Coven Two...Three... Four

Agatha’s POV

“Pathetic!”

“You’re weak!” 

“Unworthy witch!” 

“Disgusting!” 

“Useless girl!”

“Burden!”

“You were born evil” 

“I ought to have killed you the moment you left my body” 

It echoed in her ears as something consumed her. It was dark…isolating… suffocating. She couldn’t see anything as her body tried clawing away from the words, trying to avoid the stones, but only stepping onto spikes. She heard someone scream, an ear piercing scream that overtook the words being spat at her. She writhed again, feeling a hand around her ankle, threatening to bring her back under the undertow, back into the sea of hate, disdain, and true rancor. 

Agatha sat up to someone shaking her as tears stung her cheeks. She choked on her sobs as she frantically looked around, her body searching for something cold, something that was safe– something that was Death. 

“Rio!” the name left her without a thought.

 Her voice cracked as her body trembled violently, finding dark brown eyes staring down at her with nothing but love and concern. The moment she saw them she felt herself collapse into awaiting arms. Her wife turned them, having her lay against her as she cried into the crook of her neck, hiccuping for breath as her whole body and heart ached. Her back tingled with the phantom sensation of the belts her mother used to use, the sting– every bit of pain coming back in full swing. 

Her hand moved down, resting against Rio’s curved stomach, using it as a reminder. She was here. She was home with her wife and their unborn child. Rio had her, and her wife would never let her go again. 

“It’s okay, my love,” Rio’s words finally reached her. “I’m here. You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re perfect. You’re worthy. You’re not a burden. You’re a wonderful wife, and an even more perfect mother. You’re so powerful, so intelligent, so beautiful. You’re mine.” 

It was the same mantra her wife used to calm her down and every time it worked. She felt her throat finally being released, her breath becoming steady. She nuzzled into Rio, allowing her words to soak in as her heart slowed. Her hand rubbed in small circles on her wife’s stomach this time, feeling another soothing presence. 

❦✴❦

Agatha Harkness came into the world kicking and screaming, like most babies but she was different. Instead of settling in her mother’s arms, she screamed harder, her little arms flailing and weakling pushing against Evanora’s chest as if to get away. She only quieted when a nipple was put into her mouth and she was feeding. The moment she was full, she continued screaming until she tired herself out. 

Evanora was tired, exhausted after the birth– the birth that took three days. Three days of pacing, lying in bed, and barely eating as the coven surrounded her, taking care of her. She hated it. She was their leader and what was meant to be a simple birth, lasted longer than any in the coven. The days following were even more exhausting. She couldn’t get her daughter to stop crying, no matter how much she tried between magic and potions, her daughter refused them. The first two years of Agatha’s life made Evanora bitter and miserable. Yet, when she turned five, when magic was supposed to present itself, she had found that her heiress didn’t possess such traits. Agatha was worthless, a burden to the coven, and worse, she was a magicless Harkness. The Great Harkness lineage was ruined by one stupid girl. 

Yet, the strangest thing was that Agatha was always fascinated with death; whether it was an animal decaying into the earth or a human choking on their own blood. Her daughter would wander, even from the age of four, Evanora would find her in the human village, watching someone die. Her blue eyes would sparkle, a smile on her face as the human hanged, burned, or drowned. Evanora saw the evil there, but she wasn’t sure until her daughter was seven. 

Evanora lingered in the shadows of the dense woods, her sharp eyes fixed on her daughter, who moved like a wraith through the trees. The girl was wrapped in a black cloak, her face partially obscured, her focus entirely on the young human girl from the village ahead. Evanora’s lips pressed into a thin line as she noticed the glint in her daughter’s eye– a flicker of something unrecognizable but undeniably dangerous. 

She’d slipped away again. Evanora’s nostrils flared at the thought. Her daughter had been tasked with gathering moss and herbs for the coven’s healer, a simple yet vital chore. But instead of doing her duty, she was here, trailing a human, her cloak blending seamlessly with the shadows as she followed at a careful distance. The human girl, oblivious to the eyes on her, stopped by the edge of a shimmering lake. She crouched, dipping her dirt-streaked hands into the water, scrubbing at her nails. Her basket, woven from fraying reeds, sat forgotten behind her. That’s when Evanora’s daughter struck. Like a serpent, the girl slithered forward, her movements eerily precise. Her hand slipped into the basket, depositing something before she retreated just as quickly, vanishing into the shadows. She didn’t return to the safety of the woods, though. Instead, she lingered, crouched low, her gaze fixed on the human girl as though waiting for the next act in some private performance. Evanora watched, her chest tight with simmering anger. 

The minutes dragged on, the human girl now idly tossing stones into the lake, completely unaware of the game she had unwittingly become a part of. Then, voices broke the tranquil stillness. Men. Evanora’s heart stuttered as two figures emerged from the trees, their boots crunching against the underbrush. Even from her distance, she could see the gleam of daggers at their belts and the hard lines of their faces. 

Witch hunters. 

