ZELDA SPELLMAN

     It’s a cold church. An old, crumbling Catholic church. It reminds her of a whale carcass, high vaulted ceilings with blackened timbres holding out the moonlight. Nothing breathes here. Maybe that’s what Zelda likes about this place - it offers comfort, structure, silence.  Lilith never cared what churches offered before. Not truly.       If apparitions are miraculous celebrations in Catholic lore, she thinks on what her apparition might be. Melancholic, perhaps. It’s not got the hot, boiling poison of blood and devil spawn that she can usually feel clawing at the inside of her mind. Something about her feels quietened, raw, humble. Something in her feels true. She’s of course dressed for melancholy, the black leather coat swallowing her, offering a minimal heat against this frozen earthly world. Her hair is perfect, her skin is pale, her eyes are sharp. She doesn’t look like the same terrifying deity that reached into the heart of a small girl - one truly so young that it boggled her mind - and set it alight with life and hellfire and power.       Zelda is standing at the heart of the church, the blue light streaming down over her hair, dying it Prussian. She looks like she could drown in the stillness of her own mind, the yellow hands of the False God jutting over the dusty marbled floor. When Zelda turns, her high cheekbones create dark pockets underneath, her tired eyes weighted with that shadow and trauma.        T  H  A  N  K      Y  O  U  .      F  O  R      S  A  V  I  N  G      H  E  R  .       Lilith doesn’t move. She does not so much as blink. It had happened before that she had appeared, and Zelda had snapped - asked where had she been, and why appear now? They are beyond all that, now. Zelda almost lost what she loves most, and she’s here to mourn something, to find a vessel to steady herself inside of, while the world rocks and roils beneath their feet. No one seeks out a Church unless they feel alone. Even Jonah, in the body of a blue whale, was not alone. Still. This church, this glass, all of this. It wasn’t good enough. Her alternative would be better, if she hadn’t skewered that faith with her harsh wars and cold, turned away gaze.      What does absolution mean? What does it feel like to be clean? Because she knows what it feels like to be aberrant, she understands the dual sworded nature of being feared, but more recently she has had a lump in her throat that fills with a bulge as real as if it was grave dirt: I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?   Disappointing the Dark Lord could be titillating when he was unable to hurt her for it. Disappointing her church, the girl - it had felt unpleasant even devoid of consequences. Consequences for her anyway. Learning to nurture was heavy work for honest hands, and hers were slick with birthing blood and gore. Vocalising her worries would mean the words died their death in the coffin of her mouth.                                             Enough of this. 

       ❛  You’re welcome.  ❜   Her syllables are sharp and slow, like a knife cutting through meat. It is a good start. She takes a step forward, her heels making the only sound in this empty chapel. Zelda is welcome. Welcome to her power and her Church and consideration.         ❛    You may not be so quick to thank me once she settles into her newfound power.  ❜     A joke, but a probing statement also; tell me indirectly - am I a scourge or a deity to you now? Tell me in half measures so I can preempt you if it hurts. It surprises that stony filter she wears like armour how deep-felt the care goes.

     She stops at the very arched tip of the long-cast image of that perverse scene, etched in pretty glass. It reflected none of the flesh, none of the sand, none of the scales of the truth. A quiet and bloodless retelling.      ❛    You like it ?  ❜    Lilith asked, pale eyes leading to the pallid Eden. A small diversion, but she had a genuine curiosity too. This night felt deeper than any other, starry and long, like the entire sky was made of black glass with the images of Sabrina - her last creation - etched across it.   If anyone spoke too loudly, the night itself would shatter. After the screaming, after the shock, after the death - there came shy, whispering life.

        Lilith  is  closer,  now.  She  has  drifted  from  the  pillar  in  barbed  flight,  her  job  of  guarding  the  Cathedral  abandoned  (  was  it  ever  a  purpose  at  all ?  ).  Approached  Zelda  in  that  ghostly  manner  she  so  often  travels  by;  a  manner  that  makes  Lilith  a  creature  both  lost  and  lethal.    

                      ONCE  SHE  SETTLES  IN              

                                                               TO  HER  NEWFOUND  POWER.

