“Greedy,” the golden-hued man says, rubbing his hands together.
“What is deeper than love?” the beautiful woman asks. “Hate?”
“Acceptance,” I tell them.
There’s a ripple of agreement around the circle. For a gang of folks declaring themselves as failed, they understand the weight of people loving you for all you are, not trying to change you. Longing is the look I see in their eyes.
“You can find your future with someone,” I tell them. “But first, you need to do something. Otherwise, you cannot hope to find love.”
“And what is that?” the wolf growls. He still looks a split tempo away from tearing me to pieces.
“You have to love yourselves,” I tell them.
Nash’s forehead leans against my back, and he shakes with laughter.
“Please tell me she’s not staging an intervention with the League of Failed Villains,” Hart growls low.
“They need my help,” I decide.
“There’s nothing to love,” the golden man says.
“Speak for yourself,” the beautiful woman snaps back.
“You don’t love yourself,” he counters. “If you did, you wouldn’t cry into the mirror every night. Don’t deny it. We all hear your wails of despair.”
Her eyes flash in anger, but also fear that they see through her brittle exterior.
“How do we love ourselves when everyone fears and hates us?” Mordis asks.
“Become the best you can be, and the masses won’t have a choice but to fall for you.”
“I am feared across the realm,” the woman in the feathered dress declares.
“Help them see beyond the narrative. Introduce yourself to them as a person, not as a character with a purpose. But also have fun and don’t take everything so seriously. The tempo you stop trying to force your destiny, you can put out into the universe what you want to receive.”
“It cannot be that easy,” the old woman snaps.
I shrug. “You’ll never know unless you try it. Let’s start with two brave folks who want to share why they feel they belong in the League of Failed Villains.”
Everyone looks around, wondering who is going to take a leap of faith and tell us what they are feeling, and where their fear comes from.
The man in the tattered cloak jumps to his feet. “I…” He hesitates, looking around at the others. “I always forget my evil monologues. It’s embarrassing.”
“And how does that make you feel?” I ask. As someone who constantly says the wrong thing and only thinks of good comebacks several turns later, I can emphasize.
“Inadequate,” he mutters. “Like no one will take me seriously as a villain.”
“You could practice on me,” the beautiful woman says, glancing at the ground like she’s ready for his rejection.
He blinks. “I would love that. Thank you.”
She lifts her head and smiles, her features etched less with evil intent and more of one of acceptance.
“Thank you for sharing,” I say, nodding encouragingly. Nobody else seems to step up. Perhaps a little push? “What about you with the raven feathers?”
“My name is Malady, and I don’t need help.”
“Denial,” I whisper loudly to the golden-hued man, who snickers. “Malady, have you considered diversifying your wardrobe? Feathers are lovely, but maybe they’re not sending the message you want.”
