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The Hellhound

I gaze upon her for the first time in what feels like endless cycles.

Seven hundred sixty-three years measured by mortal reckoning. The one the fates kept apart from me through the veils of time and existence. Her form is cold against mine, lifeless but not gone, a paradox that stirs something dark within me. As we move through shadows and whispers, I hold her close, the weight of her being both foreign and achingly familiar.

The landscape around us shifts, a tapestry of memories, forgotten realms, and the echoes of souls long departed.

Paths intertwine and unravel beneath our paws, marigolds tickling us with each step we take, leading us everywhere and nowhere. The silence is everywhere, broken only by the distant murmur of voices that may not exist. Her Alebrije glides beside us .

Time folds in on itself here. Moments stretch and compress, making it impossible to know how long we've been moving or how much farther we have to go.

The barrier between realms is almost before us, a veil of shimmering nothingness. Crossing it feels both inevitable and impossible. Her Alebrije pauses, turning to fix me with its multicolored gaze. In its eyes, I see reflections of all the wrong choices we made getting here. I see how hard we worked to get her back.

“We don't have much more time,” I murmur, before looking back at the woman I am holding.

My gaze lingers on her for a moment longer, and I make a vow, one I’ve whispered to myself a million times before, that now that she’s in my arms, I will never, ever let her go again.

Mi reina.

Welcome to the Land of the Dead.