the very first night
Death had been summoned to collect a coven of bodies.
Death was used to this. It wasn’t the first mass killing. It was common, with what the mortals called the “Salem Trials”. Rather stupid, if you were to ask her, but she was not allowed to interfere with mortal affairs. She was just there to help souls cross over to the afterlife.
Death arrived to the woods, hidden in plain sight, her skeletal face hidden by the shadow of her hood.
No mortal could see her, so she could explore Earth freely, not that she had any reason to. She had a job to do. That was the reason she existed. The only reason.
The bodies of the dead lay on the ground, their skin sunken and gray, almost decomposed. What, Death wondered, could cause such a phenomenon?
At the gallow was a mortal, sobbing on her knees.
Death approached, assuming her humanoid form while remaining hidden, the souls of the dead slowly fading into her view. Most of them were silent, but one was screaming at the mortal, even though she must have known the mortal couldn’t hear.
“You disgrace! I never ought to have let you make it this far!”
The others turned to Death, and she opened the veil.
“That’s all the time we get?” One of the witches asked.
Death snickered. Every time, she thought. She motioned to the veil, and the souls silently entered.
The one floating over the mortal didn’t.
Death approached her and tapped on her shoulder. The soul stopped screaming for a moment and turned to her. Death motioned to the veil.
“You don’t understand.” The soul begged. “We sacrificed everything to kill her! I have to finish the job!”
Death shook her head and offered her hand to guide the soul.
That’s not how it works .
“No, I have to kill her! I have to kill this vile –”
Death flicked her hand, forcing the soul through the veil. Being guided was not a right, but a privilege– one that not everyone deserved.
She readjusted her hood and turned to leave, but a voice reached her ears.
“Who are you?”
The voice wasn’t a whisper. It quavered slightly, but it was loud, bold, maybe even accusatory. It felt stupid even to think such a thing, but it sounded how Death had imagined beauty to be.
Death turned to find the mortal, standing atop the gallow, staring down at her. Her dress featured a fitted bodice and long, flowing sleeves, and her skirt flowing in the wind. On her chest, her hand clutched a small brooch, lined with gold. Once the wind moved her dark, curly hair out of the way, Death could finally see her eyes. She couldn’t help but look into them, mesmerized by their beauty. She knew she could never die, but if she could, she thought it would be a wonderful experience to drown in an ocean as pretty as her eyes.
“I said, who are you?”
Death paused, forcing herself back to reality. “You… can see me?”
She hadn’t spoken in so long, the lips of her human form had stuck together.
“Of course, I can see you. Who are you?”
How could she see her? Mortals shouldn’t have been allowed to see her, not if she didn’t let them. Something was different about this one, something… something Death had never seen before.
“Take a guess.”
There were no rules against interacting with mortals, just meddling in their affairs. Death was allowed to do this. At least, she thought she was. If not, she’d face the consequences. Her siblings, Entropy, Eternity, and Infinity, would make sure of that. She was ready to face any consequence if it meant she got to hear that hypnotic voice or look into the gold flecks in her eyes for just one more moment.
The mortal's eyes widened, her voice softening. “You’re death.”
“I’m Death .” She corrected her. “Capital D.”
She didn’t know why, but Death felt an undeniable need to be close to this mortal. The pull of the afterlife paled in comparison to whatever hold this mortal had over her.
“You’re… the Green Witch.”
“That’s correct.”
The mortal considered. “I thought you were a myth.”
“Yet here I stand.”
She tilted her head. “But surely, you have a name.”
“I’m Death. I have no need for a name.”
“But don’t you want one?”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t need one.”
“What should I call you then?”
Death shrugged. “The French call me ‘La Facheuse ’. The Spanish call me “ La Parca ”. The German, “ Der Sensenmann ”, the Italian, “ Il Tristo Mietitore ”– Point is, doesn’t matter” Death paused.
The concept had always intrigued her: names. A word you associate with a person, one you use to define them. She couldn’t help but wonder what a mortal as prepossessing as this one could be called.
“Do you have a name?”
“I’m Agatha. Agatha Harkness.”
Agatha.
What a pretty name.
She wanted to say that, but her mouth didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She just kept staring at her. She couldn’t take her eyes off of her. She was just so… alluring.
Agatha narrowed her eyes, approaching Death. “Why do you look like us? I thought you'd be more… death-y.”
Death hesitated. No one had ever asked her that before. “I find that this form makes it easier for mortals to accept their fate.”
“But it's not your real form?”
Death shook her head no.
Agatha seemed to consider that.
Death felt the tug of the afterlife pulling at her. She wanted to deny it with all her being, but she knew she couldn’t. She had to preserve the natural order. That’s why she was created.
“I have to go. Perhaps, we will meet again. Te veo .”
“Wait–”
But Death was already gone.
--
Every job after that felt wrong. Something was missing. Death just didn’t know what.
Until that one time.