish bet over young mortals. Who would want someone like that ruling over others? What was the point of being a king if he had no subjects to rule over? Who could ever want him?

"Xibalba? What...what is it?" La Muerte asked, stirring from her deep slumber. In his dark dwelling thoughts, he had forgotten that he wasn't alone in his bed tonight. Pale beams of moonlight illuminated her long ebony tresses, which were slightly disheveled from that night's previous... activities.

"...Nothing, my love. Just a bad dream..." He ushered his wife, almost trying to convince himself more than her.

"Really? What about?" she blinked, suddenly sitting up with interest. At first, he felt like he could tell her anything. He wanted to, especially with her pure golden gaze locked onto to his. But he felt too ashamed to admitting his feelings aloud.

"Nothing you need to worry about," he smiled softly before kissing her forehead. "Go back to sleep."

After being married to her for years, they had somehow knew what the other was thinking just by their body language or the glance of their eyes. This is why she let it go. If he wanted to tell her, he would when he felt ready. If not, she would get it out of him eventually, hopefully at a more reasonable hour. He felt himself slacken back as she settled back into her lover's arms, his black, worn crow-feathered wings wrapping around them like blankets.

He wasn't perfect, and he was far from blessed with a land as wonderful as the Land of the Remembered. But as long as he had his queen, he would always think of himself as the richest king of them all.