Settles  in.  Power.  Beautiful.  Powerful.  It’s  a  statement  raw  and  blunt  and  ominous  to  anyone  else,  but  Zelda  fears  no  such  thing.  She  wants  all  for  Sabrina  that  she  could  not  achieve.   Zelda,  thus,  does  not answer  this.  The  weight  of  her  response  lies  more  familiar  within  the  throat  and  it  will  rest  there.   Power  or  NOT.  Martyr,  messiah,  child  of  the  one  they  once  called  Lucifer.   She  is  still  my  niece.  Instead,  her  lips  tighten;  her  exhale  is  louder.  She  doesn’t  have  a  smoke;  she  wishes  it  were  so,  and  that  it might  veil  her  eyes,  suddenly.  Instead,  she  glances,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  at  the  stained  glass  window.  Her  eyes  fall  upon  the  serpent,  the  tree,  the  dark,  cherrywood  bark.  From  her  peripheral  she  notices  the  hand  of  God,  but  only  there.

                        You  like  it  ?

There  is  something  so  small,  yet  so  deep,  in  Lilith’s  question.  It  surprises  Zelda;  she  finds  herself  momentarily  lost  in  the  depth  of  its  implication.  Does  she  know?  Does  Lilith  know  what  I  know? Eyes  soft,  brow  hardened,  Zelda  folds  her  arms  in  front  of  her  chest,  fingers  gripping  each  opposing  elbow  gently.  Such  a  vulnerable  moment  they   have  shared,  and  she  is  shaken  by  how  much  and  how  suddenly  --  does  Lilith  know  --  the  vulnerability  that  runs  here,  let  so  violently,  like  blood  from  an  old,  forgotten  wound  ? Zelda  is  overcome  with  a  desire  to  spare  her;  and  thus  she  does  not  look  her  in  the  eye  as  she  wishes  to  do.  Instead,  she  tilts  her  own  head,  looking  more  thoroughly  at  the  scene  BELLOWING  to  be  HEARD,  SEEN,  BELIEVED,  before  the  both  of  them.  She  is  trying  to  anchor  herself,  suddenly  impregnated  with  the  inescapable  epiphany  that  this  Mother  of  Demons  beside  her  was  once,  simply,   a  being  of  the  cosmos.  A  celestial  creation  of  God,  a  woman,  of  no  one’s  rib  but  the  dust,  who  lived  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  

     ❛   What  I’ve  always  found  to  be  particularly . . .   troubling . . .  is  the  depiction  of  the  snake,  ❜   Zelda  says  at  last,  referring  to  the  obviously  sinister  nature  of  the  creature  stained  on  the  panel.   ❛  It  simply  could  not  have  been  so  obvious.  Not  nearly  as  impeding  as  you  see  here  . . .  as  one  might  have  imagined.  Lucifer  was  clever  --  surely  he  wouldn’t  have  appeared  to  Eve  like  that  ?  As  dark  and  deadly,  smothering  that  forbidden  tree,  fangs  protruding  in  wait  ?  ❜   How  could  the  girl  have  been  so  foolish,  so  as  to  fall  prey  to  that  ?    

Zelda  suddenly  is  overcome  with  sorrow;  she  swallows,  instead,  and  composes  herself.

She  finally  meets  Lilith’s  eyes,  and  strangely,  she  is  not  afraid,  for  she  finds  nothing  but  lingering  sadness  there.  Her  question  seems  accusatory  but  the  contact  they  share  sings  a  different  song; what  were  you  like  --  what  have  you  lost?

                          ❛  The  Catholics  have  such  . . .  ghastly  imaginations.  ❜  

The  light  that  shines  through  these  hues  is  always  murky;  always  of  some  underground  significance.  THE  DARK  SIDE  OF  THE  MOON.  The  emotions  forbidden.  But  it’s  quiet  here,  Zelda  thinks,  as  she  walks  into  the  centrum,  stops  before  the  window.  The  moon  shines  through  the  enormous  stained  glass  before  her,   the  chamber  of  stone  echoing  with  the  faint,  harrowing,  twinkling  reminiscence  of  total  despair  &  abandonment.  There  is  a  scene  within  the  glass  --  the  naked  pale  man  &  woman  stand,  below  a  blue  sky,  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  A  serpent  wrapped  around  the  tree  to  their  left;  its  words  absent  but  its  presence  foreboding  and  climactic.  I  will  show  you  the  truth.  And  the  hand  of  the  false  God  above,  where  Zelda’s  focus  is  pulled,  granting  a  faint,  yellowed  light  before  them  all.  Funnily  enough,  immediately  below  the  all  powerful  hand  is  a  crack  in  the  glass;  small  but  black,  visible  only  in  the  contrast  of  dark  blue  and  black  lighting.  Quiet,  desolate,  dark  SILENCE  --  even  if  it  is  in  a  Catholic  cathedral  --  is  the  best  Zelda  can  hope  for.   She  needs  it.  Desperately.  