Her blood ran cold. These men had been scouring the region for weeks, their presence forcing the coven into near isolation. Evanora had spent countless sleepless nights weaving wards, strengthening protections, and ensuring their sanctuary remained concealed. Now, all her work– all their safety– was in jeopardy because of her foolish, wretched daughter. 

“Girl!” one of the men barked, his voice harsh and commanding. 

The human girl startled, spinning around, her face pale and her hands trembling. Her eyes darted to the basket she had left behind, as if realizing too late that something was amiss. 

“What’s in the basket?” the man demanded, stepping closer. 

The girl’s lip quivered as she reached for something– a shell she’d picked up earlier. It slipped from her fingers and fell to the dirt with a noiseless thud. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. One of the hunters reached into the basket, yanking out a small object– a poultice. He turned it over in his hand, his expression darkening as his fingers traced the markings etched into its surface. Evanora felt her stomach drop. The rune for death was unmistakable, its jagged lines glowing faintly under the hunter’s scrutiny. 

“Witch!” the second man spat, his voice seething with hatred. 

He stepped forward, his blade glinting in the fractured sunlight. The human girl screamed, a piercing sound that shattered the stillness of the woods. It was a sound that began to rise but was abruptly silenced. A loud splash echoed as her body hit the lake, the ripples spreading outward in slow, deliberate rings. The hunters stood by the shore for a moment, their laughter cruel and echoing, before disappearing back into the forest. 

Evanora didn’t move. Her chest heaved with a mixture of rage and horror, her fingernails digging into the bark of the tree she clung to. She wanted to storm out of her hiding place, to seize her daughter and shake sense into her. How could she be so reckless? So careless? As the ripples in the lake began to still, her daughter emerged from the shadows. The smirk on her face sent a shiver down Evanora’s spine. She stepped toward the water’s edge, her head tilting as she watched the lake’s surface darken, the pristine blue now marred by spreading crimson. Evanora’s hands balled into fists. This wasn’t mischief or youthful rebellion. It was something far darker. Something Evanora realized, with a cold certainty, that she might no longer be able to control.

Evanora raced back to the sanctuary of the coven, her breath ragged and her heart pounding like a war drum. Fear churned in her gut as she navigated the winding paths toward the divination witch’s cottage. If anyone could make sense of what she had witnessed, it was the old seer. The divination witch was ancient, a frail wisp of a woman who had been alive since the days of Evanora’s grandmother, Evangeline Harkness. Her presence was like the roots of the coven itself, unyielding and deeply entwined with its power. 

Evanora rapped urgently on the door, the wood trembling under the force of her knock. When the door creaked open, she pushed her way inside, her voice strained with desperation. 

“Please, I need a reading– on my daughter. Something is wrong. I can feel it.” 

The seer regarded her with milky eyes that seemed to pierce straight through flesh and bone. With a nod, the old woman gestured for Evanora to sit. No words were exchanged as the seer shuffled to her table, her movements slow and deliberate, like the ticking of an ancient clock. She lit a single candle, its flickering flame casting long shadows that danced across the room. Drawing a circle on the table with trembling hands, the seer whispered incantations under her breath, her voice raspy and brittle like dry leaves. The air grew heavy, thick with an oppressive energy that seemed to press down on Evanora’s chest. The seer’s hands hovered above the circle, her fingers twitching as if caught in an unseen current. Then she froze, her eyes widening with a sudden, terrible clarity. 

Her voice, when it came, was a rasped whisper, each word weighted with an ominous finality, “Agatha Harknesssss–” the ending of her name was hissed “Death will follow her for eternity.”

Evanora felt her body freeze, her heart stopping as her eyes widened. Her daughter’s piercing blues flashed through her vision before it was covered in blood, but the seer wasn’t done. Her hands swirled, her gaze absent but searching for the unknown current. 

The words caught for a moment in her throat, and weakly she asked, “What does that mean?” 

The seer was quick in her reply, her body moving with her motions above the table, “Death is her ultimate end, but not as it is for others. She will not merely be claimed by it; she will become entwined with it, its equal and counterpart. Their fates are bound together, as if destined from the beginning. Her soul, bound to Death for eternity, will walk alongside it, never to be parted. In the unyielding cycle of existence, she will find her place in its shadow, forever tied to the force that governs all endings...”

“I don’t understand. Entwined with it? Please, you have to give me more,” Evanora stood, her body swaying underneath her, betraying the strong façade.

The seer ceased her movement, her milky eyes moving to the back of her head, revealing the pure white. Her body convulsed, seizing as her hands raised in warning, her neck craning to the side before her body froze, her gaze locked with Evanora’s. 

“Agatha Harknessis the beginning of the end of the Salemites.”

For a moment, Evanora just stared as the witch’s body hovered. Then, it fell to the side, a loud thump echoing in the silence of the cottage. Evanora leapt to her feet, her heart lurching as she stared down at the lifeless form of the divination witch. The candle flickered once, then snuffed out, plunging the room into darkness. Evanora stood frozen, the seer’s final words echoing in her mind, chilling her to the core. 

