Michael Langdon cares for humans with the same tending a lioness has over a leopard's cub. Objects and means to an end. In the sacred temple of his perpetual neurotic mind, he holds reverence for only three humans. Two humans, he corrects himself. The final human precariously hovers the thin line between a human and light magic.
Constance Langdon lurks in the nooks of his earliest memories. That fame Virginian beauty slipping through the cracks, with gentle smile that hardly reaches her coldly cunning russet eyes and a magnetism that hooks itself to his impressionable boy-self. Grandma's a fierce woman with a heart fashioned for loving monsters.
But Michael is no ordinary monster—her bourbon glazed eyes and hoarse voice raw from so much cigarette and crying, spells it out for him. Enough. This is the end, is something she doesn't need to voice. Michael could hear it echoingly loud and crystalline clear in the frantic scrubbing of acrid dried garnet-red from his boyish hands.
She's a woman whose iron will cannot be caged or snatched. She died on her own terms. Michael weeps, and howls, and bawls; grandma's body lies stiff, decaying heavy under his skinny cradling arms. Somehow all his grief isn't suffice for a too-late apology of his misdeeds.
Miriam Mead is a stereotype and an anomaly rolled into a small woman, with lips painted in the colour of raven's wings, eyebrows drawn in thick bleak ink and equally dark hair cut into an impish pixie.
A childless mother fitted with hands to snap a life with a slight twist of her muscles. The very same hands crafted a nourishing meal with sturdy devotion. Her eyes, beady and blue, are full of adoration.
She provides him an imperfect outline of his destiny, yellow highlighters boldly overlapping over the words; 'abnormal murder', 'warlocks' and 'witches'. Nudges him into the direction of the Coven. It is Miriam who leads him to the one and only Supreme.
Cordelia Goode is the epitome of slender elegance and steadfast loyalty to witch-younglings. Rather admirable traits on flawed pathetic humans. On a further inspection, she eclipses the beauty of his first human. Viscerally radiating the power of a coven, every inch of her. Prominent cheekbones included.
Michael's a demonic moth unable to stray away, his wintry blue eyes refuses to release a hold of her. Unblinking. Observing. Admiring. Even if he's in the presence of other warlocks and her witches. He's transfixed by her. Michael can't put a finger why she remains the tallest figure standing in his vision. A tantalising puzzle. One that he needs time to ponder.