She's pretty, he supposes. Like a Grecian statue or sorts. Alabaster skin contrasts against an artwork of belladonnas artistically sewn onto form-clutching black Florentine dress. Marigold hair, long and lustrous, that spills on her shoulders with the curling ends of a tidal wave. Flashes of silk-affectionate warmth and steely claws in those cognac-hued eyes.
No. Not a classical sculpture. Nothing like that.
Michael sees Cordelia in the colours of Southern belle's golden charm, cigarette-coarse sweetness and whiskey-stained white teeth. Oh, yes. She's beautiful, in the same vein Michael likes pristinely snow-white lily marked with freshly crimson liquid leaking from a dwindling pulsing heart.
He'd expect the Supreme to be older, much, much older. From warlocks' mouths and hushed condescending tones, he'd half-expected a spiteful crone draped in ill-fittingly tacky demure pantsuits and greying hair pulled into a severe bun.
Yet, there is no mistaking who is the supreme. Not that the older woman with her wildfire hair and oversized feline glasses. Certainly not the caramel-eyed girl with the comically puritan-inspired wardrobe. Those two falls back into the Victorian landscape of hazy-lit music room like pesky background noises.
Michael's dark tendrils probe for the magic contain within the Supreme. Why yes, she is the only one whose powers could—perhaps—match his. Not surpass him. Still, she's an alluring threat. A fascinating and potent risk, nonetheless.
The one, whom all witches and warlocks dare not to raise their voices. Much less, wears the cloak of self-assured defiance. She who governs her witching peers in messianic absolution. A strong woman. Rare.
Colour Michael enthralled. He's hungrily delightful for the next round of this witch-and-warlock game. The anticipation fills him with a renewed vigour for the hunt. Now that his pathway to lay destruction and waste on earth is an excursion fuelled by a morbid fascination of Cordelia Goode, snatching the coveted Supreme title ceases to be a chore.
There is no ancient weathered tome, with fraying pages and cracked spines, or fragile salt-tinted scrolls that explicitly spill the directions Michael craved for. Who's to say, the Supreme cannot provide a purpose to his anti-Christ rise?
Cordelia Goode. That's a name Michael Langdon twistingly carves deeply into his skin and flesh, until the blood no longer bleeds and the smooth skin heals improper, leaving a trail of crude scars on his thighs.