Chapter Text
She had been following Nicky all his life.
From the very moment of his conception, Rio could feel him. While she created the very things necessary for life – rich nutrients from decay and rot – creating actual life from them depended on the complexity of the organism. Flowers, fungi, they were easy: they often grew from her on their own. Calling them forth was as natural as she was, as well as letting them wither. Greencraft was her domain, and while yes, all life stemmed from it...well. Some life was more complex than others. Indeed, while Greencraft dealt with the entire cycle of life of all things, something as complex as a human life required more than just what Rio could forthrightly give. She could nourish it, but create it? That often required two parties of opposite sex.
So, the conception of any human was largely outside of Rio’s hands. Her domain was more if the fruits of human sexual labor thrived or withered. But she didn’t have control over that: she could not choose who lived or died. She was merely the cycle of it. If the child would live – and indeed, for how long – was not her decision.
She knew this, and yet, she had tried anyway. For Agatha. Even long after Agatha seemed to abandon the very idea – even after their first feverish attempts had yielded nothing, even after Agatha had long stopped asking for Rio to try once more, for her – Death had still tried. How could she not? After all, the womb was willing. All she had needed was a spark. Or, something more her style: a seed.
Easier said than done. A willing womb was half the battle. And Rio knew – even years beyond Agatha going quiet on the matter – that Agatha still so yearned for that which they both quietly thought to be impossible. And so, secretly, Death had never abandoned her attempts: never stopped trying to gift Agatha that which she so desired, and deserved. A family. A new family. A chance to start anew.
She wanted to give Agatha that second chance.
So when it had finally worked – when finally Rio had managed to plant a seed that took root – she had been both elated, and unsure. After all, Agatha carried Death’s child. She could feel it, growing. New life, yes, but...a life that was not fit for the world of the living.
She had known such a thing would be a possibility. After all, she was disrupting the natural order, doing this for Agatha. Upsetting the balance. And, unfortunately for them both: she always balanced herself out, in the end.
She didn’t have the heart to tell Agatha, though. Not when Rio had seen how elated her lover was, when she had relayed the good news. Agatha’d had tears in her eyes, her cheeks rosy with excitement. She’d been breathless in her joy, pulling Rio into a crushing hug that had Rio clamping her jaw shut. She had not dared to breathe a word, in that moment. She had never seen Agatha so blissful.
Something that, in the back of her mind, she supposed she should be a bit more upset about: had she not been bringing her lover such exhilaration for their entire relationship?
As quickly as the thought had occurred, it had all but disappeared. It wasn’t the time for such petty thoughts, and so she had focused solely on Agatha. Her excitement, her elation. After all: Agatha’s excitement, was Rio’s excitement. Agatha’s happiness was her happiness. And it had been that way for many, many years, at that point. And so she had simply embraced her lover in comfort and congratulations, holding her close.
Death still came for the boy, of course. On the day of his birth. She had to. That was the simple – though very unfortunate – truth of the matter.
Not that Agatha had taken kindly to it: “You do this and I will hate you forever!”
The words cut Rio more than she cared to admit. More than she would have expected.
Rio had understood Agatha’s pain. She couldn’t quite empathize: pain such as Agatha’s was reserved almost uniquely and exclusively for humans – beings who had been built to endure such torment.
Rio was no such creature, but she could still sympathize. She had seen how grief could break the often resolute human spirit. She understood such grief must go deep: form roots far into the earth of the human psyche. Death knew losing the child would not be easy for Agatha, but the words still surprised her.
Hate her? Had she not been the one that had blessed Agatha with the pregnancy in the first place? Rio understood it was not ideal, how quickly the boy would be gone, but was it not enough to have had him at all? Was it not enough that Rio had worked endlessly – since the moment Agatha had asked it of her – and that she had finally managed it? Did it mean nothing that the reason they were even in this position, was because Rio had already bent what rules she could to even produce such a complex life in the first place?