                               Sabrina  is  alive.   

Thank  the  stars  and  the  elements  and  the  balance  of  the  universe,  Sabrina  is  alive.  

                   P R A I S E  L I L I T H,  Sabrina  is  alive.  

I’m  not  surprised  you’ve  come,  is  Zelda’s  immediate  thought,  even  though  she  is.  The  cold  rush  of  air  slithering  over  her  neck,  her  arms,  her  legs  is  unmistakable;  a  silent,  ethereal,  yet  feral  indication:  you  are  no  longer  alone.  She  knows  how  Lilith’s  presence  in  a  room  feels.  Zelda  stiffens  at  the  realization,  but  relents.  She  is  tired.

Turning  around  slowly,  she  meets  the  eyes  of  the  one  who  escaped  the  serpent.  The  night  monster.   Zelda  softens,  her  fight  has  ebbed.  And  truly,  she  is  nothing  at  this  point  but  grateful  for  Lilith;  she  has  no  space  for  anything  other  than  this.

For  a  long  moment,  Zelda  does  nothing  but  stare.    Finally,  she  speaks,  her  head  low,  tilted  toward  the  other.

                         ❛  Zelda.   ❜    It’s an irritated snap, a hiss.  I AM THE QUEEN OF HELL, AND I COMMAND YOU TO MAKE MINE OWN WILL THINE :   DO AS I SAY.      

                         Lilith snatches Zelda’s wrist, puts it over her waist in the ridiculously cold bed, and stares off severely, her eyes rolling into her head.      ❛   It’s not hard.  ❜  

@praiisesatan doesn’t kno how to spoon.

       ❛   Oh  for  HELL’S  sa  --   ❜   Zelda  can’t  help  the  immediate  defensive  she’s  found  herself  on;  this  is  a  cry  for  something  she’s  HARDLY  a  comfortable  being  performing,  but  she  chokes  back  the  remainder  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had  come;   this  is  her  Queen,  after  all.   For  this,  she  lets  her  wrist  stay  placed  on  the  curve  of  Lilith’s  hip,  the  human  form  of  her  so  . . .  normal.  Small,  even,  for  one  that  is  now  commander  of  an  entire  underworld  legion.  Lilith  is  not  even  sharp,  the  candlelight  protests,  as  it  illuminates  in  a  flickering  amber  the  round  curvature  Zelda’s  wrist  is  now  against.  She  swallows,  frowns.  Relaxes  herself,  almost  anxious  in  this,  she  slides  forward  to  press  her  body  against  the  cold,  naked  form  of  the  other.  Zelda  is  not  a  curving  type  of  fit;  she  is  stiff,  yet  obedient,  and  allows  her  thighs,  which  are  still  encased  in  black  stockings,  to  press  slightly  against  the  backs  of  her  Lady’s.  A  shy  sheath.  She  can’t  have  a  smoke  this  way,  but  it  is  whatever  Lilith  wants.  

sb: I care a lot about you

001.    THE  FAIRY.

chipped  nail  polish.    glitter  highlight.   tall  trees  with  smooth  bark.  tangled  hair.  the taste  of  cinnamon  sugar.  talking  too  loud  and  too  fast.   overgrown  flowers  in  your  hair.   crumbling  buildings  reclaimed  by  nature.  flirting.   walking  home  at  three  am  with  no  coat.   platonic  hand  holding.   blowing  smoke  out  of  your  nose.    dragonfly  wings.    chaotic  good.    freckles.   fairy  rings.   secret  meetings.    gender  nonconformity.   leather.   smudged  eyeliner.  forbidden  fruit.

002.    THE  REAPER.

computer  errors.    a  shiver  down   your  spine.   haunting  beauty.   hard  liquor.   crowns  of  thorns.  shadowed  alleyways.    decaying  plant  matter.  shattered  mirrors  and  broken  glass.  corrupted  memories.  stopped  clocks.  the  scent  of  stale  cigarettes.   tattered  black  hoodies.   walking  your  friends  home.  the  crescent  moon.   the  sea.  a  graveyard  on  a  foggy  day.  cold  rings  on  cold  fingers.   absolution.   looking  out  of  the  window  of  an  airplane.    soft  kisses.

