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When Agatha first realized Rio loved her, she wanted to tell the world. If she had it her way, she would have plastered the tale of their love affair all over their small village. She would have carved their story on the church wall and stood beside the mural with pride. Let the town know she was the one Rio Vidal loved. Let them find her. Let them burn her, hang her, drown her. It would be enthralling to be killed for such a thing, to be crushed by the weight of her.
Rio was the only reason she held back from doing just that, from accepting her fate and welcoming the fire. If she were the reason Rio had a rope secured around her neck, Agatha would never forgive herself. And even if the pitchforks and pyres didn’t reach them, if no one threatened them with the whisper of death, the two could still be pulled apart. Forever cast to opposite ends of the earth, never allowed to even breathe each other’s names. Agatha would never survive that.
And so, they kept their love confessions hidden under the sound of rain deep in the forest. They spoke in hushed voices while they had each other pressed against the trees. They placed tender kisses on cheeks between first moonlight and early dawn.
When they couldn’t sneak away, they became masters of finding small ways to show how much they cared for each other. Agatha grew fond of writing notes to Rio, etched in old parchment and sealed with a kiss. They were small reminders of all that she loved about her, or all that she wanted to do and say to her the next time they met in the forest. Rio would cherish these letters as long as she could and would plant her own kiss on the letter’s words before she immediately had to toss it into the fire as to avoid being caught by the rest of the coven.
Just once, Rio carved their initials into a tree. This would become their tree. It held all their secrets for them and promised the world would soon be at their fingertips. The tree was far enough from the village, and their initials were small enough that no one would notice. After all, it was like them, wasn’t it? Small, secret, but growing. Always growing.
Agatha’s favorite part about their romantic love affair, besides Rio herself, was the flowers. One morning before the sun had fully graced the horizon, Agatha woke to the faint smell of pollen in her nose. As she blinked her eyes open, her gaze fell on the small stool next to her bed. Sitting on her stack of parchment was a single flower. Its petals were a soft shade of purple, unlike any the village had seen before. Curiously, she brought it to her nose and breathed it in. It was then that somehow she just knew.
Rio.
She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she wouldn’t put it past the other witch to sneak into her bedroom in the middle of the night and innocently place a flower next to her lover’s head. Perhaps she took a moment to push a stray hair behind a sleeping Agatha’s ear. Or maybe she hardly even spared a glance. Either way, Agatha knew this flower was from Rio and Rio alone. She brought it to her nose again and smiled before securing it in her hair.
When Agatha walked outside that morning, Rio was at the other end of the grassy field waiting for her, so far away that Agatha couldn’t have heard her speak if she tried. They didn’t need words, the two of them. They just knew. Agatha tipped her head at Rio, making sure the witch caught a glimpse of the purple bloom in her hair. The corners of Rio’s lips turned up and she walked away, out of Agatha’s sight. It was more than enough for Agatha in that moment. Her heart swelled with an overwhelming love, and she took a deep breath.
After that morning, the flowers were more common. Rio began finding ways to sneak poetry, novels, and plays into the village for Agatha. Pressed in between the pages were small wildflowers, ones Rio had clearly picked on her way to find Agatha. One time, Rio left a trail of them deep in the woods to their tree, forming a heart at the base where their initials were forever ingrained. On the days she was feeling a bit risky, Rio would simply hand her a flower in the middle of the village. She couldn’t share a kiss, of course, but a flower was safe.
“M’Lady,” Rio would greet her, loud enough to be worrisome but not loud enough to cause any real damage. Agatha would look to the side and curve her lips into a smirk, eyes softening at the name Rio had gotten used to calling her. “For you.”
Each time Rio would hand Agatha a new flower, Agatha’s heart would soften. Lilies, lilacs, roses, it didn’t matter as long as they were from Rio. More often than not, they were a gentle shade of purple. Agatha would always bring the flower to her lips as she met Rio’s eyes with a smile.