But goddess, Agatha’s pain – physical, emotional – had so tugged at her heartstrings. Clearly, it did not matter to Agatha, in that moment of giving birth, all that Rio had already done for her: her mind and body otherwise preoccupied. Rio chose not to take it personally: she supposed, were she capable of feeling pain the same way Agatha was, she would understand better.
Still. That could hardly change what had to be. Despite part of her – the part that had become accustomed to human feeling: to human convention and to human emotion – vehemently wishing she did not have to do what must come to pass.
It wasn’t like she enjoyed seeing her lover in pain: not this kind, anyway. It wasn’t like this was entertaining for her. Indeed, if Agatha’s elation was her own: then Agatha’s pain was hers, as well. And in that moment, it did not feel good. It almost made her feel sick, stomach churning within her as a war waged in her head.
She had a job to do. She should not – no, she could not – make an exception. There was simply no way: she was inevitable. If he did not die in that moment, he would die very soon after. All she could possibly offer was time, and even that seemed worse than his current fate: indeed, if Agatha was so ready to hate her before he was even born, what of her feelings once she’d had time to get to know him? Fall even deeper in love – see his potential, see the myriad of possibilities and hopes and dreams for his future – only for all of it to slip through her fingers?
No. It was better Death take him now, no matter how reticent Rio was to actually do it. The fact she was even considering allowing more time spoke to just how weak she truly was, when it came to Agatha Harkness.
Indeed, she had never heard such anguish as she did when Agatha cried out, “Please, my love!”
And in that moment – in that cry of pure agony – all of Death’s resolve had crumbled.
“I can offer only time.” the words pained her to say. Millennia, she had never willingly stepped away from her role. Unfathomable history of time, she had never varied from her cycle, never strayed from her cause. Untold billions, trillions, quadrillions, septillions – numbers no living being could possibly fathom – of lives had begged her for more time. Had thrown themselves at her feet, supplicant and sobbing. Kings, pharaohs, gods – it did not matter. Death did not give more time.
Death spared no one.
And indeed: she was not sparing him, either. This unborn child – her child – would know the world of the living. But Agatha was just putting off the inevitable. Rio was just putting off the inevitable.
But it had torn her black heart in two, to hear such suffering from her lover.
And so she had crumbled. For the first time – and indeed, the only time she would ever dare – she granted more time. She walked away from all that she was, leaving Agatha in the wood to attend to her new baby.
Her new life, her new son.
Death’s child.
---
Agatha, Rio had no doubt, knew that Rio followed them. Besides Agatha’s thirst for power piling bodies high – besides Agatha always courting Death in that manner – Rio watched them. Rio observed not as passive death, but as conscious Death. Not in physical form, but in a form that was present. Indeed, Agatha’s little habit made it rather easy for Rio to know, at any given moment, where her lover may be.
She wanted to know of Agatha, of course. And the boy, as well. But she was cautious, Agatha’s words ringing in her metaphorical ears.
“I will hate you forever!”
She had given the child more time, but inevitably, it would come to end. And what would Agatha do, then? Would she make good on her threat? Glare at Rio with nothing but pure hatred in her eyes? Or would she understand the sheer immensity of the thing Death had done, for Agatha and her son? Would she realize just what it meant, that Death had given more time? Would she thank Rio, even with tears in her eyes?
Or would Agatha scorn her?
Before the boy, Rio would have said that Agatha would understand. Would grasp the totality of Death, and the feat(s) that Death had pulled off, for her. Before the boy, Rio had faith that Agatha understood what she was, and accepted her as such. After all: Agatha enjoyed collecting bodies with her. Agatha kissed her fiercely, protectively, lovingly, after almost every kill. Surrounded by death, Agatha had shown her nothing but love. Indeed, it had seemed that Agatha had loved Death as she was, for ages.
Rio’d had no reason to believe that would change.
But after the boy? With such venomous words spat at her? Spat at her in the midst of incredible pain, Rio knew, but, still. The seed of doubt had been planted, and Rio was not one to hide from difficult truths. And, indeed: now she was not so sure of her answer.
