A/N: Before you do ANYTHING ELSE: go to YouTube and type in "Placido Domingo Nessun Dorma." I grew up listening to Pavarotti's version, but I'm pretty sure this one by the one-and-only voice of the fabulous one-armed, one-legged, opera-singing matador Jorge Sanchez beats all. From there the plot-bunnies took hold of me, and I could not resist.

I own nothing. The following characters belong to Jorge Gutierrez and the many talented artists who made this glory of a film. Soundtrack: Nessun Dorma – Puccini.

Nessun Dorma

He wasn't sure exactly why she had called him here tonight, nor why she had insisted that he look "at least moderately decent," as she'd stated—rather sarcastically, might he add—in the letter which had been brought to his palace by a rotund little guard in a blue uniform, who spent most of his short time there bobbing nervously on the stone stairs of his throne room.

Xibalba had held the thin slip of parchment up to the lava-light with one hand, his other lazily clutching his purple staff, examining the neat, elegant script and the golden marigold-shaped seal at the bottom. The further he read, the more knitted his feathery white brows became. Slowly, he pivoted, fixing the calaca with his best, penetrating, skull-eyed stare. The skeleton snapped to attention.

"And she sent this today, did she?" asked the Lord of the Land of the Forgotten, with a casual air of indifference.

The guard, who knew better, swallowed. "Y-Yes, y-your worship—I mean, m-my lor—I mean, y-your h-highness—"

Partially to stop the guard's blabbering and partially because he felt like destroying something, Xibalba deftly ripped the paper in half, tearing through La Muerte's beautiful handwriting without breaking her messenger's hapless gaze. He was rewarded with a little squeak that issued from the guard's mouth, like a mouse being stepped on. He smirked.

"You will return," he said, continuing to shred the letter even as the little guard flinched like bits of his body were being torn instead, "and tell your mistress that despite what she might think, I am not a dog to be summoned when she wishes and ignored when she wants. And that she can find her own entertainment for the evening."

He thrust the remnants of the parchment into the lava with vicious satisfaction, watching them catch fire like kindling. The marigold seal vanished in a wisp of black smoke.

"She said you might say something like that, m-my lord," the messenger whimpered, eyeing the lava with a new appreciation, as though fearing he might soon follow the parchment. "A-And she s-said that in that c-case, she wanted to apologize for a-any misinterpretations you may have a-about the other n-night."

For a moment, Xibalba's ancient heart froze. He whirled, preparing to scatter the guard to bones on the spot, but paused when he realized that the skeleton was merely reading from some notes he had scratched on his palm. He knew nothing about the other night, about what had transpired. Or almost transpired, anyway, he thought with a little twinge in his chest that felt horribly like regret. He quieted it with an internal snarl, and returned his attention to the skeleton, who continued to speak.

"She said that she hopes she has not offended you."

Far from it. He hissed audibly this time to quiet the voice, and the messenger, thinking the terrifying god before him grew tired of his recitations, jumped, stammering through the rest of the message in what was barely discernable as the Spanish language.

"And sh-she said that she w-would like to remain f-friends, if at a-all p-p-possible!"

Xibalba, regaining his composure, eyed the skeleton who stood, rooted to the spot, silently whispering every prayer he'd ever learned from his fastidiously-religious mother and wishing he'd gone to church more often. Finally Xibalba snorted, turning away.

"You have my reply, messenger," he muttered, moving towards the stone stairs at the furthest point of the throne room, the stairs that led up to his private quarters. "Run along, now, before your lady begins to worry I've eaten you and made good on what the mortals say about me."

"M-My lord, I really must insist—"

"So must I, now beat it."

"P-Please, my lord, you won't like what comes next!"

"I haven't liked anything you've said so far, your point being?"

The skeleton paused. Then, in a voice that trembled as though uttering a spell that would end the universe, he whispered, "She said that she'd wagered you wouldn't come."

Silence. Even the quietly moaning wraiths on the fringes of the lava pool had gone quiet. The only noise in the entire Land of the Forgotten was the constant burbling of the molten rock around them, and even that seemed to do its best to sound as sheepish as possible.

Xibalba was strangling his staff. Slowly, he pivoted, fixed the messenger with his most menacing stare, and began to march forward. His skin felt stretched across his face.

"She. Said. What?"

She knew how to get to him. She really knew how to get to him.