Occasionally, Agatha would leave a flower with her love notes, but it was more common that she received them from Rio. She would bring the flowers with her when they met in the forest and would cradle them in her hands as she leaned in to kiss her. Other times, she would pull them from her own hair to place them gently in Rio’s as she had her back pressed against a tree. Her days were consumed with flowers—the smell, the memory of Rio handing them to her, placing them in the pages of her books, everything. Flowers weren’t as great as Rio herself, but they were something. And something was more than nothing. She would spend forever with something, if that’s what it took to keep Rio.
Flowers became a sacred treasure shared between the two of them. Even as the years moved forward and their hearts darkened towards each other, Agatha still had a hard time not thinking about Rio whenever she walked by a garden. She always kept flowers pressed between the pages of her books and smiled as soft memories intertwined with newer, harsher ones. Even when the anger she felt towards Rio was at the front of her mind, she avoided stepping on the small blooms that peeked out of the cracks in sidewalks. She would carefully step over them and sigh, her heart swelling against her will.
That’s why, as Agatha walked back to her new, makeshift coven, she had to pause for a moment before she sat down. Against the soft brown of the log next to Rio, there was a purple bloom—the same one Rio had offered to her earlier that day.
Agatha had been far too angry and far too surprised to see Rio to do anything with the flower but swat it away. In the moment, it did not register what Rio meant when she offered Agatha the flower. All Agatha saw was a snarky, overconfident witch she hated, and had no choice but to react instinctively. She snarled at Rio, dreading what it meant that she had joined her coven on The Road.
Later, however, in the tender breeze that flowed through the forest, there was little threat in sight. Of course, they had much more ahead of them, but they had settled in for the night. The campfire blazed in the middle of the coven’s circle, shining a light on their faces and warming them gently. “You know, we really kind of hated each other in the beginning,” one of the witches had said as Agatha walked over, though she wasn’t sure who exactly.
Rio had smiled at the comment, no doubt thinking of Agatha. Agatha wasn’t blind to the fact that feelings had stayed with Rio over the years. Their bickering and so-called hatred that had grown towards each other was just another shape of love, bent to fit the two of them and forged in attempts to heal old wounds. No, Agatha wasn’t unaware. She just didn’t think she was ready for Rio yet. She wanted, she needed Rio to prove herself this time. She would not be the same lovesick girl with flowers in her hair. Too much time, too much pain had gone by.
But as the others laughed at the offhand comment from one of the members of their coven, Agatha’s attention was unwavering from that purple flower, a clear test from Rio. An invitation to sit down beside her, to love her again. An olive branch laced with second, third, fourth chances.
Surprising even herself, Agatha barely hesitated as she walked towards the flower, towards Rio. She picked it up without a second thought and she sat in its place, just as Rio had hoped.
She didn’t have more than a second to feel the weight of what the flower must have meant for the two of them. It was easy for Agatha to fall back into her sarcastic demeanor, but she couldn’t shake the flower from her mind. She held onto its stem for dear life, knuckles turning white at the thought of someone taking it away from her.
There were no thorns on the flower she had picked up. Maybe it was strange to have thought there would be thorns. Perhaps stranger that even with the threat of thorns, she did not hesitate to hold onto it like it was her most prized posession. She had been wounded by Rio and her flowers before. She would have been glad to have the chance to be wounded again.
As she sat, Agatha chanced a short glance at Rio, an admission that she was and forever would be hers. But Rio didn’t meet her eyes, instead focusing on the flower in Agatha’s hand—her own way of showing she understood. Agatha had never been able to entirely read Rio, it was something she actually liked a lot about the other woman. They could communicate with nothing but stolen glances, but Rio’s inner turmoil remained an alluring mystery to Agatha. But in that moment, she knew Rio’s memory was in the Salem forest, pressed against a tree with a flower in her hair. Breathy whispers of “I love you” and “you’re mine” drowned her senses.
