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At first, you didn’t know me.
I was a shape moving rapidly, nervous
At the edge of your vision. A flat, high voice,
Dark slash of hair across my cheekbone.
I made myself present, though never distinct.
Huntington, Ghost
Someone was about to die.
Someone was always about to die. Or was dying at that moment. Or had just died.
After all, when didn’t even matter.
Everyone, sooner or later, would meet her.
And she was patient.
She had no rush.
She came to be when time had started flowing, she will cease to exist when time would as well. She was eternal, as much as eternity would last.
So, she could wait when waiting was necessary, but not a second more. Many had tried cheating her, all have failed. She was unavoidable. To escape her, your only option would be not to be born at all. Otherwise, she was waiting for you, patiently, at the end.
But she was kind when people were kind to her. She liked people who smiled at her the most, people who asked questions not out of fear, but out of curiosity: Where are we going? Is my mum going to be there? And my dog? My cat? Is this your job? Or it’s more like a calling? Did you choose it, or did it choose you? Are you happy? And she had a soft spot for children, of course: they asked the best questions.
It wasn’t her choice, who was going to die and who was going to live at any given time. She was just… Death. Did she enjoy collecting bodies? Actually, yes. She liked people. She liked talking to them, she liked watching them and learning their ways and their languages and their customs, like reading, eating, loving. Killing.
Animals were not that bad, either. They were mostly peaceful, sometimes playful, trying to wrestle with her for fun. But they knew, better than people, how life went in the end.
Gods and Goddesses had died, too, and they had always been the worst. Refusing to accept their mortality, themselves believing in the lie of eternal life they had people eat up all over the world. And deities were dying faster, in those days. In all honestly, they could not die fast enough for her. She wanted them gone, never to be heard off, never to be dealt with.
Mostly, however, she didn’t mind being Death. She was what she was and that’s that.
But that night someone was about to die, and something was feeling funny, inside of her. Different.
It wasn’t like she had never experienced changes. Changes happen at any time, everywhere. Someone was dead, in that exact moment, but someone was born, too, in the same instant.
Changes, though, were always outside her, never inside.
She was Death.
She couldn’t change.
And yet, something new was happening somewhere.
North America, it’s what the living were calling it recently. Salem Woods, to be more specific. All it took for her was a thought and there she was, hiding behind an old tree, in her —apparently—human form. Black hair, brown eyes, red lips.
Someone there was about to die, of this she was sure, but, strangely enough, she knew nothing more.
*
She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power.
She obeyeth but the pleading
Of her heart, and the high leading
Of her soul, unto this hour.
Slow advancing, halting, creeping,
Comes the Woman to the hour!—
She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power.
Perkins Gilman, She walketh veiled and sleeping
Agatha was freezing.
Her mother hadn’t allowed her to wear a cape before two of their coven had dragged her into the Woods. So now she was magically tied to the stake, her hands as cold as her mother’s heart.
She had tried, oh she had tried so hard, to make Evanora love her only daughter as a daughter should be loved by a mother. She had tried and tried and tried time and time again. Agatha had always failed.
As a child, her mother would send Agatha outside, in the woods, as soon as she had her friends over. Agatha would spend hours picking only the most beautiful flowers to make a garland out of it, a gift for her mother. And if it was winter – and flowers were not to be found, Agatha would search for the brightest and most beautiful pebble to give her mother, even digging through the snow. She soon stopped. Her mother always threw the flowers and the pebbles away.
«What good can a gift by someone so evil do?» Evanora would ask her daughter.
Agatha was evil, she knew that. Her mother had told her so. Evanora couldn’t love her own daughter, and it was all Agatha’s fault because she was evil.
She had always known.
Yes, she had tried. To be loved. To be loving. To be good.
She was still trying.
She had started to study witchcraft, trying to be good.
Her mother was a witch, after all, like her grandmother had been and her grand-grandmother. As long as it was possible to know, every woman, on her mother’s side, had been a witch. Her father’s side, she didn’t know. But it didn’t matter, it was her mother’s love she wanted.
