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dragoneyes618 · 1 year

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the world turns

Also posted on Archive of our Own; I decided to post this on Tumblr as well after all. Inspired by a comment by @atarahderek on this post by @dovelylittlebird

The children, Pedro thought as he ran. The children were the most important thing.

He was outnumbered and unarmed, but he had no illusions about standing against them. All he needed to do was hold out as long as possible, to give Alma time to run. She would have a hard enough time as it was, barely recovered from the birth and carrying three fragile infants.

The children-

There was shouting, lots of it; he blinked torchlight out of his eyes and raised his hands in self-defense, in the universal gesture of "I am unarmed, leave me in peace."

When the spirit of war takes a man it takes him fully. Everyone, everything is either an ally or an enemy, and there is nothing in between. He barely had a chance to speak before they were upon him, hoofbeats thundering, metal blades sinking into his arms, his shoulders, his side, fire blazing through him.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't scream, so as not to scare Alma. Let that not be the last memory she had of him. But he heard his own voice screaming in agony anyway, and he couldn't stop it.

Still, he managed to stand, unyielding. Just a few seconds more - just a moment more - need to delay them, need to give Alma and the babies time - the children, the children -

He heard the sound of his own flesh tearing, saw his own blood dripping off the blades, soaking his clothes, pooling on the ground as he collapsed, pain wracking him as the monstrous men laughed. The children. It is worth it, if only Alma and the babies will live safely.

He heard a scream, a terrible shrill sound of agony and grief that struck at his heart, and he knew it was here, crying out because of him. He'd never wanted her to cry because of him. He'd never wanted to cause her pain, yet she was screaming because of him. Her scream went on and on, and he felt a cry of his own rising within him to match hers.

As his strength ebbed he was dimly aware of some sort of explosion of light, and hoped with all his heart that the men did not have guns and explosives as well as swords. He couldn't turn his head to see what it was. It hurt too much. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he knew his end was near, without even a priest to give him the last rites, without even the comforting presence of his wife.

Alma. My soul. Pedro had thought that when he died, she would be with him, both of them aged, surrounded by his children - their children - and grandchildren, and maybe even great-grandchildren. But he was alone, gasping and choking for breath, bleeding out his life onto the ground, and he didn't even know if Alma had managed to run far enough away in time.

He would never see his wife again, never see his children, never mind grandchildren.

He thought of them, his Alma, and their three tiny perfect babies, Julieta and Pepa and Bruno. He hoped they grew up in safety and peace, in a place that would never know war.

Pedro wished he could see them just one more time. He wished he could hold them just once more. He wished he could have seen them grow up. He wished he could have lived with his family in peace, in a life where they did not have to flee, where they were not torn apart by war. He wished he could have one more chance to be with his family.

They meet as children, as he sings in the plaza with his best friend for pesos at a festival; the orphanage provides food, clothing, shelter, and even schooling, but only the barest of basics, all the sisters of the orphanage are able to afford, and if he wants to buy himself his own guitar he needs to save up money, however scant his earnings may be.

Scarcely a decade old, he already knows he's much better than his best friend is. His best friend may be nearly four years older, and have his own guitar bought for him as a birthday present by the parents he is lucky enough to have, but he only ever plays when performing; he hardly ever practices, and while he's good, he would be better if he spared the time to do so.

He would practice all the time, if he could. He was taught to play the guitar by an old man who lived near the orphanage and helped take care of the children in exchange for food and the occasional few coins that could be spared. The man had said he'd had a talent, a natural gift, and that he should practice every day, or nearly so, if he wanted to be the best that he could be. He wants to be the best that he can be. He likes the simple act of playing, of strumming the strings just for himself, of experimenting with the different sounds.

But the elderly man died, and his guitar was sold with the rest of his things to buy new clothes for the orphanage children, and that leaves him having to save up money to buy his own, tagging along after his best friend as he sings along to the songs his friend strums. So he memorizes all the songs, and he sings, and he and his friend laugh and say that they are the best performing duo Santa Cecilia ever saw.

And then he sees her.

A dark-haired girl, older than him but younger than his friend, hair drawn into two braids that dangle down to her shoulders, dragging two identical little boys behind her as she shoves her way through the small crowd to the front so she can see. She stands for a few minutes, watching and listening, as her brothers whine.

