Midnight. The darkest time of night. The point halfway between dusk and dawn, sunrise and sunset, and Cordelia once again finds herself in quiet solitude offered by the greenhouse. It's typical now for her to spend nights locked in contemplative silence, surrounded by crowds of plants, flowers, and herbs.
She doesn't need as much sleep, now that she's the Supreme. The full weight of her power courses through her bloodstream, a natural caffeine, and she routinely exists quite comfortably on three or four hours of sleep.
Tonight is one of the more painful ones. A powerful thunderstorm is coming, she can tell. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, remembering the excitement in Misty's voice as she instructed Cordelia to shut out her surroundings and feel the way her magic rumbled through her core, a clear indication of tempestuous weather coming their way.
"It's a bad one!" she exclaims, umber brown eyes flying open in surprise. The intense rumbling within her fades away as she looks at Misty in wonder, a different kind of ache forming in her stomach. Misty's eyes are sparkling with pride, a wide grin spread across her face. "I didn't know I could do that," Cordelia admits, satisfaction creeping in her words. "The storm must be strong."
"You're strong," Misty counters, leaning forward and squeezing Cordelia's arms. "The strongest witch I know."
Cordelia forces her eyes open and wrenches the memory away, ignoring the hot tears trickling down her cheeks. She grips a tall glass between her fingers, filled to the brim with a sharp, clear liquid, far too much for a traditional tumbler. The vodka is half gone already and Cordelia feels it burning down her throat, igniting her insides with a welcome fury that borders on pain.
It helps. It helps her forget tomorrow is one more day without Misty, another day of Cordelia's Supremacy at the expense of one of the purest witches she's ever known. Out of the entire Coven, Misty was perhaps the most deserving of life. And yet.
And yet here Cordelia stands, drowning her sorrows and wondering if it was all worth it. Would she have accepted her role as the Supreme if she had known what it would cost her? No, she immediately thinks. The answer is always no. If she'd had a choice, she'd spend her entire life, multiple lives, as a simple headmistress and plain witch, as long as it meant Misty's soul would be spared. But she'd never had a choice in the matter, and so here she is, one elbow resting on the long, wooden table that fills the center of the greenhouse as she tips the glass between her lips, allowing the acidic liquor to coat her tongue before blazing down her throat.
She pulls a wrinkled photograph out from her back pocket. The edges are soft and worn, white with decay, but the center of the picture is all Cordelia sees. It's Misty, wrapped in layers of champagne cloth, a peony pink shawl draped around her bony shoulders. Her head is turned away from the camera, sharp jaw and chin in frame as she laughs at something or someone out of sight. Her wild hair is caught in motion, and Cordelia reverently traces one finger over the blonde curls captured in the still image.
For a brief moment, she is grateful for Zoe's temporary interest in photography. For one whirlwind week, Zoe snapped hundreds of photos, capturing the witches in all their natural glory. Misty proved a most interesting subject, always in motion, always dancing. Heartbroken as Cordelia is, she doesn't object when Zoe quietly slips her a small stack of photos one week after Misty…
Dies? Cordelia refuses to say Misty is dead. Her being simply ceased to be anymore, but she did not die. As far as Cordelia is concerned, Misty is simply trapped.
Another sip of burning liquid, another painful memory. Cordelia clenches the photo between her fingers, holding it like hope as she tries to stop herself from remembering. But it's no use, it never has been. Ever since the day Misty stumbled into her life, the white witch has wedged herself into Cordelia's thoughts and carved out a permanent home in her heart. The space within her that once ached to be loved now aches at the very thought of Misty and the way she would twirl through the greenhouse, a beacon of light in Cordelia's dark world.
"I don't know if I can do this, Miss Cordelia."
"Do what, Misty?" Cordelia turns in surprise, hands fumbling blindly as she reaches to clasp Misty's fingers between her own. "Your incantation was perfect, I assure you," she says, squeezing the younger witch's hand reassuringly.
"No, not that," Misty mumbles, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "This. The Supreme shit," she spits out with distaste. "I don't want to be anyone's leader," she cries desperately, digging her nails into Cordelia's palm. "I just want to protect people and make magic with my plants."
Cordelia is quiet and lets Misty vent, stroking one thumb soothingly over mud-caked knuckles. "Then you're already a better Supreme than any of the other girls could ever hope to be," she confesses, leaning in closer. "But don't tell them I said so."
Misty snorts through her tears, wiping her cheeks with the back of one hand. "I don't know why you won't just take the tests yourself," she sighs. "I know it's you. I can feel it."
