Hello, dear readers!

This is my first time writing American Horror Story fan fiction. I fell in love with the show halfway through Coven, and I'm completely addicted. I haven't written anything for a fandom in a couple of years, so I'm a little bit rusty. Still, I hope you like this. Cordelia and Misty got to me, as characters, so far that I absolutely had to write this. I'm well aware that I'm jumping on a bit of a bandwagon, here, but I just had to!

I hope you like it, and that you talk to me about it! I'm not sure when I can post again, but I'll do it as soon as possible.

Thank you for taking the time to read this!

"Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

1.

CORDELIA

My hands are the first to wake. That's how I feel the new day coming — perhaps a remnant of the time I spent unable to see with my eyes, only through touch and the inner Sight. These things stick with us for longer than we expect them to. This might stick with me forever, the awareness of my skin.

The second thing I feel is the lack of something. I imagine it's a feeling similar to that of people who lose a limb — in the first few seconds of consciousness you expect it to be there, to remain as a part of you, and then you realize it's gone. Her hand isn't there anymore, and yet mine is half open, waiting for hers to fit into it during the night. It takes me a moment to know it's real, that she is gone.

That's when I'm truly awake.

—-

It's been two days since my interview on national television. Two days of girls lining up outside our school, waiting to be taken into this house for protection and guidance, like I had imagined through all these years as a headmistress.

It's been nine days since I ordered a press release informing the world that we are, in fact, a Coven of witches and aim to live out and proud.

And it's been ten days. Ten days since I submitted myself to the test of the Seven Wonders and passed with flying colors. Ten days since I became the most powerful witch in this Coven.

Ten days since I've had her hand on mine.

—-

She said the words and descended into her personal hell. I couldn't see her; I could only feel her face against my chest, her upper body lying on my legs the same way it had a handful of other times, in the darkness of the night or the soft light of an afternoon. I had her in my arms and then I didn't. She was warm, and then she was no more and I was left with the ashes in my hands, flowing all around my skirt.

I remember screaming. I remember that nothing happened after I screamed, they all stood still for what felt like eternity, until Zoe came and tried to embrace me. I shoved her away. She was stepping on the ashes of my Misty, on the small particles left of her. Aunt Myrtle made some god awful remark about how Zoe was using her as a stepping stone already, and I lost all that was left of my consciousness.

They told me that Zoe and Auntie Myrtle put her ashes away in a box, the box that I have on my nightstand. She's as close to me as she can be, now. And today that the doors to this school are opening, her absence is palpable.

I force myself out of bed. Now that I can see with my physical eyes, everything is easier once again; at the same time, everything feels a thousand times heavier. The dress that I choose to wear, long and flowery like she would like me to; the small necklace around my neck. On my wrists, a few of her bracelets — and curiously enough, they make me lighter, softer. They keep her with me.

The girls come into the room and I run through the motions with them. It's easier to get distracted, to let myself go into mindless conversation and mundane details to avoid feeling it. Zoe and Queenie know. They hover almost constantly, keeping me occupied with whatever they can to keep me from breaking down. They're sympathetic, but they don't seem to know what else to do.

Neither do I.

MISTY DAY

Blood.

Again, and again and that goddamned man still makes me do it. I can't, I can't, please don't make me, please don't force me. It's a living being, it hasn't done anything wrong.

Please, no.

The insides are rubbery, tough like they are on the gators at the swamp. I felt them. I saw them before I brought them back to life. And it's with the same impulse that my hands close above the small frog and bring it back again.

"Mr. Cringley, she did it again!"

In a fraction of a second he's by my side again and good Lord, I can't fight it anymore. His hands are strong and cold and they force the scalpel into the belly of the poor animal and I'm out, I'm out of here, I need to get away. I can't stay, I can't, so I push him away. My hands feel soft and weak against his chest. He's like a wall. It takes the strength of my shoulder and my back to push him away and to run to the door.