As they sat there, so close but not touching, Agatha could practically feel the excitement radiating from Rio’s body. They would talk or fight about it later, Agatha would love it either way. They would worry when the time was right, when they dared give the flower more meaning between them. For a little while, they just sat there. Their lips were pursed but joy radiated, and they shared a soft memory of knitting needles with a gentle laugh between them.
Just for one moment, nothing else mattered. They didn’t think about the heartbreak written in centuries-old wounds. They didn’t worry about how they were destined to fall apart, balancing on the edge of a cliff that was breaking under the soles of their feet. Just for one moment, they shared a smile and the softest laugh Agatha had felt in years. Just for one moment, they were able to breathe.
When Rio eyes glazed over as she looked at Agatha and then immediately turned her head away, Agatha’s heart fell. Rio didn’t look at anything necessarily, she just looked. Her eyes were wide but gentle, always observant. Always expecting someone to come up behind her. Always worrying that Agatha would be taken from her.
“I have a scar.”
Before the words could register, Agatha immediately let out a puff of air. She knew the woman in front of her better than anyone who had ever walked the earth, literally. She knew the curve of her hips, the skin behind her knees, the soft patch just behind her ear. All of it. It was ingrained in her brain. Even when she was under a spell, there was something inside her that wouldn’t let her entirely forget all that was Rio. No, there were no scares there.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” Rio cut in abrasively.
As Rio spoke, Agatha thought about their initials carved into the tree back in Salem, probably long gone with time, but never out of her memory. She thought about how it probably left at least a dull ache in Rio’s chest to do that. How she was so connected to the natural world that going out of her way to do it any sort of harm must have hurt. Maybe it was the same type of pain a powerless human would feel in a stubbed toe or a pulled muscle. Subtle, but there.
Did the flowers hurt her too? Pulling them from the ground, hiding them away for her secret lover to find instead of nurturing them and helping them grow?
“And it hurt them.” That’s what they did best, wasn’t it? Hurt each other. Plant seeds in growing pains and hope they bloom.
There was never a day that the sting of what Rio had done didn’t weigh heavy on Agatha’s chest. Over time, it became more like an extra limb, a piece of herself that she would never part with. That she couldn’t part with. In a twisted way, it was sometimes the only part of Rio she had with her. Something was better than nothing.
“She is my scar.”
Her memory gave her a little sting as Rio spoke, reminding her that it was still there. Not going anywhere or abandoning her, even if she chose to let Rio back in. She didn’t, she couldn’t forgive Rio then. But she twirled the olive branch between her fingers and looked over at the one person who would always see her for who she really was.
Agatha briefly made eye contact with Rio, no more than a split second of eyes and souls interlocking. Even as she turned her gaze away, she could feel Rio’s eyes on her, burning into her skin. The seconds extended to minutes in her mind as she contemplated. Her next move would set in motion whatever the next version of her and Rio would look like. Rio had given her a way out if she wanted it, or a way forward if she would take it.
Rio’s unflinching gaze pleaded with her silently, begging her to choose her. Her eyes were wide with “I’m so sorry” and “I never wanted to hurt you.” Even without looking into her eyes. Agatha knew this. Agatha knew her. The choice was clear.
For so long, Agatha had settled for somethings. The pain from the wound Rio had given her and, apparently, the scar she gave herself. The memory of moonlight kisses and stolen glances. The scent of flowers constantly blooming around her and falling from the pages of her well-loved books. But Agatha craved more.
She didn’t want just a flower, even if it was Rio that had picked it. Even in Salem, as much as she loved their little moments and the constant scent of pollen in the air, what she really wanted was Rio. Just her. Her face cupped in her hands, looking lovingly at her, always silently asking her to make the first move.
So much for somethings. Somethings were mere nothings when Rio had given her the chance for more.
As she stood, Agatha left the flower where Rio had placed it and walked away, inviting Rio to follow close behind and meet her in the forest once again.