Then, on the spur of the moment, she joins in.

"Llorona de azul celeste..." Her voice is perfect, melodic, melding perfectly with his, exactly on-key, rising and falling with the strains of his friend's guitar.

"Y aunque la vida!" He nearly shouts in his excitement; no one has ever joined in like this before, and this is fun! His friend misses a few notes before recovering himself, scowling, but he takes no notice. He sings together with her, for the rest of La Llorona and for the next two songs, grinning at each other, until her brothers finally succeed in pulling her away. But she shows up to sing with them the next day, and the next day, and the next; she loves to sing, she tells him, and his friend begrudgingly agrees to allow her a few of the coins they earn. It isn't until the day after that that they finally find out each other's names.

They meet at a festival.

It is Día de las Velitas, the Day of the Little Candles, and the village is dotted with candles and lanterns on every available surface. From afar, it looks like the stars in the sky have descended to the earth; from within, it is as if the entire village is glowing. Softly, warmly; almost magical.

He closes up the shop he inherited from his father, dead these past two years, early; it is a candle shop anyway. Everyone always needs candles, but especially today of all days; he scarcely has anything left to sell today. So he closes up his store and goes to the small plaza in the center of the village, ordinarily the marketplace, where the celebration has begun.

There is music, and chatter, and food, and dancing, yet he doesn't join in on any of it, not yet. Reserved with strangers yet outspoken with friends by nature, he holds a candle and leans against a pole on the sidelines, observing the festivities, nodding hello to the people he knows; people from nearby villages have come in for the festival, and there are far more strangers in the village than there usually is.

And then he sees her.

A dark-haired young woman, standing by the opposite pole with a candle in her hands, just like he is, hair drawn into two braids that dangle down past her shoulders, observing the celebration with a small, pleasant smile on her face, together yet apart, just like he is. He knows her by face, but not by name; he doesn't know her, or her family, then. Not that he gets out much, busy writing poetry to match well-known tunes as he is in his spare time.

Their eyes meet. He smiles at her, and waves. She blinks, surprised, and waves back.

They spend half the night talking and laughing and dancing, alight in each other's company, his original reticence long forgotten in her presence.

"I'm Alma," she remembers to say as dawn breaks over the dark horizon, candles long burned to stubs.

"A beautiful name," he kisses her hand, and she does not snatch it away like he fears, "for its beautiful owner."

She blushes, smiles, and laughs. Her laugh is like music, like bells. He will do anything to for that laugh.

They marry some years later, he in his best and only suit, a wedding gift from his best friend; she in her beautiful traje de novia with lace on the edges that almost makes her glow. His friend, the closest thing to family he's had up until now, plays his guitar for them, and sings. Her brothers cheer from the sidelines, in between jokingly threatening him with various painful deaths if he so much as looks at their sister wrong.

They recite their vows, pledging themselves to each other in this world and the next, for now until all time, and kiss.

They marry in the spring, with candles from his very own - their very own - shop, he in the very same outfit his father wore at his own marriage, she resplendent in white. His mother watches with tears in her eyes; her ill health constant almost since his father's death, he feared she would not live to see him marry, and he is glad he was wrong. Her little sisters cheer from the sidelines, half a dozen smaller versions of his beloved with earsplitting grins, waving ribbons and flowers from their seats in the pews; he waves back at them and clasps his bride's hand.

They recite their vows, pledging themselves to each other in this world and the next, for now until all time, and kiss.

He writes a song for his beloved, his wife. It is a funny song, a silly song, a song that will make her laugh. A song of how much he drives her crazy, which she has fondly and exasperatedly remarked upon numerous times. The sky is blue, not red; shoes go on your feet, not your head; but it doesn't matter because I love you!

He composes his own tune for it - he used to think everyone could do that, but from his friend's reactions, he was wrong - and waits for her birthday. On that morning, he waits for her in their little kitchen with their guitar - it's his, he has his very own now, but it was a gift from her, crafted with her own hands, and so it belongs to them both - and when she walks in, instead of the expected Las Mañanitas he starts with his new song. "Que color es el cielo? Ay, mi amor!"

