Chapter Text
"The witch owes nothing. That is what makes her dangerous. And that is what makes her divine. Witches have power on their own terms."
— Pam Grossman, Waking the Witch.
PROLOGUE
Agatha's waiting.
Her back's leaning against a trunk, the silence is a constant between the treetops, the dry corpses lying on the ground and the sea of orange and red leaves that stretches as far as the eye can see.
When the singing and shouting passed, the forest returned to its peace immediately.
The air is moist, soft, light, easy to breathe in and out, so she stays there for a few minutes, waiting for the temperature to drop drastically to the point where her breath can be visible.
She herself doesn't understand why she's so concerned about seeing her mess being cleaned up, she knows that Death will be there soon, and the souls that are floating in torment will have their fates sealed.
The purple witch assumes, with discomfort in her chest, that it's another one of her 'moments of weakness' — like the Titanic and the Hindenburg — and that she will make it pass quickly, as always.
Years have passed, but it seems the way she and Rio circle around each other hasn't changed since the 1600s.
Their pyramid of interactions it's based on corpse trails ranging from simple victims to messages with hidden meaning, touches that blossom violently like flowers in spring and wither furiously as if they were in a winter storm.
And a past, laden with the most latent pain, the pain of loss, of motherhood, of leaving and running away from the one you love most, because your love took with you the only good thing you ever did in life.
And sex, of course. Good, deep sex that burns so hotly with the heat of a thousand suns on Agatha's skin.
Caresses and affection were always abundant between them, but it was in those moments, where Agatha was vulnerable, breathless and desperate, Rio's fingers digging deeply into her, until her back painfully arched. Her mouth whispering the most dirty and sweetness sentences, treating Agatha like the only important thing in the world, delicate as a perfectly purple violet, and ruthlessly like the resilient witchkiller she proved to be, it almost seemed like they hadn't changed.
As if they had never stopped being those lovers, whose only their love mattered and nothing else.
As if they hadn't argued nights and days since the moment Rio told her their baby wouldn't survive.
As if Rio hadn't broken Agatha's heart, denying her what she most begged for her love.
Almost as if Rio hadn't taken the purest thing in Agatha's life.
The life of their son; Nicky's life, which so innocently, went in the only person he should have avoided. His own mother.
"Why don't you let me go talk to mommy, mama? I even made her a flower crown, look!"
Agatha shook her head lightly, pushing the memory back into the depths of her mind where it belonged. No, no matter how much Agatha's heart twisted and tore inside her chest, the anger she felt toward Rio for Nicholas's death would be the fuel that would keep her hatefully alive for another three centuries if she needed it.
Something rose in her bile, her eyes burned with tears that wanted to come, and as Agatha's stomach churned, she pushed her backs off the tree, ready to leave, whatever weaknesses she was feeling, she could work through on her own.
The sound of leaves breaking under footsteps was what made the witch stop walking, turning to where the bodies lay — another one for the count of covens she had destroyed with her own hands, and a song that was beginning to grow numb on her tongue.
On a impulse — she doesn't know why she did it, it was automatic — Agatha reached out to the tree and walked slowly for behind it, hiding.
Everything was normal, there was no sign of Death's presence in that place, but Agatha could hear more and more footsteps approaching where she had left her victims.
The Darkhold had been hiding Agatha’s tracks for a long, long, long time, so whether she was hidden or not, Rio wouldn’t notice her.
Whoever it was, it wasn’t Lady Death, of that she was sure.
She watched patiently, realizing that it was only two sets of steps, short, small ones, taking too long to get there. Just as she thought about taking a step out, a voice echoed, and made her body freeze.
"I found it! They're here!", A sweet, soft, childish voice cried out, and Agatha caught her breath when she saw it.
A child.
She looked smaller than usual for a child, like a baby. She ran, closing the distance between herself and the bodies a little, turning back when another little girl identical to her appeared, panting as she leaned against one of the trees.
There's something fresh in her features, even though they're so worldly. She smiles, too warm, too confident for her surroundings, her feet dragging through the leaves delicately, as if she were floating.
They're two little raven-haired heads, among ancient trees, murdered witches, the personification of Death that's inevitably approaching, and a strange old woman who's spying on them.