Her soul, bound to Death for eternity…

The beginning of the end of the Salemites.

Evanora had spoken to the coven, but her sisters would not listen to reason. No matter how much she pleaded, recited the words from their beloved sister, it reached deaf ears. Instead, the coven agreed that if her magic ever did show, she would never be taught. She was to be kept at all times within the coven territory. Her job would be to collect their herbs and ingredients, and if she had to go outside the coven territory, she would be with an escort. Agatha was to accompany any witch who needed her and she would be stripped of the heiress title to the coven leader. 

It wasn’t enough for Evanora, and as the days passed into weeks, and those weeks into months, something else grew from within her. It was a boiling hatred, one that grew from a simmer to overflowing the pot, unable to be kept. It bubbled and festered, and behind closed doors, she unleashed it on her very own daughter with her words at first, and then came her hands. The magic came next before she used a thin belt on Agatha’s back. She withheld food, water, and took blankets if she acted out of line. Evanora watched as the once vibrant girl, became a shell of herself, but it was perfect. It was what was needed to stop her from becoming the end of their coven. The Salemites had to live on. The Harknesses rose and took their places for centuries as the leaders of this coven, and she wasn’t about to let one powerless girl destroy that…a girl destined to be entwined with Death. 

Yet, Evanora couldn’t make sense of the first part of what the seer had told her. Death wasn’t a person, a being– it was simply part of the evil of their world. Although she had heard many green witches argue against that fact– that Death was one of the cosmic beings, but Evanora never trusted a green witch– they were the lowest forms in her coven. Too worried about their stupid green, about their precious cycle. She was sure if the green witches had heard the seer, they would have listened, but not in the way Evanora would have wanted. They would have protected her, waited for whatever being they believed in to come take her daughter and ultimately destroy them. Death was evil. It had taken the seer, her grandmother, her mother, and many of her sisters. Death had made its mark in Salem: the Salem Witch Trials, threatening the lives of all sisters in the craft, even Evanora’s enemies. 

Death was evil so naturally… Agatha Harkness was born evil… she ought to have killed her the moment she left her body, but she couldn’t do that. The coven didn’t allow it, and she couldn’t lose their faith. But how could she give life to something so impure, so powerless, so weak? 

It was Agatha’s ten and third birthday when Evanora felt a power rage through the cottage. It was wild, unkempt, and powerful… more powerful than the coven leader herself. She rushed into her daughter’s bedroom and was blinded by purple light. Her arm came up, shielding her eyes as they watered and burned. Squinting, she could just make out her daughter’s form, floating above her bed, purple crackling at her fingertips, and her eyes illuminating violet. The boiling inside her raged as her gaze darkened, watching her daughter float down to the bed and looking up expectantly at her. 

“Mom,” Agatha beamed at her, stepping off the bed, dark chestnut hair cascading down her back now that her magic was present– a symbole of a Harkness in touch with their powers. “Did you see that? I have magic! I–”

The back of Evanora’s hand stung as she moved it without a thought. A loud thump made her look down, watching her daughter struggling to hold back her tears as she stayed down with her head bowed, cowering. 

Stupid, wretched girl. 

The sound of something dripping to the ground caught her attention. She looked closer, finding crimson staining her floor in large droplets. Her lip curled as Agatha groaned, shifting to look up at her with defiant violet eyes. 

“I thought– I thought–” she stammered over herself, the red filling her mouth and coating her teeth as she spoke. 

A single line of fainted red gathered at the corner of her mouth, before rushing down her chin. Evanora’s heart hammered in her ears as she stared down at her daughter, at the girl who would become entwined with Death. She reached down, fisting her grip into the unruly locks and lifting her up as a sharp cry echoed into the cottage. 

“You thought?” she sneered, before slamming her head into the bedpost with a loud slam. 

She smirked, the rage twiddling down to a boil as her daughter cried, holding her head. Her whimpers filled the room, lighting something in Evanora’s chest. She was breaking her further. Agatha would never rise, would never reach her potential. Evanora would make sure of it. It was almost too easy. She chuckled deeply, her boot burying itself into Agatha’s ribs, rippling out a scream and sob. Her laughter echoed after her, following beyond the slam of the door and the click of the lock in place. 

Agatha was ten and seven when she first killed a sister… directly. The previous times she hadn’t raised a finger, but her magic had other plans. Her magic would spark around her when she felt nervous and worst, was the times when it happened in the towns. She was with a green witch the first time, at ten and five. They were buying rare herbs when Agatha caught a man staring at her. She felt the hairs on her neck creep up, her breath hitching as she spotted his dark eyes. She tried to tell the green witch beside her, but she wouldn’t listen, carrying on through the market as the man followed them from behind. She felt her magic spark, humming just beneath her skin as she shook. They stopped at the vendor when he grew too close. Everything in her screamed as she grabbed the arm of her sister-witch, the purple now floating around them.

