Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story.
It was all over. The dust had settled. Violet had said goodbye to herself, to her body, to the things that had once tied her to the living. She had seen death before her time, but it had never stopped her from living. And it wouldn't even then, once she had died herself. Being with Tate was living, in some sick, twisted way. His mind was dark and disturbed—the mind of an unsettled spirit, a damaged one. She could never deny his past, what he had done in his life, the blood that was on his hands. But she was no saint either. She never had been, and he was the only form of joy that she had ever known. He filled her, consumed her, occupied her every thought and catered to her every need. He was all she would ever want, all she would ever have, and it made he glad to say that she was, at last, at peace. A lingering spirit forever, trapped in madness, though she didn't seem to be able to mind it.
Trevor, they heard, had been taken where he belonged. The gunshots had been heard all around them and Violet had made quite a scene. It didn't matter anymore, however, because nothing could separate her from Tate, not a single thing in the world: not death or force or violence or sorrow. The only thing that could hurt them was each other.
And as they lay on the large bed in what had been her and Trevor's bedroom, it only seemed right that it be christened anew. It belonged to them now, and Tate had no trouble saying it. "This is our home, Violet…our castle." He smiled in a boyish way, running his hand over her smooth skin, appreciating every line and facet of what she was. She couldn't help but love that the two of them were always a little off kilter, a little strange in a way that excited her, after everything that they had been through. Tate always surprised her. "Let's not let anybody ruin it." He continued, looking deep into her eyes. "The house would only hurt them anyway. Let's scare them all away, until the ends of time. And we can stay here, like Romeo and Juliet."
And he had a moment of clarity as she recalled the old books she used to read, the ones that he had long since stuffed away in a corner of the attic of the house, far from his thought and his sight. He hadn't been in touch with this side of himself for so long, had forgotten how he loved the poetry of it all, the beauty. "' Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?'" They both laughed a little at this, at the irony of the words, not their own—in fact, from an entirely different lifetime, a different world. "'For fear of that, I still will stay with thee; And never from this palace of dim night depart again. Here, here will I remain.'"
There they would both remain, until the end of time.
He pulled her to him, kissing her softly for once, so gentle that it was almost painful. This was their forever, and it was better than they could have ever hoped. They had found their light in the darkest of darkness, and there they would reside in the shadow of their troubled love.