And so here he found himself, standing in the enormous curved archway leading into the coliseum at the very fringes of the Land of the Remembered. Every inch of the colorful stone arena was strung with papel picado of various shapes and sizes, each bearing a grinning skull, and marigold petals seemed to fall from the sky. The very air smelled like sugar, sweet bread, candlewax and flowers. If he breathed in too deeply he was fairly certain he could choke to death on the pieces of tissue confetti that fell from above as thick as a paper rainstorm.

He frowned at all the excitement; clearly, something big was happening in the coliseum tonight. But the reason for La Muerte's invitation was still as mysterious as ever, and the setup of the arena inside left him no clues. From his position just within the main entrance, he could see that the round, sandy floor had been swept immaculately flat (undoubtedly by magic), and the only structure visible was a moderately-sized circular platform of flat stone, placed in the very center and illuminated by several soft spotlights. Carved marigolds and music staff lines danced across its gray surface.

All around him the arena was abuzz with activity. Hundreds of thousands of calacas streamed into every doorway the coliseum had to offer, flooding the stands in one giant sea of colorful clothes and laughing faces as they took their seats. Most gave Xibalba a wide berth, shying away from his black wings and out of reach of his skeletal fingers as though fearing that upon straying too close he would whisk them away to his kingdom of perpetual ash and snow. He sneered at one little passing woman dressed in a silken yellow shawl and golden earrings, who promptly shrieked and fainted on the spot. The man beside her snatched her up quickly and helped her hobble into the stands; he was just brave enough to shoot Xibalba a dark glare when thoroughly out of reach and already vanishing into the crowd.

But even frightening La Muerte's subjects into a catatonic state couldn't help the god's sour mood; in his black tar robes, his silver armor, and the glowing green flames of his crown, he was distinctly out of place among the vibrant colors and the cheerful citizens of the Land of the Remembered.

He growled, straightening his back and fluffing his charcoal feathers. "This was a waste of time. Why did I even come here?" Whirling with a flourish and preparing to storm from the coliseum, he barreled right into the rotund little messenger from before who, sputtering, barely managed to secure his blue cap over his curly brown hair.

Xibalba's lip curled in disgust. "What do you want?"

"My lord," the calaca greeted formally, bowing and nearly blinding Xibalba with the light reflecting off the freshly-polished badge on his chest. In fact, the guard's entire uniform looked crisp and clean. Xibalba wondered vaguely if he'd changed into a new one between delivering La Muerte's message this morning and appearing in front of him tonight.

"I've come to take you to the Lady La Muerte's private box, my lord," he continued, smiling. Apparently, facing an ancient, ferocious god in the much-less threatening environment of the Land of the Remembered did wonders for a skeleton's confidence, as opposed to the treacherous, lava-filled, stalagmite-ridden interior of the Land of the Forgotten. Xibalba sneered again.

"Inform your lady that I have no intention of following you or anyone to aprivate box anywhere," he said dismissively, gesturing to the packed stadium with a grimace. "I've seen quite enough of this circus act in five minutes than I ever want to see again, and thus I take my leave of her, you, and this wretched land you call a paradise."

In reality, he was curious. Whatever was happening in the coliseum tonight was obviously important, a very big to-do, and apparently La Muerte had thought that it would interest him. Perhaps it was a bloodsport of some kind? Xibalba hadn't witnessed a good execution since the last turn of the millennia. But he would rather rot in the Land of the Forgotten for all eternity than give that insufferable woman the satisfaction, and he straightened his wings, preparing to take flight.

The messenger heaved a very dramatic sigh. "She did bet on you not staying, milord."

Xibalba's bones audibly creaked as he came to a very sudden halt mid-step. Snarling, he fixed the skeleton with a venomous glare. The guard only blinked at him with the straightest of faces and the most innocent of golden eyes.

Yes. The Land of the Remembered did plenty for confidence.

With another wave of his hand, Xibalba surrendered, turned, and signaled the messenger to lead the way. Instantly the little calaca pivoted, marching through a small wooden door emblazoned with marigolds that had appeared out of nowhere in the side of the archway. Only vaguely surprised, Xibalba ducked his head and followed.

One stone staircase after another, the unlikely pair made their way through the labyrinthine bowels of the coliseum. The skeleton's bones rattled quietly in the halls—lit by skull-shaped torches—and his shoes against the stone floor made tiny tapping noises which were quickly overcome by Xibalba's heavy, thudding footsteps. Despite the dark, damp atmosphere, the entire place was fragrant with the musky smell of marigolds and sugar, and Xibalba couldn't detect even the faintest trace of mildew between the bricks. The corridor's ceiling was high enough that the god's head fit easily, but his wings were another story; he had to tuck them as close to his torso as possible in order to keep the tips from scraping. This uncomfortable position did nothing to lighten his mood, and neither did the seemingly eternal journey to La Muerte's private box.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" he demanded sharply, ducking his head to avoid a stone that had come loose from the ceiling. Noticing it, the guard snapped his fingers and magically the stone moved back into place, barely raising any dust.