And she was going to be a witch, just like her mother. Actually, she was going to be the greatest witch the world had ever known, just to make her mother proud. Evanora would have to love her, then, to love her extraordinary daughter, she would have no choice.
So, Agatha studied. She studied in secret, when Evanora wasn’t home. She studied all of her mother’s writing and her grandmother’s and of every Harkness woman before her. She studied every single book that was in their little home and every book her mother’s friends – her coven – would forget in their house. When they had their meeting, Evanora would still send her away, even if she was not a child anymore, but Agatha had started eavedropping, hiding under the window. She had never been caught, as the coven was not too preoccupied with being spied on, the Harkness cottage being quite outside the village. Agatha learnt everything she could and more. And she was good at it. She had a thirst for knowledge so fierce that no matter how much she managed to hear or read, it was never enough. She wanted more, she wanted to know everything, she wanted to uncover every secret, to explore every possibility. She wanted to know magic so deeply that not only her mind would be full of it, but also her soul. She wanted to be one with it, she wanted to lose herself in it.
She decided that Mabon would be a good time to talk to her mother and the coven, to show off what she had learned so far, to ask to be taught more. To be part of them. Her mother had been furious. The coven, however, took a vote. She was clearly a promising young witch. She could not be left alone, she could have become dangerous. She needed guidance. And discipline.
Yes, yes, yes, Agatha had said. Anything, she would do anything they’d ask, she didn’t care as long as she was a part of the coven.
It didn’t last.
The coven had soon realized she knew too much, she knew everything they knew and more. She was better than them and more capable. She already was dangerous. Her mother said she had always sensed evil in her, since her birth. Something had to be done to make things right.
Agatha pleaded. And denied – she didn’t steal knowledge, how do you steal knowledge? She heard things, she read books and that was what it was. Her power just… happened.
She cried, she pleaded, she hoped.
But no, no, no.
Her mother didn’t listen, her mother didn’t care. Her mother didn’t love her. And she never would.
So Agatha stopped trying.
Tied at the stake she stopped trying to earn her love.
She didn’t even know what being loved meant – no one had ever loved her anyway.
Love was only absence.
And delusion.
And grief.
She never had love, she didn’t need it.
Knowledge, however,… and power.
They blast her, seven witches at the same time.
And it hurt.
She was in pain, it burned. She felt something inside of her, something that she suspected was her soul, screaming in agony, twisting, almost giving up. That seven streams of magic felt like endless stabbing through her, her body, her heart, her mind.
And it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
It…
It tickled.
Painfully.
And then there was pleasure, too, mingled with the pain.
And power.
It stopped hurting.
And then her own mother attacked her.
Agatha tried to stop her. She already killed seven witches, that night. She didn’t mean to, but she did. She didn’t want to add Evanora to the list, despite everything.
«I can be good» she pleaded, one last time.
Don’t make me do it.
Don’t make me kill you.
Don’t.
«No, you cannot» Evanora said, and Agatha stood watching, as her mother died in front of her.
And it felt good.
*
When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened […]
Genesis 3, 6-7
She was suddenly aware of her own breathing.
And the blood in her veins.
How cold her hands were.
How warm, in contrast, her heart felt.
Her heart.
Her beating heart.
She waited, motionless, hidden by the Woods, until that girl – that extraordinary, fearless, powerful girl, was gone.
She felt confused – had she had a beating heart before? Did she use to breathe? She used to feel cold? She couldn’t remember. All of a sudden, she felt more… awake. It felt like she had been going through time with both her eyes closed and now they were wide open.
It was exhilarating.
She smiled and then a chuckle escaped her lips – her freezing lips.
She had no idea what had just happened, she just knew that the girl had something to do with it. She came out of her hiding place, her feet making no noise hitting the ground gracefully.
She would ask that woman, the one who died last.
Mother, the girl had called her. But what kind of mother would try to kill her own daughter? Had she got a valid reason?
«Evanora Harkness» she called, in a whisper. In death, all names became known to her.
And you can’t hide from Death.
*
A woman in the shape of a monster,
a monster in the shape of a woman
the skies are full of them.
