The Land of the Remembered was lively and thriving, as it always was. The bright colors and lights and parades and flowers were a vibrant, overwhelming sight, yet this was home. Home to those have passed and are still remembered by their loved ones. Home to La Muerte himself, Manolo.

As he sat in his throne like chair, looking out into the festivities way, way below, a sudden darkness shrouded the room. He didn't need to turn to see who it was.

Markos, ruler of The Land of the Forgotten, a dark, mischievous soul. 'Xibalba', to those on Earth. "Ah.. Markos, my dear. Have to come to spend Día de los Muertos with me?" Manolo said, a smirk on his face as he turned to his grumpy husband.

Markos grumbled and crossed his arms. "Ewgh.. I suppose I am." He mumbled reluctantly. "Oh? Why the long face, mi amor?" Manolo teased as Markos came closer.

"I am so sick of The Land of the Forgotten. It's so dark and cold and gloomy down there," he whined, resting his head atop Manolo's.

Manolo huffed out a laugh, patting Markos's head as he pouted. "There there, my love." He said with an almost teasing tone.

"Stay in The Land of the Remembered for Día de los Muertos! Stay with me," he said, taking one of Markos's gloved hands in his, holding gently. It wasn't often that Markos came to his domain. Why, they hardly saw each other at all unless it was Día de los Muertos. To say spending this holiday with his husband would be wonderful was quite the understatement.