The Village held an uncharacteristically chilled, dry air. It contrasted with the tropical weather of the islands found in the human realm. 

In the world of the dead, a Goddess and her disciple sparred, surrounded by half-rotten trees that withered with one incorrect look, and plum dirt the color akin to a graveyard. Thick purple leaves were stark against the brightened sky, supplying meager shade against the dead soil. Through the sounds of weapon against weapon, the woman taunted the man chasing her.

The Goddess, dressed in red and green brocade, deprived of her usual mask—perched on a loose branch somewhere from above. She plucked a dying, feathered leaf from its stem and blew it down to him.

Her laughter echoed through.

“A strong leaf is able to resist being blown by the wind. A good soldier doesn’t falter. You’re distracted. How many times am I going to have to beat you? It’s boring.” 

The sonorous swaying branches and crunchy, dried leaves accompanied the Death God’s tepid question. The scarred young man, still tethered to the ground, dropped the two sticks he so often used in his fights. Long overworked and beaten from wear, the innocuous sticks were powerful, lethal weapons within his grasp, if he so desired. 

“I’m not a child anymore,” Libum gasped, drawing back his weapon. This response earned him a vigorous laugh from above. An earlier collision—fists against sticks made his ribs ache, as if they were splintering. “Can you just listen?”

The Death God, used to her underling’s outlandish requests, sighed and motioned with her hand for the man to speak. She descended off the branch, and tapped the man’s shoulder as his eyes rapidly searched for her. 

“You aren’t a rational one, bata. You choose to fight instead of talk, but I am listening to you now,” she said seriously. “Something has been troubling you. Is it time to move out of the House and onto opportunities that open doors and move mountains?"

He lunged towards her, intent on landing a punch. She side-stepped with the hint of a smile, barely missing the feel of his fist. 

“I want to work alone, Kolupati. No more partners. From now on, don’t go around pairing me up with the new souls.” Libum’s voice faltered as his lungs struggled for breath, and the man cursed the force behind her hits and looked to the Goddess for her answer.

“Now you ask for special treatment?” Her tone was teetering at the edge of dangerous as she glared at him. “Who are you to make demands of me?” Her dark eyes watched the man with bemused interest. Watch yourself, they warned. 

“I’ve had enough,” the man grumbled. “I work twice as hard to get as many souls into your hands, and you've accepted the Moon's largesse under the guise that I think about his decision. I’m long overdue for a promotion. The least you can do is what I ask.”

“I'm not that enticed by jewels and gold! Anuk Buwan knows that you can't be bought over, so he's trying to get to me. And, you overwork your partners until they drop. You becoming the leader of the Tagkawal was a promotion. There’s nothing left for you, unless you really want my job?” She swept her hand over her mouth and looked up as if in deep thought, golden rings grazing against her lips. “You know, Libum—” 

A bird smaller than the size of Libum’s palm flew past, and knowing it missed its mark, zoomed just above the man’s ears and back into Kolupati’s hand. One, of many, of the devoted companions that belonged to the Death Goddess and kept tabs on humanity for her. The bird landed itself gently against her hand and turned its head occasionally.

“What is it now?”

“It sounds like Batala will eat me alive,” said Kolupati, her fingers kneading deep into her temples. She anxiously chewed on the tip of her first knuckle, the ring clinking against her teeth as she did so, an obvious tell that a problem of immense proportion had just delivered itself to Kolupati’s domain. “We’re done speaking. I’ve said enough. Go get washed up. Remember—you’re on call, so don’t go overboard. I’ll assign you a partner after this is done.”

“Asangbo.” The man whispered under his breath. Libum found he didn’t care whether it made its way to her ears or not. She would most likely continue to play deaf, anyway. “Fuck your birds,” he spat. “Running away again, what kind of God are you?”

“One with much more patience than most,” she answered coolly. "You might want to respond to the Moon’s mete unless your goal is to make him angry." In the moment it took for Libum to turn his head to her again, she stood unblinkingly in front of him. 

“There’s still matters we need to discuss.”

Her hair blew back from an unseen gust and fell past her shoulders, black and straight. Her dark eyes—usually glazed over from Spirit Wine or cabo tabs—were clear, burning with an unspoken rage. The hidden blade, only about the length of Libum’s palm, pressed firmly against his throat. “This game of yours, quite frankly, is childish. He is not the kind of man you want as an enemy, remember? Gods with grudges make terrible enemies. You haven’t grown at all.” 

Dead, Libum thought. If she held any desire to kill him, he’d be dead. “I win,” she said plainly. “Stop being a shut-in and make a friend. Life is only worth living if you have people to care about. If that means venturing off to become his disciple, then go."

“My apologies, Lady Kolupati,” he murmured. 

Her lips parted into a slick smile as if she could read his thoughts. The gold jewelry that made a galling sound when they clacked together hung heavy and wrapped around her neck like a noose. The light green of her dress blinded Libum as the light filtered through it, and exposed red underneath, the same as the multicolored pattern found in a hummingbird’s wings.