Rich, Planetarium
She didn’t want-
She hadn’t meant to-
She wasn’t-
Agatha reached the house where she and her mother had lived all their lives. She would have to leave: of this, she was sure. People would soon start asking questions. The other witches of the coven had been mothers, too. Better mothers, loving mothers. She knew, she had seen them with their children. That’s how she had learned that her mother didn’t love her and never had.
She had no mother, anymore, no coven.
She had nothing left, except for herself. And her knowledge of the craft.
She had to go.
She went into the only other room of the house, her mother’s room – which had been forbidden to her, of course. She looked into the trunk at the foot of the bed and fetched the biggest traveling bag she could find. Quickly, she scanned the rest of the room and grabbed everything that she didn’t want to leave behind: books, mostly, some hard-to-find potion ingredients, ink and paper. Back to the other room, she took some of her clothes and put them into the bag.
She touched her mother’s broach, now secured on her own shirt. It was hers, now. Her broach.
She had no time to spare. She had to go.
She had become a killer.
A witch killer.
She was evil, then, she could not be good.
After all, mothers always know best.
*
“All lovers believe they are inventing love.”
Carson, Eros the Bittersweet
Were you trying to kill your own daughter?, Death asked, as soon as Evanora Harkness was in the Underworld, which looked exactly like the world the woman had been living in. For now at least. Soon, it would change: for better, if the dead had been a good person while living, for worse if that had not been the case.
«My only regret is not succeeding», Evanora said.
Why? Death asked. This, she couldn’t understand.
«She is evil. I’ve known it since the moment she was born. I should have killed myself while pregnant and spared the world such an abomination».
Which was not, in Death’s opinion, an answer. People weren’t born evil or good. They were just born.
«You should have taken her, instead of me», Evanora added, which made Death laugh. Like she had any say about it.
It wasn’t the first time you had tried to kill her, was it?
Evanora refused to answer.
But she survived. Every time.
«They were supposed to be accidents, not murders. Accidents happen, especially to bad kids».
Kids are never bad. They are badly raised.
«And what do you know about it? Are you a mother?»
Death laughed again, before leaving. She didn’t want to stay around in Evanora’s Underworld, she strongly suspected it would soon turn into a dreadful place to spend eternity in. She could be mistaken, though, she was no judge of the dead. Or the living.
She went looking for the girl. She knew her magic trace now, she could sense it and follow it easily.
She found herself not too far from Salem, outside a little cottage. It was dark inside, but the full moon was bright enough to see. Death hid behind some bushes just under an open window, listening to the girl coming and going into the house. Her steps were urgent, impatient. Afraid.
Afraid?
What was she afraid of, with all that power inside of her?
Death lifted her head slightly, trying to look inside the window. She saw the girl, putting clothes inside an already full bag. The girl was… beautiful, Death would have said, and yet it wasn’t the right word. People were often beautiful, especially in death, but this girl… Looking at her felt like being punched right across the face: breathtaking. It also made Death feel hot inside her chest and her heart, her beating heart, was furious inside her, like it was trying to break free and reach the girl. Death smiled. Whatever the girl was doing to her, it was entirely new. And she liked it.
*
Love had a thousand shapes.
Woolf, To the Lighthouse
«Hello».
Agatha spun around, startled, blasting magic from her hands even before she realized what she was doing. The intruder ducked quickly, and Agatha’s magic hit the front door, destroying it.
«Nice» the newcomer said, now standing with a broad smile on her face. «Deserved, also. I should have knocked».
«Who are you?!» Agatha demanded, boiling with rage. What was happening?!
«Umh… Death, I guess you people call me. I don’t really have… a name».
Agatha looked at her for a couple of instants, full of disbelief. «Yeah, right. Sure. Of course. And I’m the Scarlet Witch».
«Really?» that unnerving woman said, taking a step forward.
«No! And don’t move» Agatha shouted, new magic flowing between her fingers. «Or I’ll blast you again. And I won’t miss this time».
«Are you sure?» the other said, right before taking another step. Agatha tried to hit her again with her magic, but the woman dodged it easily, still smiling.
