Notes: MEGA AHS COVEN SPOILERS. Please don't read this if you haven't finished the entire series. It ruins everything. This is not a chronological story and my tenses are going to change for brief flashback and quote purposes. Also, sorry about the wealth of Latin. I couldn't resist. Also also, I am not even playing about this being my personal headcanon for post-Coven nonsense. The finale was NOT OKAY.
Language and violence/gore (ish?) warning. This will probably be a three-part story.
1.
She thinks of them in the same order: first Misty, then her dear aunt Myrtle, then her mother, then Hank. Occasionally other specters sail through her mind- former students and Council members, sometimes old friends- but visions of Misty Day always appear first, and with the heaviest burden in tow.
They need the space, but Cordelia can't bring herself to throw out Misty's belongings. She packs the shawls, feathers, and beads into a trunk herself, idly floating it behind her like a loyal dog following in his mistress' wake. The younger girls' eyes pop at the sight (their awe of magic still amuses her) but watchful Kyle stands in the shadows, blandly blinking as she closes the door to her bedroom.
He's wise about these matters of love and death. This he understands.
(A woman as accustomed to the smell of flowers shouldn't be smitten with a dead woman's scent but, when she's being honest with herself, Cordelia opens the wooden trunk and weeps silently into its contents. Magnolias, sandalwood, and an undertone of milkiness slip past her defenses, effortlessly crushing the most powerful witch alive. She doesn't force it away. She's not sure she can.)
She lays Misty's favorite shawl- Stevie's shawl- on her ivory bedspread, and doesn't care who sees it.
"Necromancy is not a power with which to trifle," Cordelia mumbles.
Zoe and Queenie nod their heads, only half-listening from their lounging positions in the white-washed library. Barely a month gone and they've begun to toe the line between pupil and peer, offering their Supreme advice whether or not she requests it. It's almost midnight and the slew of new students has already been sent to bed, but the three of them pour fervidly over ancient tomes just as they have every evening for the last few weeks.
(Cordelia swells with pride at their abilities and hunger for knowledge- she hardly has to teach them a thing, they spend so often reading and bouncing ideas off of one another- but she fears they're reaching too far. She fears she'll lose them too.)
"No one's trifling. We know this is serious shit, and we're taking it seriously."
Cordelia raises an eyebrow.
"Sorry," Queenie sighs. "But it's true. You asked me to look into realm-to-realm descensum travel-"
"And you asked me to focus on resurgence of dead tissue from ashes," Zoe chimes in. "We're not stupid, Cordelia. We're with you on this, and I think we can do it."
(Her heart pounds. She doesn't want to say it, to jinx it. A witch's words carry weight.)
"What do you two think we're going to do, exactly?"
"We're gonna bring Misty back from Hell," Queenie replies, matter-of-factly as ever.
Zoe turns a page, "We shouldn't have left her there this long. We just weren't certain what to do yet, but I think we've found a way. It's a different kind of Resurrection spell, but we'll need the help of a few more girls-"
"No."
The thick botany book slams shut, hiding the intricate drawings of white lilies and roses, the trademark of resurrection and June's traditional birth flower.
(I'm a Cancer, she'd said once, hovering attentively over a creeping ivy in the Greenhouse. Not the bad kind; the crab kind. I was born June 23rd. What about you, Miss Cordelia? I bet you're a Capricorn.)
"Only us."
Queenie rolls her head, stretching her neck from side-to-side. "Somehow we knew you'd say that even without clairvoyance. Listen, if we're going to bring Misty back we'll need more power than the three of us have. There are nearly a hundred witches in this Coven now, and they need to learn how things are done. We'll form a circle, you'll lead it, and you can draw power from the rest of us. Zoe found a spell to link up and heal her body, and I figured out how to jump through hell-planes." She looks back at her book and softly mutters, "I've seen your hell, and know how important this is to you."
(Cordelia swallows a knotted lump in her throat. How many times has Queenie watched Misty crumble to ashes in her arms? How many times has she heard Fiona mocking her failure, deplorably elegant in her black Chanel?)
"Please don't be mad at us," Zoe frowns. "Queenie and I think we can do this. Besides, you need a third Council member and no one else is qualified. If anyone deserves to be brought back to life again, it's her."
Wide-eyed, Cordelia slowly nods.
(The Coven can't afford any hesitation from their Supreme. Misty can't afford her weakness.)
She steels herself. "Tell me what you've found."
Kyle had meticulously swept up her ashes after the test (he values the concept of a cohesive body, dust or otherwise, more than Cordelia originally suspected) and placed them in a floral porcelain jar. With a tiny, sad smile, he handed her the urn, not questioning whether or not she wanted the remains.