Why she's spying? What's she doing? What were those girls doing there?, Agatha feels, she feels like she knows them, not by sight, but by her heart, and she stands still, watching.
"Come, Lalma, come!", She said, waving her hand to beckon the twin closer. Her face was glowing, even though everything around her didn't contribute to that.
The beauty in a child's innocence is something Agatha had seen with her own eyes long, long time ago. Untouched by the troubles of the world, they were so carefree, their little eyes saw only kindness and happiness even in the dirtiest of souls. Even weird children who walk alone through forests, near dead bodies do that too.
"Despacio, mana, despacio", The other little girl — Lalma(?), from what Agatha heard — said, breathing heavily, her chubby cheeks rosy, smiling at her twin, "Don't go alone, Izzy."
Agatha wonders why she's hiding, but something prevents her from moving, from leaving there, while she observes those two children.
What twins children, who don't look more than five years old, doing in that place, acting normally around bodies as if it were an ordinary afternoon?
The raven hair girl ran over to one of the corpses, and Agatha’s hand curled into a fist as she watched her reach the body.
"Uno, dos, tres- Cuatro! Hay cuatro!" The little girl, Izzy, said proudly as she finished pointing her finger and counting each of the bodies, putting her hands on her hips and puffing out her chest with a smile. Yep, a fucking weird kid, for sure.
Agatha couldn't help but notice their Spanish, the natural way the language rolled off their tongues without a hitch.
Spanish was almost an image of Rio, of her pet names and the wonders she whispered, all in a language that Agatha revered when she heard it from her love's lips.
She shook her head, clearing any possible remnants of memories from her mind.
"Always four. No, five, not six, just four." The other girl murmured, pushing away from the tree and walking toward her sister.
Agatha noticed their clothes — nothing too heavy, as if they were just going out in their backyard.
Izzy looked back, as if seeing something in the distance, and ran back into the woods, while Lalma stood there, standing in front of one of the dry, skeletal, bodies.
She crouched down, absently fiddling with her hair, pulling out something that was caught in the strands, a leaf or a flower, and letting it fall to the ground.
There's something graceful about her movements, even though they're completely disastrous, and it only reminds her of a past filled with clearings, forests, and fields of flowers.
Agatha's eyes widened as the girl began to reach for the body.
Her tiny fingers almost touching the corpse when her hand was grabbed by Agatha's.
Opss.
"What are you doing, kid?!"
The girl turned scared to Agatha, who now closer, could see her features more clearly.
Big bright blue eyes (Agatha's sure she saw a hint of Death in them), round, chubby and cute face, small nose, a mole near her eye (she must be going crazy), raven hair with white streaks, and a little pout on her little lips. At the touch, she’s looks soft as moss and her wrist feels as fragile as porcelain.
That girl looks deeply at her, staring as if she saw her rotten soul.
It was as if she saw Agatha as lake shining under the moon, deep, profound, ready to be explored, as if she was diving into her soul.
In the darkness of her pupils, the purple witch saw something very familiar burning at their edges, bubbling gloriously in emerald green.
Agatha saw familiarity in her; willful, reckless, stormy. The same thing she always saw in Nicky.
She must have done something, her expression must have contorted or she must have half-spelled a word, because the little girl herself seemed to be taken aback.
She pulled her hand from Agatha's grip, and fell back to the floor, blinking confusedly at the adult in front of her.
What the hell is going on here?, Agatha wondered, having no idea how this situation had started.
Not having much to do, Agatha began to speak, trying to regain the composure she didn't know she had lost, "Where your parents? Did you know you can't just go around and touching things like that, child?"
She blinked, and looked at her owm wrist, where Agatha had held her, and look up at the witch, who sighed, shaking her head.
Well, she has one point, she thought, watching the girl narrow her eyes nervously.
Her eyes seemed to scan around, moving restlessly in search of something. Or better saying, someone.
Agatha didn’t notice until a chill ran down her body. The air became denser, the temperature around her suddenly dropped, and before she could process it, the little girl in front of her stood up and ran.
Her breath stopped when she could hear her voice, in the distance.
"Oye, Lirio, qué pasó?", Her tone voice's different from what Agatha has become accustomed to hearing over the years.