“I know you are eager to leave me, anuk.” The words fell over both of them—an unspoken agreement to the terms they forged long ago. “But our contract will come to an end when it's meant to. Why not just enjoy each other’s company until our eventual departure? Working with others, it’s good for you. Healthy. Whether it's finding devotion with that silly man and his followers, or completing your work with me. You can make guaranteed friends. Some here might even be reborn.”

Libum pushed the blade away by the hilt, the mouth of it exposing a carved black serpent, and said, “You’re just trying to convince me to continue my babysitting. What would I do with children clinging to me day and night?”

“You should work as a schoolteacher when you go home. Children befriend children, and those of a bata nature, who never grow up in adult bodies, know them best.”

Libum wiped at his face with a cloth. “I’m going to take a bath. You smell like shit. Have you bathed recently, Lady?” 

With that comment, it began to drizzle.

He tore off the brown tapis, his usual garb for fighting. He pulled out the black hair clips that kept his hair up during training. A small group of scattered souls hovered outside the barrier surrounding Kolupati’s Spirit House, another display of the bullshit she often spoke of. She would claim that she was a lost soul, just as the Anito were, but it all felt irredeemably cheap when one noticed the size of her House. 

It threatened to swallow up anyone who walked past it. These Spirit Houses held souls in the human realm, splitting into multiple sections in order for families to be brought together, and were significantly smaller. However, in the Village, they grew into habitable areas for the souls to live. 

The group of ninang huddled in the courtyard. Her most popular inhabitants did not hide the disappointment displayed on their faces when Libum exited without Lady Kolupati in tow. As usual, they eagerly waited to steal a glimpse of their Goddess. The aunties busied themselves with meaningless work; sweeping nonexistent leaves, dusting tables that hadn't been used in years; though they quickly ended things upon realizing it was just the man.

Voices whispered, mostly offhand comments regarding his appearance—

“He’d be so handsome if he didn’t have such unsightly hair!”

“Or the scars across his face, those I don't mind, but how can you fix such an aggravating personality?”

"He may look like the devotee of the Lord Moon, but he has none of the personality."

In the Village, children were scarce. A prominent memory reminded him of their excitement, bobbing to themselves aimlessly as news of Libum in the Village had been the first exciting thing to happen in years. They all swarmed him, ready to pinch his cheeks, brush his silky hair, but the three women all recoiled when their eyes met the deformed child. Not from disgust, they assured him, but the pity in their eyes burned.

“Oh—Lady Kolupati, we hope you know what you’re doing!”

The man looked up and glowered at the souls until they dispersed. He began walking towards the work temple, an area always bustling with Anito and other workers, ready to fall apart with one large gust of wind. Four mini-temples, built with dried green grass and golden straw, were lined up about three meters apart in front of the work temple. 

Libum was determined to get past the line of souls who hadn’t worked all morning, and used his standing to go up to the Anito—the silver badge displaying her rank—stitched across her chest, working the table.  Her lips were unnaturally red, and her eyes just as vibrant. With a turn of her head, she examined Libum’s face. The silhouette of a bird, glints of silver catching in his line of sight, shimmered as she moved. 

Her gaze inched over to his arms and hands, but Libum snapped his fingers. 

“Hoy,” he said, his voice hard. He wanted to get a word in before she made a comment. “Prepare a bath. One hour. Hot water with the extra strength ylang-tea herb blend.”

“Name?”

His teeth grinded together. “You know me,” he insisted. Most of the Anito, if not all, knew who he was. They knew Libum, even if he didn’t want them to. 

“I wouldn’t ask for your name if I knew who you were.” She drew out the last word, as if savoring his agitation. “Don’t tell me—” her lips moved upwards. “You’re the babantay. How am I supposed to know you if you’re just locked up with Lady Kolupati all the time?” She tapped her purple fingernails against the wood of the table and looked to the other soul next to her. “I’m still going to need a name.”

“Libum,” he said. “Hot bath. Now.”

“Alright, alright.” She wrote down his name, scribbling a face with its tongue sticking out, and jangled a key in front of his face. The man's eyes lingered on her dark fingertips. “I forgot. Humans have so little patience. It’s too bad Lady Kolupati couldn’t teach you manners, or any of the Tagkawal, for that matter. Learn to live a little, Lord Libum.” His eyes glued themselves to the slight corruption on her person.

“You might want to see Mutya about that.”

The human yanked the key from the girl’s trembling hand and tried to calm his irritated mind. Counting by ten, Libum made it to one hundred before opening the locked door and inhaling the scent of his herbal bath. Jasmine, light and floral, surrounded him in a warm steam. 

The water called to the tired man, and he quickly undressed, gently removed his pearl necklace from his dress shirt, and took a step into the steaming water, the herbs massaging his muscles. Libum moved his head back and looked up at the latticed ceiling, inhaling and letting the steam envelope him. 

Libum’s hand reached for the surplus, a black bamboo woven basket of herb-filled water and used both hands to lift the bulging end, using the smaller spout on the opposite end to pour the remnants into the bath. He absentmindedly began tracing the coarse scars on his shoulder blade, counting as he did so, rubbing the leathery skin underneath his fingertips.

Fifteen minutes of uninterrupted bliss. 

Knock!