003.    THE  WITCH.

graffiti. pretending  to  know  what  you’re  doing.  worn  paperback  books.   growing  up  too  fast.    parsley,  sage,  rosemary,  and  thyme.  lace  and  combat  boots.   moth  wings.  candles  on  every  surface.   a  weathered  deck  of  cards.  turning  the  music  up.   fireflies  in  jars.    calloused  fingers.  drawing  on  your  skin.  sunlight  filtering  through  clouds.  petrichor.   a  dying  rose  in  a  jaw.    wearing  a  crystal  pendant.   illusions  of  spells.  black  cats.  mint  gum.   chapped  lips.   dirt  under  your  fingernails.  the  cycle  of  life  and  death.

004.    THE  WOLF.

murders  of  crows.   frost - bitten  leaves.    wolves  howling  at  midnight.   knocking  on  your  door.  leaving  food  out  for  stray  animals. the  twang  of  an  acoustic  guitar.  honey.   tiny  red  buds  on  trees.  claw  marks  on  the  walls.    golden  eyes.    slightly  too  long  stubble.    knitted  fingerless  gloves.    sleeping  on  the  forest  floor.  always  finding  your  way  back  home.

It is, in my opinion, a very important aspect of Zelda’s character that she struggles a lot with gender nonconformity. Due to the society, time period and social grooming she is born into, she struggles greatly with understanding her own expression and I don’t think really understands it nor will she ever. She feels, at her core, largely nonbinary. This is something I’ve recently been able to formulate a bit better and unfortunately something I think Zelda will never truly be able to recognize + come to terms with. Some talking / things that also point to this:

Zelda dresses in a way that tends to hide, or at the very least not draw attention to, her breasts / cleavage. This is an aspect of her body that would make others view her as feminine, and, especially in her society, therefore unequal. 

If you notice, her breasts only seem to come out when she is using her body for approval, acceptance + to gain power by getting close to those IN power (for example with Faustus).

I don’t think this is solely due to piousness/religion, though that argument CAN be made . . . but the biggest indicator that this is also Zelda’s choice is that when Faustus literally noncons her to wear a very feminine, breast exposing dress in S2, she immediately detests it, and asks what the hell she’s wearing upon getting a moment of lucidity.

I think Zelda’s own experience with being considered feminine is frustration. She feels as though she was born a person with certain body parts and those make her, against her own control, viewed by others as less equal. Her experience also with being told things are “not feminine” or “not ladylike” growing up is that she feels she must not, therefore, be feminine, since she feels / does things that are “not ladylike.” This is something again that is very private to her.

She has learned somewhat how to use her body in a way that will gain approval from others in power, but her body is never viewed as something deserving of pleasure -- only a means to an end. 

Zelda also does not have biological children, and I very highly attain in my headcanon that she does not want them and would hate childrearing thru pregnancy immensely. (This is of course not to say that this is true of all NB people -- just of Zelda in particular) She already knows that her body being viewed as feminine makes her viewed as unequal, so any aspect of being viewed as feminine (IE pregnancy) would be highly unwelcome and make her feel very dysphoric.

Zelda tentatively embraces being a woman and being ‘feminine’ with herself, more so publicly, because it is traditional and expected and she is not educated on gender as a construct. Her own frustrations and feelings on it are very private to her and not understood.

She takes a lot of her frustration out on Hilda, partly because Hilda is very happy and comfortable with identifying as feminine. Zelda tries very, very hard to do so, and it is draining. Yet it seems as though Hilda gets approval and praise effortlessly, and in this way Zelda feels powerless and angry... almost like a “what am I missing?” feeling.

       I’VE    ALWAYS    INDULGED     MYSELF     IN     BELIEVING     I     AM     SOMEWHAT     CLEVER .

Lilith scoffs, doing her best to fight the smile tugging at her painted lips. The smoke stains how her tongue tastes, and as her eyes trace the clever witch before her, the cigarette tip glows an ardent orange, sizzling the creamy cigarette paper in a hiss and blue-grey plume of smoke. It is almost the only late-night lights but for tea-light candles left out, flickering wanly. 

       IF    NOT ,     I’D     CERTAINLY     NOT     BE     STANDING    BESIDE   L I L I T H    H E R S E L F .

