Dark and Dank to Thank
By
TheValravn
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters who appear in this story, they are all the property of either Nordic Myth or American Horror Story. I make no profit from this story. The title for this piece comes from the song "Abandoned" as performed by Sassafrass, written by Ada Palmer. I neither own nor claim to own the song, or any associated properties. This story contains spoilers through the end of the first season of American Horror Story, and as such if you haven't seen the ending yet, I strongly discourage you from continuing. Things referenced in this story some readers may find offensive include references to Nordic mythology, language, references to the loss of virginity, rape, references to religious doubt, and other things I have probably forgotten. Now, without any further ado, I give you…
In the ever shifting reality that is the house, Moira can go days, perhaps weeks without seeing other spirits. It all depends on how she and they feel. Time has so little meaning now. It hasn't since she became a permanent fixture, something half way between a shadow or a fragment. She knows when the Harmons have been arguing and either Ben or Vivien will fade away. It is rare for her to see both Patrick and Chad at the same time, unless they are fighting or fucking, perhaps both in the same instant. The other phantoms are less consistent, and she has gone months without seeing the Montgomery couple, Hayden, or any of the others. Tate, perhaps, is the most present of the bizarre play of the house. However he is only present when he thinks he has a chance to see Violet. From time to time, Moira wonders which of her selves Tate sees. She never asks him though. It's not her place.
During her life, Moira hadn't been all that religious. She had accompanied her mother to mass, but only mouthed the prayers and never believed, not really anyway. The confessional had looked like a free standing coffin, and she had come to this house, her real coffin, with so many sins on her soul. She thinks of her mother, laying at rest with her father (dead before she had even started to work for Constance). She thinks of the peace she may never know. She thinks of the men who come and see how she had been. She thinks of the women, who see her as she sees herself now. She wonders if Violet will be like her, if she will grow into womanhood. She sometimes asks herself if Violet died a virgin and has only experienced 'sex' (such that it is) after death. She thinks of her godchild, perhaps an eternal infant.
From time to time Moira has taken one of the books off of the shelves and she thumbs through its pages, wondering what it would be like to actually hold something again. Even though she's been here shorter than some of the other residents of the house, she has already forgotten the simplest of tactile sensations. She has tried not to read every book in the library, she doesn't know when new additions will come. Her resources, her ways to keep herself occupied, seem to be ever more limited. There are only so many times she can dust the balustrades, wax the floors, or rearrange the furniture of the dining room.
Today, she sits in a little used corner and flips slowly through the pages of the book, a children's set of Nordic stories. Perhaps it had been something the Harmons had gotten for her godchild? Perhaps it was a remnant from earlier. Many of the stories had illustrations paired with them, and she studies those as much as she studied the words themselves. When she comes to the story about Loki's children, she reaches a dead stop. Her fingers drift over the illustration of Loki's daughter, half alive and half dead. She traces the line down the middle of the body and sees where living flesh meets skeleton.
Looking up, she catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror. From her left eye, she sees herself. She sees the line where young smooth flesh transitions instantly into respected age. She feels it, burning like when Hugo had forced her down and fucked her because she was an object to be used to him. She sees her right eye, so much lighter than her left. She even observes the different stitches of her burial suit. It lasts a moment, perhaps shorter, before the image blurs and fades and she is again as she has been always in her own mind since being a permanent resident of this house. She leaves the book exactly where she found it in the library, and goes about, tending to her small queendom.