So she had bided her time, returning to her lover. She had let Agatha and the boy have some time alone: left Agatha to enjoy the new life that Death had blessed her with. But eventually, Rio missed the arms of her lover: she missed her warmth, her scent.
And so, she had chosen to reveal herself.
When first she appeared in a physical form, Rio was relieved to be greeted with a warm embrace.
Rio had felt her body sag into Agatha’s, reassurance flooding her at being so lovingly welcomed back into her lover’s life. She wrapped her arms around Agatha’s frame, holding her close as she buried her nose into the nape of her neck, inhaling her scent. It relaxed her even further, doubly comforted that her seed of doubt had not taken deeper root.
“Thank you, my love.” Agatha whispered quietly, and Rio could feel the smile on her lips against her ear, the sigh of her breath tantalizing on Rio’s solid flesh.
Rio felt affection and love radiate within her. “I have missed you.” she said quietly, pulling back just enough to be able to look at Agatha, face to face.
Agatha smiled. “And I, you. You could have come along sooner, you know.”
Which was...true, she supposed. By sheer technicality, nothing had physically stopped her from materializing to her love. No spell kept her at bay, no communication or wish for her to stay away. Yet she could not quite shake the feeling that the words were not entirely true. Agatha had needed time, even if she herself hadn’t known that nor asked for it. Rio knew that showing up too soon would perhaps spook the witch. After all: the last time they had seen each other, was for Rio to collect a body.
Perhaps Agatha would have been quick to jump to that conclusion again, so soon after seeing her. And Rio hadn’t wanted that. She hadn’t exactly liked the threat of being hated forever, empty as that threat may have been.
“I wanted you to have time with him.” Rio said honestly.
Agatha’s smile faltered. “You have not come for him already, surely? It has been but a few months!”
Ah. Rio felt herself flinch, at the words. At the tone: accusatory. Agatha started to pull from her embrace, distrust on her features, and seeing it made Rio’s heart ache all over again.
This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid...
“I have not, Agatha.” she quickly insisted, shaking her head for emphasis and gently grabbing her lover’s wrists. “I came only to see you.”
Agatha breathed a heavy sigh of relief, smile returning to her face. “Good. That is good.”
It was...disappointing. Demoralizing. Rio tried not to let it get to her: tried to push it away. Clearly, their last visit was still fresh in Agatha’s mind, the wound still a bit raw. That was fine.
It wasn’t, but it was fine enough. Rio could live with it: could understand the defensiveness, even if it was unwarranted. Even if it was moot: Rio would have the boy one day, one way or another. And there was very little that Agatha could do to stop it: to stop her.
But it would do her no good to remind her of that. Indeed, it would make things actively worse. It would be like salting that raw wound, and Rio did not want to cause more pain that had already come to pass, so she did not say a word.
Instead, she leaned forward, capturing her lover’s lips, her intentions heated and obvious. Finally laying claim once more to the woman who had carried her child, and bearing that woman’s claim in return.
She had left early in the morning, bidding her lover adieu with a soft kiss and tender whispers of promised returns. She only glanced at the baby – asleep in his small makeshift bed of leaves and stolen blankets.
She had seen Agatha stiffen out of the corner of her eye. As though Rio aimed to take the little thing, right then and there. As though Rio would be so cruel: coming to Agatha under false pretenses. Coming to Agatha under the guise of love and reconciliation, only to turn her around and stab her in the back.
Rio found that almost stung more than everything else, but she had once more forced down the feeling. Agatha was wary, she wasn’t in her right mind: she was still healing, still watchful, still worried.
She was being a mother, essentially. Protective of her son. It was almost admirable.
And, truly, were Rio anyone else, it would be admirable. But she was the very thing that Agatha was attempting to protect the boy from, and so, despite herself: it was a little upsetting.
She had silently disappeared into the wood, ignoring the (perhaps unintentional) insult to her honesty and her patience.