It's warm, loving, sweet as sugar that sticks to teeth. Agatha hasn't heard her speak like that since— Nicky.
The little girl's voice rang out, excitedly, breaking into the calm of the forest, making Agatha straighten her back, "Yo vi! Yo vi! Vi una bruja!"
"Where, where? Where, sis?" Another childsh voice said excitedly anxious, and Rio's laughter rang through the air, weak and distant but soft, dripping like honey into Agatha's ears, who closed her eyes, the past clinging to her like a curse.
Agatha's hands clench, her chest tightened as she stared at a fixed point between the trees.
With each passing minute, Agatha felt colder, a dark and heavy aura settled in, a clear sign of Rio nearby.
Once, she would have welcomed that creepy morbid atmosphere with open arms, Rio's tricks and sparks would have been the reason for even her smallest smiles, when Death's mere presence didn't fill her with panic and fear, grief and anger.
She should go, she needed to go, but her feet didn't listen to her mind, they were particularly allied with the feelings she buried deep in her heart for so long.
She had seen Rio some time ago, a few years ago, when she had merely let herself be found, leaving her clues of bodies for her (ex) lover.
In the past, she couldn't stand the idea of being away from Rio for so long, something she not so easily does nowadays.
It's a mistake!, her inner voice screamed, as she stared purposeless at the bodies.
The footsteps grew closer, along with Rio's voice, making the witch's shoulders straighten, "A witch? Well, there aren't many witches around here, muñequita, so, I suppose it's one that survived, hm? Shall we take a look?"
"What? No way!" One of them screamed, and the footsteps quickened until Agatha saw one of the girls appear. She blinked in confusion, her mouth open, and her dark eyes shone. "Vivie's right! There's a witch! A witch!"
Rio’s laughter sounded closer now, and Agatha turned to look at her as she emerged from the trees.
She was soft, strangely soft, even in her dark and stunning work clothes, her surroundings shimmering with lightness.
She was holding one of the girls in her arms, a light smile decorated her pink lips as she looked down at the little one in her lap.
She pointed her finger at Agatha, "She, mami, the witch, the witch!"
Mami, it echoed through her bones, burning her with surprise like a slap.
Agatha saw Rio's smile fade as her eyes fell upon her. It hurt to see her face darken as soon as their eyes met, Agatha was the one who usually did that, becoming cold and distant in the presence of Death.
Being the one being looked at coldly hits different.
Being the one who isn't called mama hits different.
Rio swallows hard, the little girl in her arms buries her face in the crook of her neck, her blue eyes blinking curiously at Agatha. The other girl wraps her arms around Rio's legs, a smile threatening to tug at the corners of her lips.
"Agatha."
The two girls looked at Rio at the same time, while Agatha's heart stretched and contracted to the ends of her rib cage.
It was the softness with which she said her name that made a sigh escape her lips. There was a hardness in her eyes that Agatha didn’t remember, and curiosity seeped beneath her skin.
She wanted to know about this, this new thing, to peel back the new layers of Rio she didn’t know and get to the bottom of it, to the roots of what had changed her.
She wanted to know their story by looking at her like they used to. More than anything, from the bottom of her heart, she wanted to be seen, to be admired, to make Rio's eyes sparkle as she looked at her, and to tremble before her ravenous gaze.
She unconsciously took a step forward, but Rio's eyes were on the little girl in her arms, and Agatha couldn't understand, couldn't bear the sight of it, how it reminded her of herself.
How did this, how they, those girls, happen?
Her body ached. Her chest heaved. The question was scratching at her throat to be spoken. Agatha felt pain, but she remained there.
"Do you know her, mami?" The little girl turned to look at Agatha. She looked more fragile that way, her little fingers twitching against Rio's skin, as if the feel of her beneath her fingers was an anchor.
Mommy's girl, so attached. She contented herself with observing the purple witch from afar, looking at her curiously.
The other little girl tightened her grip around Rio's legs, and lifted her face to look at her, the same question swimming in her eyes. One of Rio's hands slid into her hair, gently tugging it behind her ear.