The breath left her body in the next second, her face was in the ground as screams echoed around her. Then, hands were in her hair, lifting her to her feet. She kicked, her body vibrating with energy as the hands released. Each step hurt, the pull of her skin stinging and opening each wound on her legs from the previous night’s punishment from her mother. Her feet pounded into the mud, peaking a glance behind her to find no one was following her– the mob had moved. 

Agatha gasped as her foot caught a root, sending her on her stomach. Her cloak and dress were covered in mud, making her skirts stick together. She groaned, staring into the dirt as her head spun, pain shooting through as she rose on shaking legs. Brushing off the mud on her, she turned, catching the village behind her. It was in uproar, people crowded, shouting and screaming as pitchforks raised, more of the villagers emerging from their homes. Children pushed through the crowd, eager to see– eager to witness death and Agatha was among them. She hadn’t realized she had walked right back, her mind trapped in a distortion as she slithered among the villagers. Something was calling to her, something smothering her fear and transforming to where her heart was hammering, her eyes widening, and her palms feeling clammy. She barely registered the screams around her, catching sight of a priest coming forward and behind him, her sister-witch. Her cloak was torn off of her, her dress clung to its last remaining threads as they pushed her forward. Around her mouth was a gag, pushing her cheeks in and her face red with the burning of tears. Green eyes met hers, a wild look, a pleading look, but she could only stare, her face stoic– the only hint of emotion was her eyes as they lit up, searching for the call. 

“People of Salem,” the voice finally reached her. “There are witches among us. Women who sold their souls to the Devil. Women who go on and do the Devil’s bidding, defying God in the most unholiest of ways. These women claim to have powers, to be able heal, to make dead crops grow– but we know only our God has that power. They trick and lure men to their deaths, steal our babies in the night, corrupt our women, and curse our crops! And today, a witch decided to show herself among us. And it here before God, we act as her judge, jury, and prosecutors under His word.” 

Agatha watched the men around the priest move as he spoke, coating the logs in an almost yellow substance: lard. They moved it among the branches before reaching the witch, smearing the paste on her chest before stepping back. Beside the priest, a spark came to life, a fire dancing upon a torch, promising Agatha of what was to come. She felt herself lean forward as the witch kicked and screamed, writhing against the pole as the priest took the torch. 

“And He shall smite the wicked and burn them for eternity in the fiery pits of Hell!” 

Time slowed and Agatha’s breath stopped. The fire wrapped around the torch, falling into the pyre with a bounce before rolling down. Catching on a branch it stopped, but the fire had already caught, consuming the lard and beelining to the woman. The fire leapt and spun, bowing back before leaning into its dance. It sidestepped and leapt again, crawling up the woman’s dress as the music roared to life. Her screams became the melody, guiding the fire in a dance of consummation. It bonded to her, took to her, and peeled at her skin– becoming one. Agatha couldn’t tell where the fire ended and the woman began. Her hair was gone in seconds, her eyes closing as her screaming was cut off as she slumped against the pole, the breath mixing in with the fire… fully submitting to the dance. 

A chill was sent through Agatha, but in truth, her own skin was sweating, the heat making her face flushed. She glanced around, not understanding where it was coming from. It was peaceful, gentle even and for a second, she swore she saw the tall flames bow and part, a direct line for someone to walk up to the woman and take her. She stared, trying to make sense of it. Something else had joined them, something cold and powerful, but as soon as it was there, it was gone– but the peace lasted, the feeling of being safe, and Agatha didn’t ever want to let go of it. 

She searched for that feeling for the next two years of her life, and it returned only when someone died… most of those times were indirectly by her hand. She hated herself for it, and when that security had left the first time Agatha had broken down at the edge of the woods, sobbing so hard, she was retching. When she stumbled back into the coven, the guilt only exemplified and her coven blamed her. Her own mother locked her in her room for five days before allowing her to eat, drink, and bath. She had to clean her own mess in her room afterward, scrubbing so hard her blood was flowing free from her raw fingertips. The only way to rid of the smell was from the spell books she had stolen, hiding them under her own floorboards.

She was ten and six when she got her hands on another spell book. The leather was black, its title on the inside and the only word she understood was “mortem”: death. Her latin was poor, her mother nor sisters never taught her the language. She picked up what she could and for a while the book felt useless. All she knew was that every spell had something to do with death, but reading it, whatever she could understand, brought her a strange sense of comfort. She clung to it after beatings, losing herself in unknown language after days of not eating, and the only thing that kept her going, was knowing one day, she would understand the language, would understand why she was so drawn to death. 

When she killed her first sister, by her own magic, the power was a euphoria, soaking into her and sparking her body to life. For once, she felt alive, she felt energized, and felt powerful. The purple around her clicked on that hillside, but the moment the euphoria fated, reality crashed into like a wave from the North Sea. She had finally done it… killed someone by her own hand… her own magic, siphoning their powers for herself. Before she could react, the safe, cold presence appeared, closer this time, making her snap her head in the direction of the trees. She had tilted her head, her hands raised, until a woman appeared in a moss green cloak. Her eyes were dark, a deep rich soil brown that seemed to stare straight down into her soul. Her lips were plump, her own cheeks rosied with life, and black hair rolling down her shoulders, curling at the end. Agatha tried holding a defensive position, but ultimately crumbled into the stranger’s arms. She smelled of pine, fresh soil, and something she couldn’t quite place her finger on. The arms were strong, her body cold, but she radiated with such power that Agatha was in awe. She remembered how strong the arms held her when they were moved to the edge of the woods, watching as her mother and sisters found the dead witch, listening as they called her a succubus witch and evil, but she remained in the woman’s arms, seeking the comfort that haunted her for years. 

