#nahema

NAAMAH

Lilith had thought when she was...banished from the garden all that long, long time, ago, when she had found refuge in hell, a saviour in the form of a fallen angel, another woman banished for free will and..independent thought, that the False God would never trouble her again, that Lilith’s world would be so far from His as to be...unaffected. 

Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised that she was wrong, that the False God was so...meddling, so controlling, so...self-important and demanding, that eventually her life would be invaded again. Effected. Changed. 

Taking Lucifer away had been a shock, knowing what she had been condemned to-- a banal, mortal existence, alongside other mortals, as if as ordinary and mundane as the rest of them-- even more so. What hadn’t been a shock was how quickly power had shifted, how the men, the male demons, the male fallen angels, the male denizens of hell, had collected together, combing forces, powers, to take over, ruling themselves. 

It had made Lilith more determined to find Lucifer, but as the self-titled Dark Lord had grown in power and in...abusive control, it had become harder to search, to not be found out. It took time. Too much time, really, but Lilith had always been patient. It was one of her greatest assets; her ability to bide her time, to see her goal and to not falter from it...no matter how far away it might be.

But now, it was right in front of her. 

“A church,” Lilith rolled her eyes with disdain, before walking through, “Of course”

It only took mere moments to spot her, to recognise her even if she didn’t recognise Lilith. 

“Ms Morningstar?” She called out, walking towards the person who had saved her all those thousands and thousands of years ago. And now, Lilith was determined to save her. “Lucille Morningstar?”

England, 1514

Catalina of Aragon and Castile, Queen Katherine of England, sits in a brightly painted room of luxurious panels and tapestries, in the palace of Placentia, nicknamed Greenwich and the favorite palace of her husband. It is December, and the light, sugar-fine dusting of snow outside adds to the cold. Yet, the Queen, who so loved to see the snow on the oranges of her childhood home of the Alhambra Palace, loves to see the soft flakes waft gently down through the scarlet glass Tudor roses on the window. She gazes upward, to the night sky so mauve and violet-hued that the shimmering snowfall will last all night, in the peculiar silence of winter she adores.

She was always meant to be here, she thinks happily. Despite the lessening of her political influence with her husband, despite the stabilization of their relationship that nevertheless faded their previous passion, it has been an enchanting Christmas, and while she approaches her twenty-ninth birthday, she is still beautiful. Her hair remains golden auburn, the hair that had so delighted the painter Miguel Sittow, her eyes the delicate gray-blue that captivated Henry Tudor immediately, and her complexion is as bright and smooth as ever. The King had married her against everyone’s advice in 1509 at his accession - five years later, their affection has not weakened. For Katherine, born and reared with the destiny of Queen of England in front of her, the seven years she had suffered as the impoverished widow of Arthur Tudor at the court of her father in law Henry VII had been seven years of bitter trials, and God had been good to reverse her fortunes, with Katherine even becoming Regent during the King’s time at war.

Indeed, the Christmas season has been delightful. The King and Queen were more united, and the revels more enchanting each day. The King holds ice skating parties and oxen roasts outside, and elegant masques and pageants inside where the courtiers can eat delicately shaded roses of sugar and marchpane, and are sent back to their quarters at the end of the banquets carrying oranges thickly and delightfully studded with cloves. 

The gifts of the King have been lavish indeed, she thinks as she fingers the several bolts of new cloth, of violet silk and scarlet velvet and cloth of gold, the elegantly wrought golden standing cup, the headdress of a blue so brilliant it lights up the room in a haze of sapphires, pearls, and gold and silver thread. Yet though the Queen is fond of finery, she has remembered to gift lavishly to her favorite abbeys. She thinks with satisfaction of the cloth of gold pre-dieu and a necklace of table diamonds she sent. Truly, the seven years of her penury has given her a true appreciation of the fineness of her gifts, and the joy of giving glorious gifts to others.

Perhaps the most glorious of all, the King’s perfumers now create scents for her, a delightful indulgence that her confessor very gently admonishes her for enjoying so much. The King’s own favorite scent of rosewater, ambergris, musk and sugar is delightful, but Queen Katherine, who grew up in the beautiful tiled bathrooms of the Alhambra, loves the scent of oil of roses in the winter. Great vases of roses and orange blossoms are brought into her rooms in season, and her vials of orange flower water and rose water on her great clothespress are replaced daily. Queen Katherine has elegant taste, for fresh lavender in her clothes, and cloves and spices scenting her chambers, while she adores the scent of Catholic incense. 

The Moors taught Catalina an appreciation for the scent of roses, while her husband’s emblem is only too fitting. The Tudor rose, she thinks happily as her fingers turn the glass stopper of her scent vials. The true Tudor rose will be the son she bears to the King - both have longed so much for an heir to the throne, and been bereaved several times. But Katherine has reached a greater plane of confidence, and this Christmas is sure she will be with child soon after the New Year, as she has been feeling uncommonly well.

It is almost time for the night’s revels, and Katherine has changed into a brilliant gown of Tudor green, to emphasize the copper glints of her hair, and to pay homage to her husband, she smiles to herself. A new pomander of perfume, finely wrought in gold, is on the clothespress, and she applies it to the hair that she leaves loose, and to her skirts. It is a sweet scent of roses, thick as honey, with tinges of lilac, hyacinth, and countless other flowers, but above all, a tribute to the rose. As she walks, the green silk of her gown rustles in a cloud of rose fragrance, as she goes to the presence chamber to greet her King and husband with a wifely kiss.