(Perhaps she was more transparent about her grief than was prudent.)
"Thank you."
"She'd want you to have them. You'll take care of her."
(Did everyone know how desperately she'd searched for Misty through muddy visions and muddier graveyards? Could they feel her fear, and sense that the depth of her despair was more than just concern for a student?)
A brittle tone permeates her voice, "I didn't do a very good job of that during the Seven Wonders."
Kyle shuffles awkwardly, looking at the floorboards.
"Zoe and Madison put me back together from a bunch of different parts." He glances at the urn before turning away, "She's just in smaller pieces."
Barely resisting the urge to bite her lower lip, Cordelia sits cross legged before a pile of ashes. She wears the shawl, the feathers, the beads- she's garishly costumed as Misty Day- and surrounds herself by blessed candles. The sun is beginning to set outside; they have another three minutes before they officially begin.
(The witching hour, so to speak, is such a gross misconception of our magical abilities in the temporal realm,Auntie Myrtle would always say. We've only to designate a time- to give it authority- for it to amplify our spells. The witching hour is whichever hour the witches declare.)
Ten of the most powerful young witches in the house wear mismatched articles of Misty's clothing, forming a tense, uncertain circle, and make the sitting room of Ms. Robichaux's Academy for Gifted Girls looks like a low budget recreation of Woodstock. They'd all been briefed by Zoe and Queenie, and understand, as much as they can, what what they were called together to support. For most it's their first introduction to death magic.
(Twelve is a blessed number. Cordelia sits among them, a focal point for their holy circle.)
The other girls upstairs were told to meditate (imagine, concentrate, pray- she didn't care what they called it) on Misty's return, and to remain silent until they were allowed downstairs again. The key to successfully regenerating her body is intent: focus on the form, the feeling, the image of Misty Day as a human being.
(Daydream of the long, lithe body and laughing eyes.)
Kyle and Stevie stand in the corridor, eyes intent on the proceedings. Cordelia still couldn't believe the white witch accepted her invitation to the ceremony. They'd never been close like Stevie and Fiona were, but something told her Misty was the motivating force behind her late afternoon arrival. (Everyone who meets Misty loves her, and rightfully so.)
The dark cherry grandfather clock tolls six from the corner. Cordelia takes a deep breath and throatily announces, "We begin." She wastes no more time explaining their purpose and methods, but utters the incantation as practiced. The room repeats her chant in unison.
"Ligabis ad me in virtute.
Da fortitudinem tuam ad me.
Tollite a cinis.
Reducet eam ad vitam."
As soon as she speaks, Cordelia feels a rush of power swell inside her. Her spine lengthens, and she sees the world in minute details: the rise and fall of her students' chests, the collective exhale of twelve witches bound by magic into one, the faint scent of Misty drifting through the air. The energy vibrates beneath her flesh, alive and unrestrained, like the crescendo of a symphony.
(Is this what it feels like to be the Supreme?)
With the shawl draped around her arms, she extends her hands over the ashes.
"Redire," she commands.
(She pictures the dancing blonde, spinning and smiling in the hallways, blue eyes shining among the flowers in the greenhouse. Cordelia hears the Southern drawl and relishes the warmth on her face when they stood too close for propriety, laughing because they were together and it was impossible to feel anything but happiness in her presence.)
The ashes scatter, pulsing to the drumming of her heartbeat. They form the outline of a body, spiraling and settling into fingers and toes, swelling into a woman's form. Even her hair, lips, and fingernails are drawn up from the dust. She looks whole again.
It's working, she thinks. It's working!
A petite student gasps from the side of the room- she's fallen over, barely conscious. Cordelia has no time to spare her a second glance; she can see the curve of Misty's shoulders and the slope of her waist. No doubt the younger witches are being drained from the transfer of their strength into reshaping a once-decimated body, but it's a risk they volunteered to take.
(No regrets, no mercy. They'll survive. It's Misty she's worried about now.)
Suddenly, there lies on the floor a paler, weaker version of Misty Day, nude as the day she was born. Suppressing the thrill of seeing her again- whole, but dead- Cordelia leans forward to drape the shawl over her body. She exhales deeply, pushing her own life force into Misty until the lungs beneath her expand, drawing breath from vitalum vitalis.
She's alive!
She's breathing, but her body is gray and prone like an unlit candle.
(Something is wrong.)
It reminds her of a brain damaged hospital patient: comatose, empty, a shell.
(All wrong. She should emanate life.)
"Cordelia."
A voice drifts through her mind. The Supreme blinks in surprise, snapping from her reverie.
