✘ ● ✘●
OVER the last 102 years, Zelda has realized something crucial about humans: they will never change.
They might insist that they mean the best — that they're trying to do what's right and not won't try to hurt anybody — but they're probably lying. She's seen two world wars, tyrants rise and fall, and she knows that humans are doomed.
Rome didn't last forever and neither would they.
She doesn't just hate mortals: she loathes their existence, the very ground they tread on. They're unbearably naive, to think that they can just change their ways in an endless cycle of disaster and mourning. The reality is that over the course of history, there is nothing that exists in this realm that hasn't been seen before by the eyes of mankind.
It's a tragedy isn't it, that destiny has decided that people are doomed to repeat the same mistakes until their soul leaves their bodies, as if death is saving grace.
She can only dream of death, the great equalizer between the good and the bad, the sinners and the saints. Of course, she would have to die to truly understand the complexity of death, how maybe it is an ethereal gas that slips in and leaves you just as quickly as it came. Or, maybe it's like watching paint dry, dull and painful. However, she doesn't know, and she never will.
Zelda can tell you everything about living and nothing about dying because she has never felt the sting of death and never would.
And she only has a mortal to thank.
✘ ● ✘●
IF mortals are good for anything, though, it's spending greedy amounts money.
Strange creatures, she always thinks about them. They spend until they have nothing left, and then go to the bank and borrow more until they're drowning in a sea of bills and unpaid expenses. Though, it's not as if she'll choose to complain about it; in fact, it's been mostly due to mortals that's kept up her family business running for all of these years. As much as they hate to admit it, people love to see a good freak show, and they couldn't have chosen a better family because the Dubois' have a secret to tell.
They're witches, and they've been alive since 1898. To mortals, however, they're just a weird circus family that need a whole lot of religion to save their damnation to Dante's Inferno. Even though people see them walking down the street and snarl and scowl at them, the same people will be sitting front row for a performance or waiting to receive a tarot card reading from Zelda. Because all humans have guilty pleasures, and sooner or later they will eventually succumb to them.
The evening of August 28 is no different.
"Next client, please enter." Zelda's smooth voice resonates against the walls of her dimly lit chamber, the only source of illumination in the room were the candles and lanterns that dangled above her head. Soft brown eyes watch the door as it creaks open, and the second Zelda lays her eyes on the human, she sees the boy she's despised ever since she's laid eyes on him.
Watkins Adrian Xavier.
The syllables that make up his name put a scowl on her face; it makes her blood boil, her fists ball up, and now she's ready to wage war. Whenever the thought of her fellow classmate enters her mind, she wants to claw him out of it. Zelda can truthfully say she has never thought of a good thing about this boy, which says something — she's known him for over four years.
No mortal has ever made her feel this way, and the young necromancer doesn't know why this one has always made her feel so... angry. All she knows is that she can feel every corner of his soul like it's intertwined with hers every single time he steps in the same room as her, and she loathes every single part of it. Zelda can recognize something fermented in his bones that isn't exactly human, and she has never been able to quite place her finger against it. (Which says a lot. The Dubois girl is one of the most powerful witches still living.) The tainted spot in his soul is dark, and it's been growing since the day he was born and threatens to take him over. Zelda hopes the darkness takes over his entire being and swallows him whole.