When the woman parted, placing a purple chrysanthemum in her hand and one in her hair, Agatha had felt her heart flutter. She couldn’t understand the stranger’s kindness, why she felt so safe, so warm. For the next few days, Agatha hid the flowers, but her mind wandered to the stranger, her eyes, the gentle caress from her hands, and the way she held her. She would catch a fading scent of the woman when she was out in the woods, but the flowers, she held to her heart. On the third day, she was home alone, her mother having gone out, leaving Agatha with her chores. Instead of doing them, Agatha was flipping through her mother’s grimoire that Evanora ‘hid,’ searching for a preserving spell on the flowers. They haven’t wilted, not even given the semblance of dying, but Agatha didn’t want to test that. She had to be sure the woman’s flowers would stay with her forever, not even sure if the woman would ever return, even though she had later learned that “te veo” was a double entendre for “I see you” and “see you soon.” And oh, how her heart had done a funny little flip when she learned that. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, how a woman, a stranger, who held her for a few moments, could make her feel like this. It was nothing like the other girls of the village she would secretly bed– a quick trip into the woods away from prying eyes, behind a tavern, or even quick kisses that would always make the blood rush through her. No, this was different, it was stronger, something intoxicating. 

She flicked the thick pages before finding what she needed. She smirked, sitting up and holding the smaller flower in her palm as her eyes studied the words, sounding them out in head. With a deep breath, she chose the words that sounded most correct and said them allowed, letting her purple to wash over the small flower in her palm. Her eyes closed as power filled the home and for a second she thought it was working until she felt her body being sent across the room, smashing into the wall, and knocking the air out of her lungs. She choked, sitting up to find her mother marching towards her. She braced herself, the fear consuming her as her cheek lit up like a thousand tiny fireworks being set off against her skin. 

“You evil, girl! What have you done?” her mother seethed at her, dragging her stand by her hair. 

She cried out, “Please, I just wanted to learn. I can be good.” 

“You stole my grimoire and created flowers that I have never seen?” Evanora hissed at her. “Grab the belt!” 

Panic flared through her as her hair was released, “No, no, please, I can be good. Please, it was harmless magic–”

“With similar traces as what was on our sister–” her mother started and Agatha felt her eyes widen “you had something to do with it, didn’t you?”

Agatha shook her head, “No, no, I wasn’t even near the hillside, please mother–”

“Enough! Grab the belt, you pathetic girl!”

Her feet tripped over themselves as she made her way to her mother’s room, grabbing the thin leather that hung on the door. Her steps were heavy as she felt her mind receding, needing it too as she placed it in her hands. Agatha turned, her hands on the table as her mother untied her dress, the air biting at the skin of her naked back before the first slash tore through her skin. She screamed out, her hands digging into the table…

“You’re a monster. You’re evil. You don’t even deserve to live…” 

Agatha could barely see as she made her through the woods. Her back was hot, the blood seeping into the gown as she stumbled, clutching into a pine as she pushed her way towards the river. She needed the water, a spell she learned from the healer to close the wounds enough before they were infected. Tears blurred the ground at her feet as she pushed on and the moment she made it to the river side, a scream released into the skies scaring the birds and echoing over the rumbling river. Her magic sparked, calling out to whoever would listen, but no one would. No one ever would. The rain did answer though, sprinkling down on her and mixing in with her tears, but she couldn’t stop screaming. She screamed until her throat was raw, until the tears fell so hard they burned her cheeks with salt. 

Then, behind her, she heard the earth shift, a power wrapping around her. She gasped watching the figure emerge, breaking through the soil, its body twisting unnaturally before cracking into place. The same strange woman looked around before facing her, her dark eyes grazing over her as Agatha did the same, finding the women in a black cloak, thick black skirts, and a green top that fitted perfectly with her curves. For a moment, Agatha could only stare, watching as the woman’s tongue pushed against her cheek before stepping forward. Her body leaned into her, allowing arms to wrap around her before the lightning struck up her back. She hissed, pulling away, and watching as the woman stared at her hands decorated in blood. Then, strong hands were on her waist, turning her around. They didn’t speak, and the woman barely made a noise, but Agatha felt the woman’s power spark for a moment. Then, hands were on her laces and Agatha froze. They were slow, impossibly tender and all Agatha could do was to allow her tears to run as the woman slowly peeled the cotton away. 

The growl was almost inhuman as Agatha hid her face into her hands against the tree, “Why?” 