"Misty," Cordelia admonishes lightly, pulling the woman closer to ease her reprimand. "I told you, I don't think being blind constitutes 'radiant health.'"
"Well, that's just blatant discrimination!" Misty huffs, her breath ghosting over Cordelia's cheek. "I should call the ADA's Civil Rights Division to report this," she mutters, half-serious.
Perhaps being blind is what gives Cordelia the courage to tug Misty into a hug, or perhaps it's the way her body vibrates with the need to comfort the nervous, young witch. Either way, Cordelia surprises them both by pulling Misty close and wrapping her arms around her neck in a tight embrace. Misty automatically slides her hands around the headmistress' waist and buries her head down into Cordelia's shoulder, sniffling quietly.
"Your hair smells good," she whispers wetly, fingers coming to brush though Cordelia's silky blonde tresses. "Kinda like honeysuckle. It's nice."
Cordelia threads her fingers into Misty's thick curls, inhaling her unique scent of teakwood and wildflowers before relaxing their bodies together. "You're a powerful witch, Misty Day," she asserts confidently. "And you deserve to be our next Supreme."
"Well, that may be," Misty scoffs defiantly, "but I refuse to do anything without you by my side. You're the real, true leader of this Coven, Miss Cordelia."
Cordelia finds her throat tightening inexplicably, breath sticking when Misty digs the pads of her fingertips into her spine, gripping Cordelia flush against her body as she sucks in a defiant breath.
"I know it's you," she asserts one last time, pressing their foreheads together and tracing her thumbs over the sensitive skin surrounding Cordelia's scarred eyes. Misty hesitates for a moment, searching for the headmistress's face for any discomfort. Finding none, she leans forward slightly, words barely a breath as they ghost against Cordelia's mouth. "At the very least, I know you're it for me."
Misty's soft, pink lips then press against Cordelia's, parting slightly as she moulds their bodies together. She knocks several plants off the wooden table, murmuring a sheepish apology before hoisting Cordelia up on the surface and kissing the worry from her mouth.
"Misty," Cordelia gasps, clutching the witch's lithe waist with a trembling grip. "I can't lose you," she confesses, her secret whispered against Misty's skin like a desperate prayer. "Please don't leave me."
"I'm not goin' anywhere, Miss Cordelia," Misty assures, placing a soft kiss against her neck before biting down gently. "I'm here for as long as you'll have me."
Cordelia chokes out a sob, shoving the worn photo back inside her pocket before downing the rest of her vodka. Most of the time, she accepted her responsibility as leader of the Coven; she owed it to them to be strong, to be the Supreme they deserved. But here, in the thick darkness of the greenhouse, she lets herself suffer, allowing her throat to choke under heavy memories.
She knows she'd wait a thousand years if it meant hearing Misty say her name one last time. She desperately missed Misty's sweet, Cajun drawl, and she longed for the way Misty's tongue rolled flirtatiously, deliberately, over the syllables of Cordelia's name. The sharp, bitter taste of alcohol slowly numbs the Supreme until all she can feel is the heavy, weighted fire of Misty inside her veins. The agonizing memories course through her bloodstream and it hurts like hell, and Cordelia knows no one else could possibly understand the magnitude of her loss.
I'm not going anywhere, Misty, Cordelia thinks to herself, running one clumsy finger over the rim of her empty glass. I'm here, too. I'm here for as long as you'll have me.
The memories fade but do not dissipate, rather, they bleed heavily into each other with equal force until Cordelia is forced to confront her own suffering.
There are no eulogies, there are no sonnets. There is no in memoriam. All that exists are her memories. Cordelia hangs onto these fevered thoughts like they're her own personal lifeline, breathing them in like oxygen. Eventually, in acquiescence to the late night, she wraps a long, floral shawl around her shoulders, tearfully breathing in the faded scent of swamp and mud until the world around her settles.
Her fingers once again find the faded photograph, memories of Misty flooding her very existence as she sobs freely into the delicate cloth. There is a gaping hole within Cordelia's very being where Misty had existed and it hurts like hell, the memory of losing Misty hurting even more. I'm here, she thinks once more, bringing Misty's shawl to her nose and inhaling. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere.
Thank you so much for reading. I wouldn't have finished this story without Leigh, Rhiannon, Alyssa, & Jacquelyn. You can find me on Twitter/Tumblr at michaelawaffles or on CuriousCat at macncheeze. Send me prompts. :)