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Rio always knew this was coming – but she realised later that this was the last moment she'd been happy, that morning when Agatha joined her at the table, not yet fully woken up, hair tousled and blue eyes muted by a lingering remnant of sleep.
Rio welcomes her with a wink, as the witch sat down in front of her: "Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?".
Agatha raises her head to look Rio in the eye, and that was when she knew. Her eyes weren't dulled by sleep – the rare softness she could see in them said otherwise. Agatha was focused on something else, something that brought her genuine happiness. A seldom occurrence for the notorious Witch Killer, by all accounts; Rio could testify of that herself.
Agatha dreamt of something and that vision didn't leave her mind; and that was concerning. Because if the witch was good at anything, it was definitely at burying her feelings and shielding her weaknesses – even from Rio. But this time, it left her shaken enough to let it slip past her defenses. And Agatha has had nightmares before, numerous times, suddenly waking up and gasping and clutching at her chest in their dark bedroom, until Rio managed to calm her down and held her through the night - this was obviously not a nightmare.
Rio looks out of the window, watching the sunlight settle on the garden outside. A butterfly is gently flying around a patch of wild flowers. Her fingertips tingle.
Agatha didn't hear her greeting, too absorbed in the contemplation of the cup of tea now held in her hands. "Love. I had..."
Rio knew. "You had a dream."
Agatha's eyes snapped back to her, tone incredulous. "How do you know?"
How could I not? Am I not the one who knows you inside and out? She settles on avoiding the topic altogether: it isn't relevant – but this moment is.
"Do you want to talk about it?", Rio reluctantly asks, carefully, and each word is a self-injected poison seeping in her veins. You don't. Pretend like you don't, let this vanish away. Don't say it, please- please.
Of course, Agatha slowly nods. Because Rio asked, because she offered: she had to. This is how it goes, and Rio- and Death knows some things are unavoidable, even with all the willpower in the world.
Her fingertips tingle again, and unconsciously she reaches with her magic. She turns around, pretending to busy herself with a pot on a countertop, and looks in her hand. It opens on a small stem with round, soft leaves, covered in a soft, white velvet of hair, pink flowers nested in pinkish bracts.
"Cretan dittany. Obviously." she whispers to herself.
"What?", says a confused Agatha somewhere behind her.
Rio's hand clenches around the plant, letting it wither, rot and turn to dust between her fingers. She turns around, putting a small smile on her face. "Nothing, sweetheart. Tell me about your dream."
Agatha takes a deep breath : "I dreamt of a child." She looks at her with such tenderness, such hope that Rio feels her heart break. Outside, a butterfly falls amongst wild flowers. Rio knows: this was the beginning of their end. But with Agatha looking at her this way, how could she not falter? And her heart breaks again as she smiles at the witch, because she loves her.
"Rio, my love. Would you stop running from me and at least hear me out?"
Fire crackled in the fireplace, the sky now dark outside. Rio finally gives in and sits down in front of the hearth, letting Agatha catch up to her.
"Agatha. I can't do this and you know it.", she says, feeling suddenly very tired.
The other woman makes a loud exclamation. "You are a green witch – the green witch. Life, growth, fertility, all of this is your domain!"
Rio sighs. "Do me the favour of being honest with yourself. Rot, decay and sickness are my prerogative as well. Is this what you wish for?"
"Fine, then! The whole cycle of life is yours – yours to take, yours to manipulate! Won't you do that for me? For us?"
Rio feels the frustration, the anger, the fear bubbling up and threatening to seize her throat. Agatha is still loudly talking, pacing in front of her with large gestures. "-and you can make life out of nothing, I've seen it, flowers blooming out of thin air-" She can taste bitter oregano and peppermint and ashes under her tongue. Power surges from within her and she rises.
"I am Death, Agatha!" The otherworldly, disincarnated low echo of her voice lingers in the silent room. Something glistens at the corner of her eyes. "Do you realise what you're asking? Do you realise who you're asking?"
Without a word, Agatha softly brings her hands to cup her face. If surprisingly shy fingers wipe out tears from Death's face, nobody comments on it. "I do. I am asking the one who owns my heart to create a child with me. And I am ready to face the risks of that request."
But you're not, you're not, you won't accept it. Rio knows it, she can see the path ahead clear as day. She will have to take the child at some point, and Agatha will not accept it, and she will hate her. And both of them will be alone, and spiteful, and the loss will be too great to be ever accepted.
Because Agatha hungers for two things in life: power, and everything that comes with it, everything that brought Rio to her, death and lust and strength and connivance and glee, and a worthy match; and love, everything that made Agatha stay with her, complicity and companionship and lust and affection and sense of belonging, and a worthy match.
Rio knows her secret hunger for love and how it matches the one for power, not that Agatha would ever admit it. She enjoys power far too much, and Rio enjoys it with her. But still she knows she will come second after the child.
And it would be fine, if only -if only !- she wasn't the one to take them to the other side. Because a mother will hate death for taking her child, and Agatha will hate Rio for taking their child.
But her heart -this treacherous, feeble thing- can't oppose the tenderness it feels, and the love she knows to be genuine. The warmth of fingers on her skin and the warmth of skin under her fingers. A heartbeat hidden behind the flesh, thundering and yearning, calm and at ease. A loving gaze from across a bed full of promises or a grove full of bodies.
And the small, feeling part of her that probably shouldn't exist is singing in a language of mortal creatures, a language of hope and want and longing and love, of maybe, just maybe, it would be worth the heartbreak.
Rio always knew it wouldn't. She tries anyway – what else is she supposed to do?