She whimpered, her voice muffled from the river and her hands, “She called me a monster. She thinks I killed her.” 

“You are not a monster,” the woman behind her growled again. 

Then, with the same foreign tenderness, cold hands grazed across her skin, pulling her dress down around her hips. For a moment neither of them moved and she was sure the woman was just staring at slashes that marred her back. She shivered as hands were on her hips again, a subtle crunch of the dead needles shifting. Agatha clung harder to the tree, the woman’s words were swirling in her head. 

“How do you know that? You don’t even know me,” she whispered as she felt the Green magic surface. 

The woman didn’t answer, instead, nimble fingers moved her hair away, revealing more of her wounds before something warm and wet slid across the first slash. Agatha gasped, her eyes widening as it sent sparks through her body. She froze, feeling the wounds fade as the hot tongue moved across the span of her back, drinking in her own blood, but healing a little bit more than the wounds. The woman made it to her shoulder blades, the tongue licking over her muscles and to the tops of her shoulders. The warmth sent shivers through her, a strange feeling latching onto her brain as a breath left her lips. She quickly bit her lip, embarrassment creeping up her neck as the stranger fixed her dress, lacing up her gown. 

“I know, because I see your soul,” she said softly. “You are strong and powerful. Never feel sorry for possessing such a gift.” 

Agatha turned, her mouth open as she leaned against the tree, the tears fading from her eyes. Her eyes widened when the woman leaned forward, the familiar sweet scent of pine filling her senses. The witch avoided her lips, her long tongue dragging slowly up her cheek, healing the mark upon her face as her breath hitched. Agatha could only stare, finding a soft light in her dark eyes, feeling the magic– stronger than anything she had ever crossed. She felt something pulling her closer to this stranger– this stranger who had no name– this stranger who she named Rio Vidal. 

Rio Vidal was beautiful, strange, something so human and so inhuman at the same time. As she got to know Rio, she quickly pieced together who she really was… Rio Vidal was Death, or Lady Death as other Green Witches had whispered, but it didn’t deter Agatha, it only grew her fascination with the entity. Rio appeared back to her when she was in need, somehow knowing to come after a harsh tongue lashing or beating from her mother. She was quiet, observant, and really listened to her. With each visit, she watched as Rio’s stiff movements as human, grew graceful, still unnatural, but more human than their previous meetings. They grew closer, some days Rio playing with her hair, but never fully touching her, almost if she was scared Agatha was too fragile. But something in Agatha wanted more. She wanted to feel Rio’s body against hers and she would never forget the first time she had cuddled with Death.

It was cold, the wind blowing the snow around her as Agatha practically wore everything she owned to be out with Rio. Rio had asked to meet her at their spot on the hillside to see something. She didn’t say what, but Agatha wasn’t going to miss it. She shoved her snow boots on, and waited, listening to her mother scribble in the study next door until she heard the door slam shut. With a smirk, she tiptoed down the stairs and rushed out into the snow. Using the spell Rio taught her, she hid her foot prints as she went. Agatha hated winter. She hated the way the droplets of snow refused to melt in her hair, and stuck to her. She hated when her snow boots weren’t high enough and the cold powder would fall into them, freezing her feet, and most of all, she hated how her lungs could barely handle the bite of the air.  

Agatha trudged on, holding her arms close to her chest as she climbed her way up the hill. She could barely see anything other than what the stars offered. They were bright enough, but with the absence of the moon, she had to make sure she wasn’t treading on ice. Upon making it to the top, Rio appeared in a green dress lined in wool. Her smile was soft, her cheeks tinged with pink as she grabbed Agatha’s hands. Her touch was tender as she conjured purple wool to wrap around her ice cold hands, warming them instantly. Agatha smiled, feeling her heart do that stupid little flip again as Rio brushed her hair out of her face. 

“So, what is it tonight, Miss Vidal?” she teased, causing a faint smirk on the cosmic’s face. 

Rio simply placed a finger to her lips, “No late night lessons, tonight, Miss Harkness. You just have to watch the sky with me.” 

“Stargazing again?” she feigned her disappointment, but Rio’s fingers simply pressed to her lips further. 

Then without a word, Rio turned, clearing the ground of snow, creating a fresh moss blanket and before making small mugs of something spiced as well. She took Agatha’s hand, sitting her down, and giving her a mug. Agatha smelled it, unsure of its contents. It was spiced with cloves, something fruity, and even cinnamon. She turned, looking at Rio who settled beside her, drinking the strange concoction without a thought. 

“It’s mulled wine,” she finally said. “Hot wine with spices. It will warm you up.” 

Agatha drank slowly, tasting the rich spices and she smiled, setting down the mug next to Rio’s and laying down beside her. Agatha watched Rio’s chest. It was still for a moment, no breath being brought forth until there was a rise there and Rio turned on her side facing her. Agatha followed and found their faces mere inches from each other as they both simply stared. The stupid little flip happened again as Agatha found herself lost in those beautiful brown eyes, seeing the little shades of brown and dots of green. She could stare at them forever, and for now they each did just that. 