She laughs and laughs until tears stream from her eyes. He laughs with her, spinning her around; their feet begin to dance almost of their own volition. A yellow butterfly flutters past the window.

He writes a song for his beloved, his wife. It is a hopeful song, a song of strength and love; a little melancholy, perhaps, but what with whatever tidbits have managed to make their way to the village, that's to be expected. It is about dos oruguitas who have each other, and love each other, and stand strong against a changing world, but who must let go of each other to make their way in their new world.

He composes his own tune for it - it's a lot harder than he thought, much harder than writing poems, but for her, he'll do anything - and waits for her birthday. On that morning, he waits for her in their little kitchen, and when she walks in, without any preamble, he begins. "Dos oruguitas enamoradas..."

She waits for him to sing it in its entirety, and then says, "Two caterpillars? Is that us?"

"Well, yes," he says. "You know I like to write about animals or nature instead of people-" she is the only one he has ever shown his poems to- "And I thought it would be a good metaphor. And, you know, what with all the unrest lately..."

She nods. Their village has been spared, so far.

"It's beautiful," she says. "Thank you."

"Thank you," he says.

"Teach it to me?" she asks.

So he teaches it to her, singing each line for her one by one. She echoes him, hesitantly and then confidently, until she knows it as well as he does and they sing it together in their kitchen, spinning each other around, feet dancing almost of their own volition.

A yellow butterfly flutters past the window.

He calls her mi alma.

It's his favorite endearment to call her. He himself isn't sure why. She calls him mi amor. That's much more common. Mi vida, too, is a testament to how much love is valued; one's very life. But he doesn't call her mi vida and scarcely ever mo amor. Mi alma is what he always calls her, flowery and poetic and true; she is his soul.

"Mi alma," he whispers, like a precious song; the term calls for him, although he knows not why; it always leaves him with a feeling of love, but also wistfulness, for something he cannot quite remember, a nagging wisp of a ghost of a memory in his mind that leaves him waking from nightmares in his bed.

He calls her mi alma.

It's his favorite endearment to call her. A play on her name, she and others find it cute, funny. But to him, it is never funny, and he says it in all serious. Mi alma, she is his Alma, but she is also his very soul.

She hasn't been feeling well lately, and he worries. Nothing serious - a bit of an upset stomach, loss of appetite, feeling more tired than usual. She's just a bit under the weather, she assures him. She'll be fine in a week. There is no need to fuss over her all the time like she's a dying invalid, honestly.

But a week later she feels the same, so, grumbling at the expense and the waste of time, she goes to see the doctor. She comes back with a wide smile on her face, so he knows that she is not seriously ill, that she will get better soon, the doctor must have told her so.

"What did the doctor say?" he asks.

Never one to mince words, always one to get to the point, she tells him, the smile on her face stretching wider and wider, "I'm going to have a baby."

He drops what he's holding. "You-"

"Sí." She looks as though she is quite enjoying the expression on his face.

"We're-"

"Sí."

The smile on his face matches hers. He laughs in pure delight, letting out a grito of joy. He pulls her into a spontaneous dance, spinning her around and off her feet, and she laughs with him, their voices melding into joyous harmony just as they did so long ago, the day they first met. A child, a new life to bring into the world, theirs to love and cherish. He cannot wait.

She hasn't been feeling well lately, and he worries. Nothing serious - fatigue, a bit of an upset stomach. But he worries, and he fusses over her, and she admits to secretly enjoying the way he runs to get any little thing she needs so she doesn't have to get out of bed - "Or I would if I felt well enough to, at least," and he can't resist a smile.

On his insistence, she goes to visit the healer. She is gone for a while, so he goes to the market, and to visit his mother. On his return, she is waiting for him, a small smile on her face and something white in her hands.

"I have a surprise for you," she says, and he barely has the time to wonder Can it be? before she holds up the object in her hands: a small paper cutout of a child.

A child. "Alma-"

"Wait," she says, and unfolds it to reveal three small silhouettes.

"Three-" he half-gasps, half asks.

"Three," she confirms, a knowing, nervous smile on her face.

