god doesn't love you

..."like a slapped arse" comes to mind. something his uncle used to say. crestfallen would be a better descriptor, a taste of rejection for the man who has never cared enough about much else to have faced the feeling more than a handful of times.

she doesn't want him. at least not as he is, not yet. hugo doesn't know how not to take that a little personally.

valentina continues on with her reasoning - and he does listen, he does. he just can't get the melody of her distance out of his head. he needs to prove himself in some unknowable and cosmic way, or perhaps show a vulnerability he swears even to himself he does not possess.

he's never felt like such a disappointment.

She takes a sip of her drink, smiles at him. It’s difficult to articulate these things to human beings, especially the young and arrogant. But her opacity is, in a way, rewarded: his dissatisfaction, however diluted, has a wonderful scent—dry wine, a hint of berry, dark roast coffee.

Willow is being too vague for her own liking. The horrible things are the dream. Lazarus, Valentina, Hawk - they only feature because of the impression Lazarus made on her. She wants to draw focus to the acts, but the disgust she feels for herself trips her up every time.

That and the fear that speaking it will make it real. She looks away from Valentina, swallowing back the confessions. Maybe that's why nobody listens -- she can never bring herself to actually say anything.

          “Oh, don’t ask me why Lazarus does the things he does—I couldn’t tell you. Maybe he was reminded of something. We’ve led a long life,”          she says, waving her hand dismissively.         “We’re often on each other’s minds anyway. If you really want to know what he was thinking, you’ll have to ask him.” 

When Willow was a teenager her mother would clutch her suffocatingly close to her chest and say 'you are my only, I love you so so so much, I would kill myself if anything happened to you, you must be so, so careful' until Willow's sense of self became so small that she would go limp in the embrace.

Her mother would always stress what a safe place she was meant to be, how guilty she felt for Willow's first years of life, but if Willow ever needed anything at all... Have better dreams. Pour me a glass of wine. Don't let it disturb you.

It's not fair to compare them. Valentina is not anything close to a mother. She's just some woman spending her time pretending that she matters to people that mostly despise her.

Blissfully blank are Willow's features. Peaceful as she finally looks Valentina in the eye. Catatonic smile on her face. I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid, I'm just a foolish, foolish girl. Nothing I say means anything at all - so she might as well say it.

How peculiar that Willow would choose her to be the audience. It must be true, then, that nobody else is listening—but that’s peculiar, too. It doesn’t make sense that even Hawk would turn away from her when, as far as Valentina can tell, all they do is commiserate. Still notably odd—though admittedly less so—that Zephyr would ignore her as well. Even beyond her lover-siblings, doesn’t she have friends? Especially if she’s undisturbed, devoid of fuss, what does it matter that she wants to talk about her dreams to someone? 

Day Five [Oct. 30.] witches + chaos/mayhem/destruction

After hearing the full story, she is of the same opinion as Lazarus: it was nothing. Children who don’t know any better throwing a fit in tandem. Hawk and Willow feed off each other’s misery; it’s the basis of their entire relationship, and when faced with something uncomfortable together they descend into dual hysteria—which was surely heightened this time with the added context of Willow’s post-Hell stress. Emotions got out of hand. Apparently they are still somewhat out of hand.

She pulls her sleeves over her knuckles, crosses one leg over the other, smooths her skirt down. Small voice in her head tells her she shouldn't even be entertaining a conversation with Valentina, but the small voice is stifled down by Willow's agitation. A need to confront all the ugliness around her.

She doubts anything has happened since. Lazarus doesn’t always deem it necessary to share his business, but if something more happened between him and Willow, Hawk would surely hear about it and speak his mind. He certainly had a lot to say after the alchemy session. After his tantrum, she’d gone to Lazarus to hear his side of the story; she never takes the children at their word. Lazarus was so annoyed to revisit the scenario that he almost refused to speak with her about it at all. It was nothing, truly nothing, he’d said, weary just to hear their names. I hope you aren’t exceptionally attached to this brood. I don’t anticipate their survival. 

he sips his own drink, skirting around a memory he prefers not to recollect. ...i think you want immortality just to wear her down. i think you want to take her somewhere where nobody can stop you.

How did Lazarus know she was ready? All these years—these centuries—and she’s never once asked him. She always feared his answer would be unsatisfactory. Anticlimactic. It’s something she likes to ruminate on by herself, an eternal mystery she can chew on, meditate on. It’s important to have something like that, she thinks. A stand-in for faith in the echo chamber of eternity. 

Valentina glances out the window, admiring the city below. 

that is, of course, if he even still wants that.

valentina poses the question, and of course he knows the answer:

The ones borne from fear suffer the most. This is a lesson many of them learn the hard way. Whether it’s their own or their maker’s, fear colors their existence, dooms them. Willow, even as an accidental turning, came to be due to the fear of her lover—and look how that’s going. Zero himself was a frantic move on Valentina’s part, ill-advised, and it has followed him all his life. 

When she was young, she didn’t understand why Lazarus withheld the gift for so long. All his wisdom-spewing sounded like nonsense, the haughty philosophical sermons of a man who lived for too long unchecked in his own mind. Perhaps that’s how she comes across now, coyly gatekeeping eternity. Maybe that’s how everyone comes across once they reach an impossible age. Hopefully Hugo is clever enough to understand that his elders have their reasons; they know better, and the gift cannot be given lightly.

strangely, hugo does not feel any tremors of his own mortality with her. while valentina may yet decide to make a meal of him or dispose of him in some cruel and nightmarish manner, he doubts she will. her interest is too apparent. she looks at him and he senses his own potential in her gaze. hears the faint melody of aspiration behind her every word.

On the journey to the bar, she gives Hugo a break from all the intrigue, her chatter turning toward the frivolous: recaps of petty drama at her job, strong opinions on the fashion statements of passersby, questions about his opinions on the lowbrow art of the day. All the while she clutches his arm, leans against him, traces the outlines of his face with her nails. She relishes his willingness to entertain her. She’ll wring out every last drop. 

The bar is a dimly-lit, neutral-colored affair on the top floor of a skyscraper. Its flirtatious minimalism betrays itself as a playground for the wealthy. Valentina’s red hair looks all the more striking against such a stark palette and she seems to know it, tossing her tresses over her shoulder. 

They are seated in a corner booth by the massive windows. The city sprawls below them. Valentina orders a $300 mojito.