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The routine is the same before every public appearance, but this time it is tinged with a certain sense of pride. It is the first in a while since his anointment- and his ego aches for any kind of attention from his devoted legionaries.
Copia’s vocal warm-ups are done before the mirror in the bathroom with an ice pack over his eyes to protect them from the slab of paint that comes on to mask the Cardinal’s- no, Papa’s face. He removes it before squeezing out a generous amount of Clinique moisturizer to apply to his skin before the paint goes on. He finds this helps the paint crease less. Water is splashed on before he applies an emollient lotion to soften the skin and seal in the moisture. Then, he turns to the paints. Kryolan, of course. He picks out the TV Paint Stick in Clown White from the makeup laid out before him and holds it in his hand for just a moment. It lays heavy in his hand. Carefully, he sets the stage with white. The paint glides seamlessly over his freckles- framing his face nicely. Next, the Yves Saint Laurent - Shocking False Lash Effect Eyeliner in black. He carves the rat-like features out in black with trained muscle memory and soon the eyes and the major features are in place. Copia then picks out the paint to fill it all in- Kryolan Supracolor in black. The entire look is finished with a swipe of MAC Retro Matte Liquid Lip Color in Caviar and a generous spritz of setting spray all over his face.
“Dare I say you clean up well, Papa.” He tells himself, smirking at the skeletal face that gazes back at him from the mirror.
Before him stands the reflection of a man clad in red, his face painted with the uttermost care. His reflection stares back at him with an icy gaze that surely would set fear into the hearts of whoever unfortunate enough to meet it. It is him, yet it is not him- and his gloved hand moves up to meet the mirror image. Copia leans in- close enough so that his nose almost touches the surface- holding his breath. If he looks close enough he can almost see a sliver of himself in the cold stare. What sets him off is the smirk forming on the mirror image’s face, distorting it. What have I become? Who have I become?
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” His reflection seems to say. “Power.”
After all, it was his wish. Power is fickle- won and lost many times over by men lusting over the thought of doing as they wish to whomever they wish. It will slither its way into the hearts of the feeble, seeking out some answers to their question of existence, asking: What am I, if I were not King?
Power finds itself first as a temptation- an itch that has to be scratched. It is ancient. Eve may have bitten the apple, but it was Adam who laid the blame on her for his weakness, seeking to gain the upper hand in the power equilibrium. It appears like a goblet threatening to spill over-and it is its contents once upturned that sends ripples through the generations-turning every display of opposition into aggression and acts of rebellion into moral failures. All for the sake of satisfying the itch.
Copia is no stranger to this temptation.
He is painfully aware of his journey to the top. The blood on his hands is not his own, nor has he carried the deed out himself yet the stain of them remains. Their blood seeps into his skin and burns- reminding him of the ascent to the top, a stain that cannot be washed out- hidden beneath the deceptive leather of his gloves. His black mark. Neptune’s oceans are not here to wash away the sin of his actions- the silent gasps of the dead in his ears, groaning for release from the depth of their graves.
It had to be done, after all, a clean-up was badly needed within the Clergy. The Third had strayed too far from the meaning of their mission, content with mediocrity. He would restore their glory, he would steer The Church of Satan back into the right course- to bring it back to what it once was, what it was supposed to be. A combination of charisma and charm to lure the masses into the Darkness- then bind them together under one dark mass.
It felt like a victory when he was anointed- and yet- why is the taste of victory so foul in his mouth? Why is it that his predecessor still lingers in the back of his mind- lurking like a shadow behind him at every turn, looking for an opportunity to sink his claws into him?
Even now, the Third feels the need to remind him of his presence.
“Not today, motherfucker.” Copia growls at the shadow figure visible in the corner of his periphery. This is mine, fair and square- he wants to say. You will not take this from me, not today- not ever again. He can feel the rush of annoyance in his blood- a simmer turning into a boil. The hairs on his body stand up when the figure moves, coming up behind him- gloved hands reach around to his neck to grasp him with cold fingers. And yet- it is fruitless- The Third’s ghostly fingers get no hold- slipping right through him, only to desperately claw for something to hold onto. Copia smirks. “That’s what I thought.” The figure shrinks- fades, and is gone. He has taken everything from him, even in Death. The scales have shifted- this time in Copia's favor. Fate smiles upon her chosen son- and he glows victorious- shaking off the traces of dust settled beneath him.
Copia adjusts one of his cuffs, stepping back from the mirror to see his full figure. Imposing. Powerful. New Blood - they say in hushed whispers across the halls. Worried glances between them- a prophecy- that the Emeritus line must be broken to still the whispers of the old gods. Imperator may have planted the seed but he is the one who goes through the motions- manifests the prophecy laid into his hands.
He can’t bear to look away from the icy gaze of the figure that grins back when he stares at his reflection. Breathe, he has to remind himself. Remember what Imperator told you- you were born for this. The prophecy cannot lie- he knew this from the beginning. Fate’s chosen son. His brows furrow- looking back at the customized suit. The lame covering the silk shines an infernal red back at him. A man clothed in his naked villainy, appearing at once like the Devil that resides within. Whoever it is that grins back at him from the mirror has his eyes locked on him, sizing him up- making the rage that storms within him blossom into an infernal flame. His hand balls up into a fist- looking at this- man- his grin fading before the face twists into a burst of mocking laughter that echoes between the walls.
“Do you truly believe what the Witch tells you?” The mirror image mocks, gasping for air. “Do you truly believe you were born for this- you of all people? A mere Cardinal-” The laughter subsides into a giggle- a gloved hand going up to wipe his eyes. “Oh, you amuse me- Imposter.”
Copia’s lips tighten into a straight line.
Darling Imposter, you become nothing more than the skin you inhabit, for your insides have rotted away into nothing. How can the prophecy be wrong when it has given me this to reside over- given me all this power for what I have done? If it is mine, then why is it that when I get what I have yearned for so long - the thirst is not quenched? Am I to thirst forever, endlessly? Will it haunt me forever? An insatiable need for more and more control- more of the drink calling to you even when you’ve scoured the land of it and drawn up every last drop?
Copia fears nothing will ever still the unrest within his soul. More so, keeping up appearances is a tough game to play- he should know this, after all.
“Imposter.” His reflection repeats, pulling him out of his musings. Copia flinches- eyes wide. “Imposter-” it says again, its grin growing wider- voice shrill. His insides threaten to burn up from the rage that blossoms inside him- growing into a flame. An infernal flame is raging inside- screaming: I am not the imposter- I was meant to do this- I was! I was! I WAS!
“Fuck you!” he screams, his fist crashing with the mirror at an alarming speed and strength he didn’t think he had. There’s a loud crack- and his vision blurs for a moment before he realizes what he’s done- stumbling backward. Copia stares at the shattered reflection of himself- his eyes wide with fear and the demon within the frame gone. Papa Emeritus IV is yet again- alone.
A few moments pass and it is then he notices how he is heaving for breath- feels the pain in his hand, though the glove took the majority of the shards. He’s bleeding, or so he thinks- his hand throbbing with pain beneath the leather.
“Fuck me.” Copia breathes, staring down at his hand- then at the mirror again- clenching his jaw. Imperator won’t like it. He cannot afford to have her displeasure on his back. Fuck me. His throat is raw- and when he looks down at his bleeding hand he can see how he trembles. He can feel the cold sweat forming on his brow, and he closes his eyes- runs his fingers through his hair and groans audibly. Fuck. Fuck-fuck-FUCK!
And this was supposed to be easy.