He pretends to faint in shock. She laughs and flings herself down next to him; he draws her closer to him and they laugh in joy and share their dreams, their hopes, their wishes for their children, what they might call them, this fulfillment of their dreams. Three children all their own, new lives to bring into the world, theirs to love and cherish. He cannot wait.

His daughter is born at dawn.

He paces around and around the house while his friend tries to get him to take a drink for his nerves and he listens to every cry from the bedroom, palms slippery with sweat. Eventually he has the idea to play his guitar right outside the door and sing her favorite songs - La Llorona and his new one, Un Poco Loco. The midwife doesn't come out to yell at him for being a nuisance like she did the last three times he tried to be helpful, so he supposes that this is actually helping.

The hours tick on; his friend goes home to sleep, his eyes feel gritty from exhaustion, and every so often his fingers miss a note, but he won't fall asleep, not yet. How can he sleep when his wife is giving birth to their child only feet away?

And then suddenly he hears it - a thin, wavering wail. It rises in volume and pitch, and he freezes, guitar slipping from his fingers. My child. That is the first cry of his child.

The midwife is barely able to open the door two inches before he pushes it the rest of the way and runs inside.

She is lying in bed, reclining on a pile of pillows, tired and exhausted but aglow. She smiles weakly at him, and says, "Come see our daughter."

Our daughter. Ours. He is suddenly terrified.

He steps forward, slowly, close enough to see the small bundle she is cradling in her arms; the baby is wrapped in all the warm clean cloths they had. All he can see is fabric.

Then the midwife lifts her out of her mother's arms and into his.

Her mother's. She is a mother. And he iss a father. He iss a father of this small, delicate, fragile human being, who lies absolutely helpless in his arms.

She is tiny. He'd seen babies at the orphanage he'd grown up in, of course, and helped to take care of them, as the older children did for the younger, but none had ever been this small. The children had always been kept away from the newborns, for fear that they may spread disease. He has no experience with babies this young. Neither does his wife; she'd been only four years old when her brothers had been born.

The baby has a perfect little nose and rosebud lips and tiny fingers and toes, with nails that he can barely see. The top of her head is covered in dark, soft, feathery fuzz. And her eyes-

He inhales sharply. Her eyes are open, brown orbs strikingly big for such a tiny face staring at him. He stares back, widening his own eyes. His heart melts. Or rather, it melted seven months ago when his wife told him that they would become parents.

"Hello, mija," he whispers. "I'm your papá."

He's taken to doing most of the errands and household chores over the past couple of months, so he's at the market buying produce when her pains start. The neighboring women and his wife's friends have been in and out of the house for the same amount of time, giving him advice on how to complete said chores, bringing over food - it is a joke between the two of them that he cannot cook to save his life - and awaiting the time to help, if need be. It will no doubt be complicated; while the village has had several sets of twins in its history, there have never yet been triplets.

The neighbor's young son comes running to inform him; he grabs the full market basket and runs, its weight nothing. By the time he gets there, the house is full of the neighbor women, a few of their children, and the village's two official midwives are already with her in the bedroom, along with her next-eldest sister and her best friend. Everyone chatters in eagerness, but also in anxiousness; a few of the women, including a mother of twins, reassure him about his wife and children's health, and he nods absently in thanks.

Shortly afterwards one of the midwives poked her head out the door to tell everyone to go home, if they really wanted to help to come back tomorrow, that none of them were accomplishing anything by standing around worrying - Señora Ortiz has always been brusque. "And you," she snaps at him. "You're going to worry a rut into the floor if you keep pacing like that - go boil water or something!"

So he fills up every single pot they own with water and boils them on the stove, switching the boiled ones out for the not-yet-heated ones, and reboiling the water as it cools, glad to have some task to occupy his hands with.

They never call for the water, but several hours later he hears a newborn's cry, and he freezes, his shaking hand returning the pot to the stove.

An agony of waiting later, his sister-in-law, with a bright smile on her face that dispels all his fears, opens the door and motions for him to enter.

His wife is lying in bed, apparently asleep, but her eyes flicker open at his approach. "I did it," she whispers. "I had our triplets."

"You did," he whispers back. "Mi alma."

"Let her rest," Señora Ortiz scolds. "Come, see your children."

His children.

His wife smiles faintly. "Go see them," she murmurs. "Tell me who they look like."

