1 To Be Beautiful



Nothing can be beautiful when it stands on a hellmouth.

Sunnydale, in all its ugliness, illustrated this point with ruthless efficiency. Buildings slumped where they stood, slowly decaying and crumbling. Gravestones eroded to smoothed rocks, protruding roughly from an unkempt ground. Ugly black graffiti covered weathered walls, words scrawled haphazardly here and there.

Willow reads them as she passes. There was no effort, no colour, just obscene messages and nonsensical names.

Nothing was beautiful on a hellmouth.

The hellmouth's energy extended beyond its attraction to demons and magic. It darkened the small town, so even the white roses seemed to grey and wither, even as the buds slowly opened into life. Children and cats were subdued here, and so unlike the ones across state where her aunt lived, she had to wonder if they were the same species.

Willow twirled a strand of hair around her finger, and nervously smoothed down the un-Willow-like, unbelievably short leather skirt, tugged on the slightly too tight, slightly too see-through green top she'd chosen in the safety of her room.

Nothing could ever be beautiful on a hellmouth.

Dark eye shadow coated onto the eyelid. Black gloves up to her elbows. Clunky black boots and the finest of fishnet tights. She doesn't really know what she's doing. Or rather she does: she's out walking. She just doesn't know why.

Beauty on a hellmouth. Choosing water over wine. Falling in love again.

The cold was settling into the wind now, the moon shining with a bitter frostiness over the woods. Here, where she'd found the body of the mental patient and told Giles she didn't want to find the dead bodies anymore. Here where she and Tara had celebrated Halloween, Saimhain, the Witch's New Year, surrounded by glowing candles, the incense smoke drifting lazily around them and wine flowing freely from silver chalices.

No wine today.

Willow trudged inelegantly through the uneven ground. Stumbling in dips and shivering beneath the moon.

Nothing can be beautiful when it stands on a hellmouth.

She feels the energy of the hellmouth reaching out, darkening and withering her soul. Everything gets corrupted here. Everything is ugly.

Because surely, if she was beautiful, Tara would have stayed, right?