Rio’s lips curved into a soft smile. Not one like the one she would give Agatha, one illusory, one that hides things children don’t need to think about, “Yes, lirios. We’ve met, she’s a—.”
"You don't have friends, mami." The little girl on Rio's legs said sharply, one of her hands going to her waist, looking at her sister with a knowing look.
It was Agatha who was suddenly surprised by the little girl's quick response.
Rio just looked at the little girl, a smile playing on her lips as she nodded, "Okay, know-it-all. I think you two should head home."
As the other girl was placed on the ground, they exclaimed sadly to their mother, "But why?!"
There was something about the way Rio acted around those two that made her feel like she had met them before.
She couldn't get it out of her mind, couldn't make the nostalgia go away. They were as familiar to her as Agatha's younger years in Salem and the adoring looks Rio used to give her back then.
Maybe it was the way they acted around Death, as if she were nothing more than their mother, and just this, just mami.
Agatha suddenly found herself remembering the way Nicky acted around her. Witchkiller or not, Nicholas never said a single word about it; Agatha would always be his mother.
She took a few steps forward, allowing herself to wonder if Rio knew how she felt now. A sick satisfaction ran through Agatha's thoughts, raising the hypothesis that, like Nicholas, those two shouldn't be alive either.
“Well, I’m a busy witch, you know, babies”, They nodded, and Rio smiled, “I let you two come with me, but only this far, I’ll do the rest. Edward will take you home.”
There's a crow hovering above them, Agatha only now notices. One of the thousands of souls who serve Rio unconditionally, the purple witch wonders if he remembers her.
She definitely remembers him, always nagging on Rio's ears, advising her to leave Agatha.
The little girl with raven hair and white locks pouted, and pointed at Agatha, "That's because of her?"
"Alma Violeta", Rio began, her understanding voice and gentle face clouded over. Agatha absorbed the new information carefully, the girl's name sounded delicate, Alma Violeta, "I haven't seen Agatha in a while. I'll just say 'hi' and end it here, 'kay? See you at home?"
Rio said, cupping Violeta's little face, her chubby rosy cheeks puff out a little, then she sighs in defeat, nodding at her mother.
She bends down to their level, and both girls kiss Rio's cheeks, walking away into the forest. The crow lands on a low branch, close to where Rio is standing.
"Edward." Agatha greets, a fake smile on her face. He never liked her, the humanity she gave Rio. He probably doesn't like those two kids either.
The crow looks only at Rio, who sighs, and waves at him. He takes off low, heading in the direction where the twins went, leaving Agatha and Rio alone with each other.
Agatha met her eyes, once molten brown, now petrified by her own coldness. Was her own hurt so easily seen, or had time not been kind to her, and had Rio gotten worse at hiding her emotions over the years?
She'd never been good at keeping secrets, keeping pain to herself, pushing it all away from Agatha, but the wound in her face was unmistakable.
She was no longer alone, she thought as she noted the tightness in her muscles, now that those two were gone.
"Alma Violeta and...?" Agatha broke the silence, catching the surprised glint in Rio's eyes. It was always satisfying to surprise a being who, technically, knew and would know everything.
Rio's jaw clenched momentarily, before she blurted out, "Lola Azaelia. Violeta and Azaelia."
"Hmm." Rio blinked as Agatha hummed, the tension between them strange. Not in a good way, a way they were used to. Agatha knew what she wanted to ask, Rio knew what she would ask.
"So... you're a mother now?", Agatha’s tone was sharp and acidic, and for a brief moment, she felt her heart break at the way Rio looked at her.
She knew better. Fate had been treacherous, placing Rio at a crossroads impossible to escape. Once, the boy she had loved, the one she had brought to life with all her light, the child she had waited tirelessly for, laid a lifelong plan for, given her loyalty and protection to — in the end, herself, Death, had derailed her own path with a single, final breath.
It wasn't fair to Rio, just as it wasn't fair to Agatha.
They stared at each other for a moment, and Agatha swore she could feel nervousness emanating from Rio as she gathered the strength to say:
"You're too."
And Agatha Harkness felt her chest sink with things she couldn't describe. The world seemed to fall apart as she absorbed this fact — for it was rare for Rio to lie about things like this.
Mother. She's a mother. Again.