Months earlier, they had prepared three cradles, and gracias a Dios, there is a living baby to fill each. Each one tiny, so small, so delicate. Each of them is sleeping peacefully - "Enjoy it while it lasts," the other midwife remarks wryly.

"Two girls and a boy," his sister-in-law tells him. "This one's the oldest, this is the second, and the boy's the youngest." She points to them in order.

The first girl has a dark thatch of hair atop her head, just like her parents.

Her parents. They are parents now.

The second girl appears to be almost bald at first, but on closer inspection has a head full of ginger fuzz. Where she got that from, he has no idea.

The boy has dark hair as well. He is the smallest, but despite the tininess of his features and his wrinkled, red skin, he thinks the baby looks like his wife, and tells her so.

"They're beautiful," he says. He sits right down on the floor in front of the cradles, heedless of his audience. "Mijas. Mijo..." There is a lump in his throat, and he can't continue or else he will start crying with pure joy.

There are rumors of war.

But then, there are always rumors of war, or so it seems; La Revolución has ravaged the country since they were both children. All they need to do is stay at home and pray that the fighting will not come to them.

So far, the fighting has not come to them. The odd revolutionaries or soldiers coming for supplies or men, yes, but so far, the village has, in the main, been safe. They will offer aid but will not get involved. All they want to do is live in peace.

It's fortunate; they've both lived here all their lives, and they don't want to leave, to flee to another village like so many of the refugees that have already come to them. And a journey might be risky for little Coco, anyway.

He has nightmares of war, of armed men on horses burning down the village, of a woman screaming, of babies crying, of himself being cut down, choking on his own blood. He does not know where the images come from - so clear and vivid, as though he has truly witnessed them, and are not merely what he dreads - a house collapsing in flames as sparks rain down and bathe the sky in orange, men in armor with torches and knives, firelight glinting off metal. He does not tell his wife about them, tells her he cannot remember the dreams that leave him waking in a cold sweat, panic and fear flooding through him, night after night after night.

When the war, after a long, torturous, blood-soaked decade, finally, finally, ends, the two of them, along with all of México, rejoice.

There are rumors of war.

But then, there have been rumors of war for the past few years, and nothing serious has happened. The odd skirmish here or there, but nothing like the terrible conflagration those who take sides say that the other side will cause. Pockets of unrest, and armed men are always to be avoided, but their village is safe. They will offer aid but will not get involved. All they want to do is live in peace.

He has nightmares of war coming to them regardless, of men coming with swords and guns to kill everyone who opposes them. He does not tell his wife about them. She does not need to be haunted with his fears; no doubt she is worried with her own.

Surely there will be no war. Surely there are only exaggerations. Surely things will die down soon, he comforts his wife.

Then the Liberals in Santander officially announce hostilities against the National Government, and all their hopes die, to be replaced with fear.

He has to leave.

He doesn't want to leave. But money must be made. He has an obligation to support his wife and daughter, and this is the best way to do it. He can't deny that he'll enjoy playing and singing for people, but he doesn't think he'll enjoy it nearly as much as his best friend will. His favorite audience is waiting for him at home, and his friend has no family to come home to.

His wife doesn't want him to leave either. They argue about it. She says that he's able to earn money for them right here in Santa Cecilia. He doesn't need to leave. People will hire him, already do hire him, to play at quinceañeras and weddings or even just for spare pesos in the plaza. With that and the way she has discovered a newfound skill in shoemaking, they have enough.

But he doesn't want them to have enough. He wants them to have more than enough, extra money to fall back on in case of emergency, for his brothers-in-law, for his daughter, so that Coco will never be hungry.

Finally, begrudgingly, she agrees. "But not for too long," she says.

"Not more than six months," he promises.

They have to leave.

They don't want to leave, but the soldiers are coming, the soldiers are near, the soldiers are only a day away, half a day, an hour, and is that fire on the other side of the village? Whose house is in flames, he does not know, but the smoke licks the dark sky and the village is bathed in a ghoulish yellow-orange glow and the soldiers are coming. They have to leave. Now.

His wife snatches up the babies, wrapped snugly in their blankets, while he runs around, trying to take whatever they will need. How do you pack up your life within the hour, with only your two hands to hold whatever it is you choose?

