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Nicholas had brown eyes.
Agatha remembers them well – they always had gazed up at her with wonder, a soft smile playing on his lips. He looked at her with wonder, and amazement and love. Through his eyes, Agatha was the whole world. He would never know any different, or any better.
When he was gone, Agatha missed everything about him. The weight of him in her arms. The heat of his body against her chest. The soft press of his cheek against hers. But most of all she missed those eyes. No one had ever looked at her that way before. And they never would again.
She’d never forget the moment she’d thought she had it all, returning to her village with the Dark Hold in hand, victorious. The way Rio had waited at her doorstep, arms crossed, eyes avoiding Agatha’s gaze.
“Where’s Nicky?” Agatha had asked.
Her screams had shaken the walls of that house. Agatha couldn’t remember if it was even still standing when she’d left that place. All that was left of Nicholas was a curl of black hair she’d pressed into her locket before she’d left.
In the wake of it, a rumor started to spread that she had traded her son for the book of the damned. She had, in the end, but on her tongue were cries and pleads that if she had known, she never would have taken it. She held those defenses back. Let them believe what they wanted to. They’d always feared Agatha for her power, even more so now that she had the Dark Hold. Everyone kept their distance, and if the rumors kept people away, then so be it.
Those eyes haunted Agatha’s dreams. Every ill-intentioned spell, every villainous caper, every witch that withered away as they fought her. That loving gaze was burned into her mind. Believing in her, trusting her when they never should have.
She never thought she would see those eyes again. Until she did.
The boy- the teen, really - with duct tape hanging off his face, looking at her almost star struck. When their gazes met, it almost took her breath away.
He had those eyes. It wasn’t an exact match, per say. Agatha didn’t know for sure, but they were a similar shade of brown, if perhaps a bit lighter. They didn’t have the same youthful naivety – but they were still full of hope. Of high expectations.
“Take me to the Witches’ Road!”
Agatha felt a dull pull in her gut, a longing that had been long since squashed down. She had better things she needed to be doing – like avoiding a murderous coven of Witches who would arrive at sundown.
But the locket laid in the wreckage of ‘Agnes O’Conner’s’ house, black curl still tucked inside. And those eyes looked so familiar.
It wasn’t worth it to risk the road for a quick and ‘easy’ chance at regaining her powers. But there are some things that are more valuable than power.