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Smoke rose from long furrows in the ground punctuated only by corpses and rubble as Agatha Harkness walked amongst them. Occasionally, she lifted a random arm or leg with the toe of her boot, testing for shreds of life. The earth itself bore the scars of the violence that befell this town, and a faint ozone-like smell of magic wafted occasionally on the wind.
She heard a groan to her left, she followed the sound to a young man of about 18. Agatha extended her hand to test for the pull of magic when she heard a humming that seemed to emanate from the very ground beneath her feet. Something else threaded through the battlefield smoke - an older power that made Agatha’s teeth ache and her bones sing.
Turning towards the noise, her gaze landed on the most beautiful and terrifying sight. A pale silhouette broke through the fog. She bore fine fabrics and wore a full black hood. The woman’s dark hair pooled around her neck like spectral hands cradling her head. Distracted by her appearance, Agatha hardly noticed red poppies sprouting in the prints left by the woman’s bare feet.
The stranger’s magic did not feel like that of the villagers Agatha had encountered. This was ancient and chthonic. This woman’s power rolled off her in waves reminiscent of deep earth, of roots growing in darkness and rivers flowing underground.
The cloaked woman stopped in front of her and looked down at the boy. She reached down to touch his face, calm and graceful. Agatha came back to herself when she realized that his life - his power - was being pulled away.
“He is mine,” Agatha took a step forward, angry.
“No, dearest, he is not,” the woman said. And when the stranger removed her hand from his face, the boy was gone. His spirit lifted, pulled up and out of his body, moving to stand behind her as docile as an animal being led by its bridle.
Agatha watched, stunned, as the woman turned away and began moving from body to body, pulling up spirits that filed one-by-one behind her like ducklings. Agatha trailed along behind her as well, entranced by the spell of this witch, whose power felt like deep caves and sorrow. Finally, Agatha shook herself from the wonder of watching her work and cleared her throat.
“You can’t just take them all. I want my cut.”
The woman spun around and looked Agatha in the eye. “You are brave, Sweet Pea.”
“I’m not brave. I’m pissed, and I want what’s mine. I didn’t spend weeks orchestrating this battle for some... for you to just swoop in and take my hard work.”
“You did this?” The woman looked impressed.
“A girl’s gotta eat.” Agatha grinned.
“Show me.”
Eyeing her suspiciously, Agatha said. “I think you took them all.”
“No, over there,” the woman pointed with a long finger. “I hear his death rattle, but he still lives, and he is a witch.”
Agatha moved to be beside the man and crooked her fingers to coax his magic out, and it came in a slow stream to rest as a swirl in her palm. Agatha grinned proudly, lust for power temporarily quieted. Turning to the woman, she curtsied sarcastically.
“Thank you for your selfless generosity, Miss...?”
“Rio. Call me Rio. All things flow unto me.”
Agatha smirked. “I bet they do.”
Rio reached out and pulled free the spirit of the man Agatha had just drained of power. The man’s spirit turned to Agatha and gave her a rude gesture before finding his place behind Rio in the queue. Rio turned to lead the dead procession once again as Agatha stood with Rio’s name dancing on her lips.
“Rio! Wait!” Agatha called, just as Rio’s dark form was about to disappear into the smoke again.
Rio turned around, flashing a skeletal grin. “Yes, Beautiful?”
“What’s with the flowers? You are... growing poppies.”
“Were you expecting something grotesque? The flowers are as much mine as the dead are.”
“That actually...” Agatha weighed her words before finishing lamely, “makes sense.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, I have to go,” Rio paused. “This has been... unexpectedly interesting. Until next time, then?”
“Was that a question or a promise?” Agatha called after her. No answer came as the spirits followed Rio into the mist, leaving Agatha alone among the poppies.
Gathering her cloak close, Agatha began the long walk to find a camp spot far enough from the battlefield that the stench of the dead wouldn’t disturb her sleep. Each step she took carried her further from the killing field, but the scent that lingered most was Rio’s power. As darkness fell, Agatha chose a small clearing where the trees grew too tightly for graves to be hidden beneath their roots.
That night Agatha crouched beside a woodfire, tossing branches on the flames. Her bedroll lay a few feet to the west. A rabbit roasted on a spit stretching over the flames. Its rich scent intensified as small droplets of fat fell and sizzled on the coals. A twig cracked.
Looking over the fire, she saw Rio emerging from the shadows, making no sound except where she chose to. She held a bouquet in her hands, and where her bare feet touched the ground, tiny shoots pushed through the fallen leaves.
The air changed with Rio’s presence - it grew heavier, older somehow, as though the clearing itself recognized what walked there. Unlike the battlefield’s lingering ozone, Rio’s power settled like soil after rain.
“Those better not be for me,” Agatha said, tossing the remaining stick on the flames. “I’m not the flowers type.”
“Ah yes, of course not,” Rio dropped the bouquet to her side.
“Are you going to loom there all night, or would you like to sit?” Agatha gestured to the log beside her.
“I’m... rarely asked to stay.”
“First time for everything. Even you, I imagine.”
Before taking her seat, Rio placed the flowers in a circle around the fire pit. The flames cast dancing shadows on the surrounding trees, and occasional pops from the burning wood punctuated the night’s silence. A cool breeze carried the musty scent of fallen leaves and approaching autumn.
“Do you even need the warmth of a fire?” Agatha asked, pulling her cloak tighter against the chill of the night as it continued to fall.
“No. But I find I rather like it all the same.” Rio’s hand drifted over the forest floor, coaxing up even more poppies, their stems swaying toward her touch like iron filings to a magnet. “Life is funny like that. Things you don’t need, turn out to be things you want.”
“You just jump past casual conversation, don't you?” Agatha stood to pull the rabbit off the fire.
“I converse with the dying. It’s not like this with them.”
“There are other things we can do besides talk.” Agatha said, wondering how many mortals had ever seen Death blush.