I know this place; I went to this high school for a bit when I was fifteen and I took off never to come back, after a couple of months. My Momma had just left her second husband and we had moved from Baton Rouge to N'Orleans. She put me here to try to set me straight, to try to make me fall into the ways of Jesus. Catholic school, it is, and I ran with all my might. I can still smell the hallways and the candles and the scent of guilt and pain and small tots bein' beaten with rulers to keep from straying.

It comes back to me with a slap as soon as I open the door to the hallway. It's empty, completely empty, and maybe this is my way out of hell, maybe this is how I can go back to the light. A small voice in my head keeps telling me to follow the light, to come to her, to come to someone, and I just go because I suddenly know who it is, who's calling for me. It makes me strong.

The hallway is long, too long, and I run, run, run and it never ends. Rooms keep appearing on each side and a part of me realizes I'll never make my way out of there. I'll always run. I'm stuck.

And in the moment I realize I'm stuck, I also realize that for the first time since I was fourteen, I can't hear Stevie's voice in my mind. At the same time, I feel a tingle in my hand, like a gush of wind and a need to grab for something. It goes away as quickly as it came.

—-

CORDELIA

Zoe is the first to suggest it. Over breakfast, a couple of weeks after the Academy has reopened, she sits in front of me and I can tell she's uncomfortable. Her hands are on the table, resting in an artificial position while her eyes roam the room, landing everywhere but on mine. I could use my powers to read into her, to know what she wants, but I choose not to. When it's possible, I try to stay out of people's heads and allow them to explain their thoughts themselves.

So I wait. She draws a breath and I find myself doing the same.

"Cordelia, Queenie and I have been going over some of the Academy arrangements and…" She clears her throat and I realize what this is about. Of course.

"Misty's room." The words escape me before I can realize it, soft like a breath. It might be the first time I say her name after all the trials. I don't know, I'm not sure, but it feels like it. It feels like I haven't said it in a very, very long time.

Zoe seems relieved; like she won't have to talk about it anymore. Like I got the message and she doesn't have to be faced with the awkwardness again.

"She and I can clear it out, if you want us to. Queenie, I mean." Another pause. "So you don't have to go through it yourself."

"No." I'm clear and short and I don't know why, but the idea of the two girls touching Misty's belongings makes my stomach churn. No, nobody gets to touch her things. "No, it's no need. I'll get to it as soon as possible."

"I'm sorry. It's just that we have a couple of rooms with three girls, and that way we could give them all doubles and they would be much more —

"It's okay. I know. I'll see to it that it happens soon."

It happens that night.

I feel a slight sense of dèja vu as I take her things from the closet and place them all around me on the floor. I did this once and found her; this time I won't. This time she's nothing but ashes in a small box, and her presence stuck in a hell that is far worse than she ever deserved.

I don't cry. I want to, but I don't allow myself to let go. I tell myself it's self-control, but deep down I know that if I were to cry now, I wouldn't stop any time soon. So I just keep on moving, keep on gathering shirts and skirts and shawls; she had a handful of them, and I have no idea of how she managed to get them back here from her shack in the swamp. A short laugh leaves my chest as I remember the way she spoke about the cabin, the way she sat at the breakfast table with me and put her foot on the chair at her side, her head leaning against her knee and her eyes far away as she talked about that magical spot in the woods. How radiant she looked, and how I marveled at her power to look like a ray of sunshine in the midst of a war.

My hands touch the shawl that was given to her by Stevie Nicks. I know she was wearing it when she disappeared, but somehow this piece of clothing remained. Too powerful, I guess, to be completely stuck in hell. A bit here and a bit there and I wish to all that is sacred that Misty could be in the same position. If that were the case, at least, I'd be able to pull her out, to bring her back.

I can't help but to bring it to my face, inhale the scent.

A flash appears before my eyes. It's like when I had the Sight, but deeper, less figurative. I can feel things, I can feel the panic coming in waves. I'm running. I'm running and she's by my side and there are doors showing up here and there in the corners of my eyes and I try to grab her hand, but the sudden movement brings me back and I'm in the room again, the cold floor under my legs and my hands clutching a piece of fabric.

She's still there. She's still a being.

She's still stuck in Hell.