He chooses a satchel of food, and clothes for the triplets, and their papers, and their wedding photograph. Anything else is extra, unnecessary. Funny, how you suddenly realize most things are unimportant when your life is in danger. On their way out the door he snatches the wedding candle they saved on their shelf; it's the middle of the night, and they'll need light to guide them.

He has to return to his family.

It's not like they're in danger or anything. In fact, according to his wife's letters - the ones that arrived at wherever they were staying before they moved on, anyway - they are perfectly all right.

But it feels like they are in danger. It feels like he has to save them. His old nightmares have returned with a vengeance. He dreams of his wife screaming, alone, a long wordless keen of grief. He dreams of infants crying. He dreams of his daughter crying; he can never quite see her, only a shadowy figure in the darkness, but he hears her voice sobbing, "Papá, Papá, where are you?"

He wakes from this latest nightmare in a cold sweat, and decides that enough is enough.

It's been six months. It's actually been a few weeks longer than six months, so he has to return now. He promised.

Writing letter after letter to his familia and singing Coco's song at the same time as her each night wasn't enough. He needed to be there with them.

His friend tries to convince him to stay, just like he convince him to stay longer before. "Just a few more weeks," he urges.

"You said that last time," he argues as he packs his suitcase.

"We're this close to getting the chance of a lifetime! Your music will make us famous!"

"I don't want to be famous," he snaps. "I just want to go home!" He'd wanted to be famous once, true. But not anymore. He'd been away from home long enough. It was time to go back. He'd earned enough money over the past few months to keep his wife and daughter comfortable; indeed, he'd sent most of it to them. He didn't need to be on the road anymore.

His friend argues and pleads with him, but this time, he is firm. Nothing is stopping him from leaving.

Finally, his friend gives in, accepting that some things are more important than music and money and fame. "I'm sending you off with a toast," he offers, and he gladly accepts.

He has to leave his family.

They are in mortal danger, and his leaving will be their salvation. It is the only way.

The soldiers are coming. There are only a few of them, and they are armed, and they have horses; all things the people of their village do not have. Traveling on foot with three babies; the two of them will be cut down within five minutes if they keep going like this, and the babies with them.

The soldiers have to be stopped, or at least delayed. His wife has to be given more time to run. There is only one way any of this can happen. Only one way he can give her more time.

He will die, he knows, but he will die knowing his wife and children will live.

"Te amo," he whispers, and runs.

His legs cannot support him anymore, and he doubles over and falls to his knees, coughing and choking, burning pain shooting up from his stomach into his throat. He cannot speak. He cannot breathe. His friend takes his case to lighten his load, saying something he can barely hear as he collapses, clutching his stomach in agony, clawing at his throat.

He's so close. He can't get sick now. He's so close. Just a block away from the train station. He hears the noise of the whistle, smells the smoke and the coal. He can't get sick now. He has to make it home at least, he can get sick at home. He just has to get home first. His friend can help him get onto the train, he just has to get there.

He tries to rise, and fails. He tries to speak, and all that comes out is a strangled cough. Then another cough, and another, spraying his shirt and the cobblestones with blood.

"Imelda," he tries to say. "Coco." The words don't come out. Their faces dance before him. He has to get home to them. He has to see them again. He can't even get up, he can barely even move. What's wrong with him?

There is a faraway roaring in his ears, and his vision is failing. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to exist.

Out of the corner of his eyes, strikingly bright through his dimming vision, he sees a yellow butterfly floating in the air, unusual for México City this time of year.

His face hits the ground, and everything goes black.

His legs cannot support him anymore, and he doubles over and falls to his knees, coughing and choking on his own blood, agony from a dozen wounds overpowering him. He cannot speak. He cannot breathe. The soldiers laugh and move on, leaving him feebly grasping at his injuries, trying in a futile attempt to slow the bleeding.

Was it enough? Did he delay the soldiers for long enough for his wife to run? How much longer does she have before they cut her down just like they did to him?

He has to get to her. He has to help her.

He tries to rise, and fails. He tries to speak, and all that comes out is a strangled cough. Then another cough, and another, spraying his shirt and the mud with blood, as though the earth isn't already soaked with it.

