𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖎𝖇𝖑𝖊 / BEAUTY

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 ⊙ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

I think you are…

Bloodlines have always interested Ephemera, especially since she mothered none of her own while she reigned on Earth as a queen of her own making. It’s why she watches one of the Riche sons intently in an attempt to glean any similarities between the present and past-- between Luca and his grandfather with whom Ephemera herself fought alongside in the war against the Heretics. She’s yet to find a mortal to fight alongside that had the heart and mind of the Riche ancestor; in truth, he was one of few to garner a nod of acknowledgement and subtle praise from the General of Angels--mortal or immortal alike--and she’s curious to see if the descendant can live up to her expectations.

Ephemera decides then to see for herself. She abandons her post near the outer edges of the Globe to join the Riche man. “Luca Riche,” the Virtue greets without regard for what the man was doing prior to her arrival; it matters not to Ephemera, who instead prepares herself for small-talk in which she has no true interest. No, Caelum’s strategist wants to know just how strongly the Riche bloodline courses through the mortal in front of her, wants to know just how much of his grandfather’s spirit resides in this golden boy’s frame. 

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 ⊙ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

I think you are…

Ephemera remains on the outskirts of the clearing dedicated to the fallen Star’s pyre, watching with an attentive gaze over the mortals and others who come and go with their flowers, oils, silks, and other things to be with Cador. She prefers it this way--removed from the rites and rituals, so that she may witness them in their entirety and come to understand even more. How else could she inform the King of Caelum of the glorious ideas and plans that bloom in her mind if she knows not of the context in which they can take root? How else is he to know of the rumblings of the new Star, of the confusion that seems to linger in regards to Cador’s death?

Out of the corner of her eye, an achingly-familiar frame catches her attention and Ephemera is unable direct her attention elsewhere. The general regards Infernum’s queen with muted reverence and, were the circumstances different, perhaps Ephemera would engage Abaddon in conversation. It had been, after all, decades since the two last crossed paths; it had been, after all, decades since Abaddon entrusted Raguel to Ephemera in hopes that the conqueror of an angel would be able to keep her charge safe. Were the circumstances different, were they situated in a different world--perhaps, she’d have bent a knee at the Queen’s throne as loyal generals do; perhaps, in a different world, she’d have been there to stop the crushingly careless hand of God Himself before He stripped His very own creation and cast her to the bowels of Hell.

But, it is not a different world, nor will it ever be.

Ephemera knows this and, in result, she is purposeful in the way in which she avoids Abaddon. She’s quick to offer assistance to bumbling mortals whenever the demon gets too close for her comfort, feigned benevolence coating her words as she assures them that it is her pleasure to help honor the Star; she promises to watch the objects brought to the pyre so that they are not stolen or disturbed. Items, she bitterly thinks from her post near the growing pyre, are easier to protect than an unsuspecting angel. Her dark gaze settles on Abaddon, whose presence only amplifies the ache felt in regards to Raguel’s absence, before flitting elsewhere--anywhere that doesn’t remind her of her loss.