A light flashed over them and Agatha sat up, staring at the sky as it lit up with greens and purples… their colours. Her breath hitched as Rio sat up beside her, a stupid lopsided smile painting her features. Agatha could feel Rio staring at her, but she couldn’t pull away from the lights in the sky. Her jaw dropped, and for a moment she forgot about the snow, the cold biting at her heels, and the jaws of her mother waiting for her at home. The night sparkled, the rays of light shining down on them and for a moment, all Agatha cared about was that Rio was beside her. 

“What is it?” she spoke softly, scared to disrupt the peace. 

Rio leaned closer, her voice just as low, “It’s the Aurora Borealis. They are normally far north, but something brought them this way closer. They light up the skies every night up there.” 

Agatha swallowed, “Is it magic?” 

Rio shook her head, humming with laughter, “No, Agatha, just nature, but once I realized they were going to be here, I knew I had to steal you away and show you.”

She finally turned to look at Rio, watching the purple and green reflect in her dark eyes. Her smile was soft, softer than she had ever seen. Agatha didn’t stop herself as she moved closer to Rio, closing the space between them and wrapping her body around the woman and she forced them to lay down. She rested her head on Rio’s chest, feeling it grow rigid for a second before Rio relaxed, wrapping an arm around her body and pulling her closer. Agatha watched the lights, listened to the strange beating in Rio’s chest, and allowed herself to relax as fingers combed through her hair. 

And it was in that moment, Agatha realized the tiny flips her heart kept doing was telling her something. Agatha was in love, so helplessly and utterly in-love with Rio, a cosmic who she wasn’t sure would even be capable of something like love. But Agatha could not stop her heart as it pounded against her ribcage, begging her to give it to Lady Death. 

Agatha and Rio continued to meet as the snow melted into spring, and the buds on the trees slowly bloomed to life. Agatha tried to get her feelings to simmer down, but they only grew with each meeting, from each guide from Rio with her magic, and from each lingering touch. The day Rio appeared behind her cottage, Agatha could barely contain herself. Rio had been gone for two weeks this time, and sure Rio had been gone for longer, but Agatha couldn’t get the Green witch out of her head. She craved Rio’s gentle touch, the presence of her cosmic magic, and her gentle breath against Agatha’s body. She hated to admit it, but there were too many nights of when she thought of the witch lying there with her, but she would also stop herself, wondering if the cosmic had ever touched a human and how unfair it would be in a sense if the entity hadn’t and Agatha was… well… thinking of the goddess while… 

She soon came to regret not doing so later when she finally kissed the witch. Her lips were cold, her taste of pine and something sweet filled her. The heart inside her flipped a thousand times over and everything in her screamed that she loved this woman who was pressing her up against a tree behind her cottage. Her heart melted when Rio called her “sweetheart,” and “mine.” She was practically vibrating with happiness as she made her back to the cottage, her hair decorated in the strange love the entity had for her, but all of that mattered for not as her sisters grabbed her, throwing her into a pit as her mother and sisters ransacked her room, finding the stolen spell books, and the plethora of flowers she kept from Rio. It was that night, when everything became cold again with the threat of a surprise winter that Agatha was dragged through her coven, her shame paraded, and bound to a post. She had begged, pleaded, but it was too late as she took her sisters’ magic, draining their lives before her own mother tried to finish the job. 

She had flown away from the scene but ultimately came back, that cold comforting presence begging her to stay as she crouched to the ground and sobbed. Then, thin boney fingers had her, tracing soothing circles on her back. Agatha knew that touch anywhere. She turned, finding bright white orbs staring back at her, a skeletal visage greeting her void of any emotion. The head tilted back, and it was as if Rio realized who she had shown up as, but Agatha didn’t care. She threw her arms around the being, burying her face into the crook of her boney neck as she sobbed. Slowly, the bone turned to skin and the familiar scent of pine graced her senses. Rio then lifted her, carrying her somewhere, but Agatha didn’t care, because she was with Death, she was with her love, and in that moment as Rio carried her, Agatha knew that no matter what happened between them, she would never stop loving the creature that held her. 

Agatha’s soul, mind, and heart was Rio’s, was Lady Death’s way before any soul binding spell. Agatha knew she would forever be entwined with Death for as long as they both existed, and who better than her lover to take her across the veil into the next world? 

❦✴❦

Agatha nuzzled into the warmth of her wife’s neck as the memories of the dreams faded, her heart easing as the arms held her, sweet nothings were whispered into the crown of her head as her hand rubbed her wife’s round stomach. She was safe in Death’s arms, in Death’s embrace once more, and Agatha would never dare give that up again. She was Death’s. Death was hers, and together they would be entwined for eternity. 