"Alma," he rasped. Alma. Mi alma. Where are you, don't linger, run, run, run...

He tries to say his children's names, too. Julieta. Named for his mother, dead a month before she could see her grandchildren. Pepa. The one with the strongest lungs of them all, and he swear she's already learned to smile. Bruno. His only son, smaller and weaker than his sisters, yet with a cry that nearly rivals Pepa's.

His voice isn't really working anymore, though, and while his lips form their names his ears hear nothing, nothing but his wife's endless scream.

There is a faraway roaring in his ears, and a flash of golden light. But now his vision is failing. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to exist.

Out of the corner of his eyes, strikingly bright through his dimming vision, he sees a yellow butterfly floating in the air, unusual for the forest in the middle of the night.

He wishes he could see his family, just once more. But they are gone, far away from this killing ground, and he takes comfort in that as everything goes black.

There is darkness, but no pain. Not anymore. He doesn't seem to have a body to feel pain; or if he does, he can't feel it. It doesn't bother him, though. He is searching urgently for someone, but can't remember who. Her name is Alma, he thinks. No, Imelda. Or maybe it's Julieta, or is it Coco?

Coco. He almost gasps with the realization. Coco! He has to find her!

No, he has to find his triplets, his babies....Julieta. Pepa. Bruno. Those are their names. He has to go back to them, has to make sure they're all right.

And then, suddenly, he sees them.

He sees a house on a hill, a magical house that can and will defend its inhabitants if need be. He sees the house in the center of a prosperous little village. And he sees two young women and a young man leave the house.

They're about the same age he is now, he realizes. They're all grown up. Tiny helpless infants no longer. The sight moves him so much that the scene trembles, starts to disintegrate.

No! He cries out wordlessly. No, he wants more! He still wants to see them! He hasn't seen them for their entire lives - just a moment more!

But the scene dissolves, and is replaced with his little Coco, standing on her tiptoes to look out the window, her face falling in disappointment. "Mamá!" She turns to call over her shoulder. "When is Papá coming home?"

"Papa is right here," he tried to say, but he has no mouth, no tongue, no voice, and she cannot hear him, if he's even really there. His triplets have each other at least, he knows, and the house. So he reaches forward to his Coco, standing all alone, and then he feels like he is falling, and then there is nothing.

He found himself awakening on a bed as a skeleton gave him a little speech that sounded like he'd said it a thousand times. "Welcome to the Land of the Dead. My condolences on your death. Please tell me your name, your occupation, your family members, and any other information that you think will be helpful in reuniting you with any deceased family you have. We want to make your adjustment as easy as possible."

"Eh, disculpe," he said slowly as he sat up, feeling dizzy. "You're a skeleton." Should he be screaming?

The skeleton didn't sound surprised at all. "Yes, I am. So are you, mi amigo. We're both dead, you see."

"Dead," he echoed, staring at his fingers, which, indeed, were bone. As was the rest of him. He wiggled them experimentally. Dead.

"But I can't be dead," he said. "I was just going home. My wife, my daughter-"

"I'm very sorry," the skeleton - the other skeleton - told him, sounding sincere. "But you're in the Land of the Dead now, and there's no going back to the Land of the Living, not until Día de los Muertos. Please, tell me your name, so we can help you find your family."

Later, he will grieve for his own life lost, for his wife and daughter, as though they are the ones who have died and not he. Later, he will mourn his own death, mourn the Land of the Living, mourn the yellow sun and blue sky. Later, he will tell the official that the only family he has in any world is still in the Land of the Living. Later, he will ponder the strange dreams he had, before they fade from memory.

But now, he said "Héctor," slowly, consideringly, tasting the name as it left his mouth; it felt both familiar and strange, like a forgotten dream he had only just started to remember. As he spoke, his name, his identity, solidified. For a moment, he heard what sounded like the phantom crying of three newborns; then he shook his head. All that mattered was Imelda and Coco. He was Héctor, and he had to go back home to see his little girl again. "Héctor Rivera."

#encanto #pedro madrigal #hector rivera #coco #pixar coco #coco pixar #alma madrigal #imelda rivera #hector is pedro's reincarnation

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