"My lord. If the Lady's box were easy to reach," he said, "It wouldn't be so private, would it?"

Xibalba thought he heard a smirk in the skeleton's voice. But before he could be sure and thus blast the little insect into oblivion, the messenger suddenly came to a dead halt, almost causing the god to run him over.

"Here we are," the guard announced cheerfully, standing in front of another small, wooden door identical to the one that had appeared at the corridor's entrance. He examined his watch. "And right on time, too. The show's about to start. She's expecting you, but I'll go in and announce you anyway."

Xibalba bristled. "I need no announcing—"

But his guide had already vanished through the doorway with a light rap of his white knuckles against the wood. For one bewildered moment, Xibalba stared into the face of one of the two skull-shaped bronze torches bordering the door, which grinned back at him especially cheekily. And then, positively furious at having been so deftly dismissed by a simple spirit, he stormed through the doorway himself, ready to choke the afterlife out of the uppity skeleton with his bare hands.

"Here he is, my lady," he barely heard over the roaring in his ears. "Enjoy the performance."

"Thank you, Lupe," answered a voice from a high-backed, plush scarlet armchair. "You as well."

Xibalba barely managed to shake the red from the fringes of his vision before he saw the messenger scoot past him, give him and his tarnished armor one last glance, before shrugging kindly and murmuring, "Maybe you didn't have time to change, what with your godly duties and all. I suppose that will have to do."

Lupe's wit would have cost him dearly had Xibalba been a little quicker. But in lunging for the calaca, the god stumbled over one of the many gold-filigree chairs standing in rows on the carpet, and the messenger dodged nimbly past him and out the door, leaving nothing but a small yet distinct chuckle hanging in the air.

Xibalba seethed, straightening his back and his armor as he stood. Oh, this was not over. Lupe's end-of-days were most assuredly numbered.

"Well!" The armchair spoke again. "I would say I'm surprised you came."

Xibalba's gaze snapped to the front of the box, and his dark, navy eyes met a pair of flickering golden ones.

The eyes finished, teasingly, "But we both know that would be a lie. You never can resist a bet, can you, Lord Xibalba?"

The Lady of the Land of the Remembered, the Queen of Souls herself, had risen to greet her guest. She stood tall beside her wingbacked chair, which was so large that he was amazed there was enough room to fit both it and her ridiculously-sized sombrero in one box. A white, sparkling hand rested against the back of her chair, and the other was propped smartly on her hip. Her skin was resplendent in the candlelight.

She was smiling.

She was beautiful.

Xibalba made a valiant attempt to remain standing and barely succeeded with the aid of his staff. He managed to disguise his sudden inability to balance with a low, sweeping bow, muttering as a greeting, "La Muerte."

She beamed. His heart skipped. Rampant images of their last meeting flashed through his mind like explosions or fireworks, moments and sensations that flooded his memory with warmth.

Her back to him as she stood in the starlight, leaning on the balcony as she surveyed her realm.

The way her hair fell in a black tumble of curls against her dress, gilded in candlelight and fragrant with marigolds.

How she'd turned, smiled at him when he teased her that Xochiquetzal's parties were a little too much for everyone sometimes, even the brightest, most cheerful goddess of all the pantheon.

And then, somehow, they were leaning into each other, breathless, staring at the colored lights reflected in each other's eyes…

Suddenly in the coliseum center the lights dimmed and the low roar of the crowd hushed. La Muerte jumped into action; she darted forward with a grin and took his arm, dragging him from his memory and into a simple velvet chair stationed beside her own. "Come quickly and sit! He'll start any moment now and we don't want to miss the beginning!"

He blinked. Caught between being incensed at the way he had been practically wrestled into a chair and intrigued by the electric tingles her fingers caused on his skin, it took his addled mind a moment to register her words.

"What? Who'll start?"

"You'll see," she whispered, seating herself and arranging her hat. "It's his debut performance. I've been waiting for this for years."

Confused, Xibalba shook off the last remnants of the other night and peered over the lip of the balcony into the arena below. The entire coliseum was dark except for a few floating candles suspended above the walkways like lines of stars. The sandy floor was a blanket of night; the only thing visible in the arena was the flat stone platform, illuminated by two soft spotlights. The crowd was perfectly silent; the gentle stir of creaking seats and breathing filled the air. Even the marigold petals had stopped falling.