"Cordelia, go to hell," Zoe pants desperately, crawling to her side. Her sickly face is covered in sweat, a vein strains in her forehead. "It's midnight and we can't maintain this any more. You need to go get her. Now."
For the first time since casting the binding spell, Cordelia sees- truly sees- the rest of her Coven. Three bodies sprawl across the hardwood floor, feathers still clutched in their fingers. Others curl into the fetal position, some cry softly, most eyes stare at nothing above ghastly purple dark circles. Her living room looks like a untended tuberculosis ward, a quivering mess of unhealthy girls.
"I don't need the binding for this part." Cordelia waves a hand, closing out the spell, "Absolvo vos."
Zoe's arms buckle and she thuds to the floor; Kyle rushes to her side. The others fair no better, dropping like sacks of bricks, until only Queenie and Stevie are awake to return her gaze. They both look terrified of her.
"Go!" screams Queenie, slumping against a wall.
Laying beside Misty's dull form, Cordelia takes her hand and murmurs, "Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduc me in tenebris vita ad extremum, ut salutaret inferi. Descensum."
(She falls into darkness-)
(-and wakes in the netherworld with a slap.)
"-worthless, pathetic infant," sneers Fiona, palm glowing pink. "We'd have both been better off if I'd taken their advice and removed you before birth. Look at the mess you've made." She jabs a bright red fingernail to the body in the middle of the floor. It's Misty, lips parted, eyes closed, just before she turns to dust.
(It begins the same as always, just like the nightmares.)
"Shut up, mother," Cordelia sighs, striding past the former Supreme and the crumbling body. It's not real. She has a job to do.
Get your bearings and get out of there. Think of the person whose hell you want to find, Queenie had cautioned. Picture them and they'll practically find you.
She closes her eyes, mind snapping on impulse to time spent in the greenhouse with Misty: reviving wilted herbs, noses almost touching as the tall blonde smiled down at her. It was one of her favorite memories, and the fastest to conjure.
A shrieking wail breaks her calm.
Cordelia's eyes fly open and she stands in a science lab surrounded by gawking children. A slumping blonde screams at a table across the room, perched on a stool with a graying man beside her, bawling as he forces her to drive a scalpel into a kicking frog. Her voice rasps another cry, choking on her tears.
Her hell is being forced to kill an innocent creature. My poor, sweet Misty, she thinks.
"Stop. It's not real," breathes Cordelia. "Stop! Misty, stop! It's not real!"
In a flash she transmutes across the lab, setting aflame the illusions of children and the cruel-hearted teacher without another thought. She yanks the scalpel from Misty's hand, tossing it to the floor, and clutches her arms like a lifeline. It feels like she's holding a limp rag doll.
"Misty, look at me. It's Cordelia. This isn't real. I need you to come back with me."
The blue-eyed woman's lip quivers as she tries to form words. Her whole body shakes while she whimpers. No vestige of recognition passes her visage, only confusion and fear.
"I'm so sorry I couldn't get you sooner, Misty. I'm so sorry I couldn't bring you back the first time," hot tears roll down Cordelia's cheeks.
"Please come back home with me."
Abruptly, Misty's dripping eyes widen with shock. An agonizing sadness washes over her body and she begins to sob. (The levee is broken.) She falls against Cordelia's chest from her place on the stool, clinging to her so tightly she threatens to break her spine. Cordelia's fingers run through wavy hair, holding her head and neck, pressing the sobbing woman more closely against her.
"I wanna go home," she chokes.
"Venite ad me, sequere lucem," Cordelia whispers. Misty goes rigid against her; breath catches in both their throats.
(They fall into darkness-)
(-and wake in scalding pain.)
Her ears ring shrilly. All other sound is muffled, an octave too low to hear.
Misty's fingernails dig into the soft flesh of Cordelia's forearm as she writhes beneath the shawl, shrieking and seizing on the floor. Cordelia tries to reach out, to calm the revived witch, but her own body lays paralyzed. Her mind feels sluggish, her muscles ache. The world around her moves in slow motion, a darkening black halo grows around the edges of her vision.
She sees someone (Kyle? Stevie?) trying to pin Misty down, to shove something in her mouth, but it's useless. The revived blonde thrashes violently, tormented despite her return to life from hell. Cordelia's heart breaks seeing her in pain, more pain, but it's out of her control. Now she's the empty husk, powerless to heal anyone else.
She's alive. Misty's alive. At least she's alive, she internally chants.
She hardly feels the long fingers driving deep past her skin, her only connection to the witch squirming beside her on the floor. Cordelia smiles, dizzy and fading.
She's alive.
The Supreme blacks out on the floor, limbs sprawled, blood pooling beneath her in a tidy auburn puddle.