A pleased little hum sighs in Lilith’s throat. Zelda has an uncanny knack for being distinguished. Here she is, delicately arching herself into a position beneath her Queen, and Lilith couldn’t  think of a place she’d looked more exquisite. Her eyes meet with Zelda’s, and she is very aware of the bated breath of the other, and, not for the first time, she thinks something sinful. ❛  Certainly not.  ❜   Her correction is crisp enough to read as chastisement, but they’re both aware it is anything but.   ( She thinks. )     ❛  Do you really think I’d waste my time like that ?  ❜   It makes her nervous and excited at once. What young emotions to be having in the greying veins of her old, withered lungs. Lilith pushes these down: this situation could benefit from a little delicious cruelty   ( not simpering and disquieted aortic rumblings  )   and  that  she has in ample amounts. 

❛  Your turn.  ❜   She enunciates coldly, and takes yet another step into Zelda’s space, pressing herself against her. Lilith hovers the golden cigarette holder expectantly just between her face and Zelda’s mouth, knowing full well the breadth of things she could have placed on Zelda’s lips instead :    but she is drunk   ( ALLEGEDLY. )  and it is not a deity’s job to put an end to suffering, only to make it count.  Her grip on the holder is vice-like, and her other hand drags nails across the table, her hips both resting against Zelda now, daring her to step away, to try take the cigarette holder    -     to do anything but inhale as the queen has softly commanded. 

      Zelda  is  a  pious  Witch.  She  has  always  been,  and  she  always  will  be;  she  will be  certain  of  THAT.  She  has  survived  and  only  just  ( perhaps  not  THRIVED  --  but  it  is  no  one’s  business  but  her  own  to  observe  as  such )  as  pious  and  devoted  and  up  to  the  standards  of  only  the  Elite.  For  how  else  can  someone  such   as  she  receive  power,  receive  praise,  receive  love?  Through  piousness,  through  appreciation,  through  a  cold  and  powerful  devotion.  And  now  that  she  is  here,  she  will  CERTAINLY  be  nothing  less  than  devoted  . . .  nothing  less  than  closest  to  the  ONE  AND  CENTER  of  all  power  . . .   nothing  less  than  pious  and  powerful  through.

As  the  daughter,  as  the  most  pious,  as  the  devoted  Witch,  Zelda  has  always  known  not  to  disobey.  She  is  not  to  try  her  deity’s  patience,  nor  toy  with  the  command  of  any  god.  And  as  Lilith’s  chosen,  familiar,  fleshy  form  hovers  closer,  like  a  cobra  made  of  smoke  despite  it  all,  teases  her  lips  just  inches  from  Zelda’s  own  .  .  .  Zelda  is  inclined  immediately  to  take  her  turn  and  nothing  more.  The  chill  coursing  through  her  does  poke  and  coerce,  however,   a  curious  hissy  whisper:  play  with  her,  tease  her  in  return  --  return  with  a  clever  twist  of  rules  --  this  one  wants  it.  

Zelda,  unblinking,  never  letting  her  eyes  stray  from  Lilith’s  own,  never  LEAVING  the  command  of  their  deep  and  MURDEROUS  hunt,  leans  forward.  She  encases  the  end  of  what  HAD  been  her  cigarette,  now  her  queen’s,  with  painted  red  lips.  They  do  not  touch  Lilith’s,  as  this  had  not  commanded  of  her.  Instead,  she  lets  her  eyes  fall,  toward  the  floor  in  a  quiet  respect  . . .  she  DRINKS  the  smoke  .  .  .  takes  a  long  drag  of  the  wispy  cigarette  . . .  and  brings  them  back,  slowly,  staring,  unthreateningly  albeit  hungrily,  within  Lilith’s  own  gaze.  I  am  less  satiated  than  before  my   inhale,  Zelda  is  screaming.  Please,  my  Lady  --  give  me  what  I  need,  whatever  it  may  be.  

Zelda  has,  so  far,  not  gone  astray  from  the  rules;  certain  that  piousness  and  command  are  the  way  to  earning  Lilith’s  own  devotion.  But  IS  SHE  CERTAIN?   Yet  . . .  she  lets  go  of  her  exhale,  before  commanded  .  .  .   lips  parting,  a  phantom  of smoke  escaping  from  between  them,  and  flowing  toward  the  others’  mouth  in  a  fast  razor  wind.  She  holds  herself  there.  She  has  taken  her  turn, and  now  it  is  Lilith’s  to  command.