Xibalba cast a glance at La Muerte, and found her seated ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on the platform and her hands clasped delicately in her lap. She was the picture of rapt attention.

He opened his mouth once more to demand some answers, but as soon as he parted his lips, a figure stepped into the light and the crowd burst into applause.

Standing on the platform was a simple, slightly-yellowed skeleton, dressed in a shining helmet and suit of armor. One of his legs and another of his arms had been replaced by swords. His beard and mustache was a snowy white and his face was proud and steadfast. He appeared to not hear the deafening cheer of the crowd at all.

Xibalba was intrigued. Perhaps it was a bloodsport after all. He had never figured La Muerte to be the type to enjoy gladiatorial combat, but the fellow in the middle of the arena was certainly dressed like a soldier. The god turned to his hostess as he clapped.

"What will he be fighting then, animals? Other soldiers?"

La Muerte froze, mid-clap, and stared at Xibalba as though he'd physically slapped her. But after a moment her face melted into laughter.

"Oh, Xibalba. Jorge isn't going to fight anyone."

He frowned. "Then what—"

Suddenly an unseen orchestra swelled to existence with a lush sequence that seemed to rise from the very ground itself. Xibalba jumped. The crowd instantly quieted and there was an audible shifting in seats as they settled back for the performance.

The skeleton in the middle of the arena closed his eyes, and began to sing.

Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!

Tu pure, o, Principessa,

nella tua fredda stanza,

Guardi le stelle

Che tremano d'amore

E di speranza.

His voice was rich and powerful, drowning out every noise in the stadium which seemed to abate of its own accord, charmed by the music. Xibalba only vaguely realized he wasn't breathing. He blinked, inhaled, and couldn't resist murmuring half to himself, "Well. I wasn't expecting that."

La Muerte's smile was visible even in the dark. "Jorge always dreamed of singing in the opera, but his family wouldn't hear of it. All the Sanchez men are bullfighters, you see."

Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,

Il nome mio nessun saprà!

No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò

Quando la luce splenderà!

Xibalba frowned. The language was strange, something like Spanish but simultaneously very different. Italian, if he remembered his mortal dialects correctly.

"What is he saying?" he asked.

La Muerte leaned closer. "He's a prince who made a bet with the princess that if she didn't discover his name by dawn, she would marry him."

Xibalba glanced at her hands, which had lifted and waved slightly as she spoke. Her skin glinted in the candlelight like it was studded with thousands of miniscule diamonds. It cast patterns on his robes and his chest. "Does he win?"

She smirked at him. "Telling you would be cheating."

Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio

Che ti fa mia!

He glanced at her, and, as if guessing his unspoken request, she leaned closer, translating smoothly into his ear, "And my kiss will dissolve the silence which makes you mine."

His heart thundered so loudly in his chest that he was sure she could hear it. Surely, she hadn't forgotten the other night. Her messenger had told him that this meeting was a peace offering, a means of smoothing over any "misunderstandings" he might have had concerning their relationship. Misunderstandings. There hadn't been any misunderstandings. He had seen it in her eyes, even when he'd whispered her name, fatally breaking the spell between them, making her recoil with a breathless laugh and retreat to the safety of the fiesta, leaving him standing openmouthed and burning on the balcony.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian," he replied quietly, simply for something to say. Somehow it made sense that she would speak Italian. She could speak everything. Anything she wanted.

Her smile was tangible. "I can't. Don't you hear it in the way he sings?"

Somewhere in the dark a gentle collection of voices mourned softly:

Il nome suo nessun saprà!

E noi dovrem, ahime, morir!

And then Jorge Sanchez's voice once more, triumphant, from the middle of the sand.

Dilegua, o notte

Tramontate, stelle!

Tramontate, stelle!

All'alba vincerò!

And Xibalba looked at La Muerte, watching the crystals glint in her skin. And he could indeed hear it in the way the matador sang.

Vincerò!

I will win.

And he swore by the Ancient Ones themselves that he would. He would win the heart of this goddess of death beside him if it was the last thing he ever did.

Vincerò!

"How about a little wager, La Muerte?"

A/N: Xochiquetzal was the Aztec goddess of pleasure and indulgence; hence, she throws some crazy fiestas. Sorry if this seemed oddly paced, it got a little away from me in the end. Does that guard who guides Manolo even have a name? Lupe just seemed to fit…As always, read and review!