Soft kisses were pressed to her forehead as Agatha thought of her son. He would never know Evanora’s cruelty, or what it has done to her. He would never understand how much his existence healed her, broke her, and healed her all over again– for “what is grief, if not love preserving?” She had grieved for her son. She had grieved for her wife. That love stayed until she was reunited with both of them again, and the best part, Rio and her were about to have a chance to start over as a family. Sure they had Nicky, and it more than Agatha thought she ever deserved, but together, they would be raising a baby. It wouldn’t just be Agatha soothing late night tantrums, witnessing their first words, their first steps– fuck, their first breath of life. Rio would finally have the chance with Agatha. They would be mothers together, and they would love both of their children a million times more than Evanora had ever even tried to love her. 

Her eyes darkened at the thought of Evanora. They had to find her. Punishment had to be served. She couldn’t just come back into their life, their realm, and threaten their life… well death they were making here. Evanora would never lay a hand on her again, and she would die a thousand times over if she ever tried to touch her son, her wife, or their unborn child.

Agatha pulled away slowly from Rio’s grasps, but quickly guided the woman to straddle her hips. She watched fondly as Death struggled for a moment, the tiredness still washing around her, but oh how beautiful Death was like this: her black hair ruffled from the pillow, her bare skin bathing in the low green candles that surrounded them, and her stomach full of life. Agatha reached up, running her hands in circles on her stomach, soothing the sides of it where she knew Rio felt discomfort from having the muscles and tendons stretch there to make room for the baby. The weight on her melted further into her touch as her eyes travelled her body and up to meet those tender eyes. Rio was peering down at her with love and concern, her eyes sparkling before she leaned forward, placing her hands on either side of her head to steady herself as Agatha reached for her hips, helping her wife support herself as their noses brushed together. 

Before Rio could break the silence, Agatha captured her lips, pouring all of her love into it as Rio gasped, but kissed back. Agatha moved her lips slowly against Rio’s plush ones, each pressing another affirmation how much Agatha needed and belonged to the woman above her. She didn’t want to pull away as warmth filled her, Rio melting into the kiss as a single hand came down cupping her cheek as Agatha continued to meet her lips. Slowly, she slid her tongue in, grazing the roof of Rio’s mouth before pulling away and pushing back in. She followed the gentle push and pull of their tongues, allowing hers to wrap around her wife’s, tasting her as Rio moaned softly into her mouth. Then she felt her wife’s strength start to wane, a slight shaking in her body that forced herself to pull away, helping her wife to sit up who whimpered at the loss, but didn’t say anything as their eyes met again. 

Agatha rubbed her wife’s stomach once more, staring at Rio’s slight swollen lips. She sat up slowly, looking up at the woman who she loved with all of her heart, and gently cupped her face in her hands, brushing the hair away from her eyes. Rio melted, like she always did, like she did the first time she did this to her all those centuries ago. Her eyes sparkled as her wife reached up, wrapping steady hands around her wrists to hold her there as they continued to stare into each other’s eyes, Agatha’s head slightly tipped back to look up into those chocolates. 

“The night of the Aurora Borealis,” she spoke softly, watching as her wife’s eyebrows creased in confusion for a moment. “You told me that it was rare for it to happen in Salem and that it usually happened far north.” 

Rio nodded slowly, but her face grew into a sheepish expression as she tried hiding the smile on her lips. 

“You conjured it, didn’t you, my love?” 

Her wife tried pulling away, trying to hide her face, but Agatha didn’t let her, letting out a small laugh as she placed a soft quick kiss to her lips, having her wife melt all over again. It would never cease to amaze her, how something so simple always had the cosmic entity melting after centuries. She laughed softly, her lips peppering their kisses to her wife’s.

Then she pulled away, holding Rio’s face to get her to look at her. Her voice was soft, full of vulnerability she rarely showed willingly. She had to tell Rio, and in fact, she didn’t know how she never told her before, even before the conception of Nicky. 

“Rio Vidal, my Lady Death, it was that moment, underneath those lights of green and purple, where I realized for the first time that I loved you and I haven’t stopped since.” 

Tears poured from her wife’s eyes and she was startled by the sob from her wife’s throat. That’s not what she expected at all. Her eyes widened in surprise as she clung onto her, sobbing into the crook of her neck. Tears soaked her as Rio choked them out, holding on so tight, she was sure Rio was going to break her spine. She pulled her against her, hushing her softly as she combed her hands through her hair. 

“Rio, my love, shh, you’re not supposed to be crying,” she couldn’t stop the panic in her voice as Rio abruptly pulled away from her, a finger in her face, and her eyes darkening with tears still running. 

Her wife growled, “You can’t just say shit like that to me and expect me not to– ugh, this is all your fault anyway.” 

Rio continued to cry, her sobs muffled into Agatha’s neck as she chuckled softly, realizing it was just her wife’s hormones from the pregnancy. She pressed her kisses to her head, holding her until she calmed down, pressing her lips against Agatha’s. Agatha hummed into the tender kiss, Rio pulling away, and resting her head against hers.

“I realized I loved you when my heart first formed, mi amor. I was thinking of you after one of our lessons, and before the lights,” Rio’s voice was hoarse as she held her closer. 

And it was there, in that tender moment, that Agatha knew that Rio had fallen for her first and it was then that Agatha knew she was the one who had fallen harder.