«Stay away!» Agatha shouted, a slight note of panic reaching her voice. She hoped the other woman didn’t notice. This time, however, the woman stopped, raising her head.
«Sorry. Didn’t want to… scare you».
«I’m not scared».
«Of course not».
«Who are you?» Agatha asked again, starring.
«I’ve just told you, you people call me Death».
Agatha frowned. Could it be possible? She was a witch, she knew that things others believed to be false were, actually, true. But this…
Only one way to find out.
«Prove it»
«What?» the woman asked, confused.
«Prove it. Show me. Make me believe» Agatha said.
The intruder smiled, and then she stopped looking like a woman all of a sudden. She was still smiling, thought. Agatha breath got caught in her throat, she let her purple go. She closed her mouth as soon as she realized she was starring, gaping at the spectral face of the stranger in front of her. She was… perfect. Agatha had never seen, in her entire life, someone or something as beautiful as… Death.
She looked peaceful and serene and safe.
Agatha took a small step toward her. «Thank you», she said. And then, «Have you come for me?».
Death’s smile became wider, somehow. «Aren’t you scared?»
«Why would I be? I know who you are, now. And that you weren’t lying to me».
Death nodded, then became human again. Her eyes remained the same and Agatha found herself unable to stop starring. She took another step forward. «Have you come for me?» she asked again, in a whisper.
«Yes» Death said, smiling brightly. «I mean, no. Not really. Not… This is not about… work».
«I’m not… I’m not dead? Or… about to die?» Agatha asked, tentatively.
«No, no, it doesn’t look so».
«Oh. Okay. I guess. Fine. Whatever. So… Why are you here, again?».
«Because… I wanted to» Death said.
«Umh… And why did you want to? And I’m—I’m sorry, I know I’m asking many questions, it’s just that I—I’m a bit confused, at the moment. I had quite a rough night, actually, pretty busy».
«Oh, I know! And thank you for the bodies, you know… Witches bodies even, very interesting. And very rare».
«Sure! You’re welcome, any time!»
«Oh, really? Is that an offer?»
«What?»
*
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
Dickinson, I’m nobody! Who are you?
Death took a step forward to the girl, who didn’t flinch this time. She felt… like she had never felt before. Many humans had seen her as Death, with the skull and the dagger and everything. Some had been scarred, some not. But the girl was not dead and she was neither about to die. She was alive. And she looked… more comfortable, now.
Curious.
«Is that an offer? You know… You take the power, I take the bodies?» Death explained.
The girl shrugs. «I don’t know. I didn’t plan to… You know, become an orphan overnight. I thought… I thought my mother wouldn’t… I mean, she is- was still my mother, after all. And yet she…» the girl stopped talking and, instead, mimicked Evanora blasting her own daughter with magic. «An eye opener for sure, I must admit. Nevertheless, I don’t really have any plan, at the moment».
The girl took a step toward Death, a cautious smile on her face.
Death shook her head slightly. «I get it. You are free, now. You have options. The entire world, actually. Nothing to keep you here. No family ties. Or coven. But you also have… Everything you need. Knowledge. Power. A bag full of clothes and..?».
«Books. You seem to know a lot. Have you been spying on me?»
«Only recently» Death admitted, before taking another step toward the girl. They were close, now. She could smell the girl’s skin. It was a warm scent, full and rich and like nothing she had smelled before. She liked it. She liked it a lot.
«Can you lie? I mean, can Death lie?» the girls asked, closing the gap between them. She was looking directly into her eyes, now, like she was searching for a clue, a hint, something, anything that could give her the answers she needed.
«I’ve never felt the need to… lie. But yes, I guess I can. I just… don’t».
The girl nodded. «But I still don’t get why are you here..? Why were you spying on me?»
«I…» Death started to say, but she had to stop. Her eyes dropped to the girl’s lips. She knew what a kiss was. Some of the dead people had told her. She had never felt the urge to experience it before, though.
«I wanted to talk to you. Something… Something pulled me toward you, tonight. And I felt strange. And I… I wanted to know, so I went looking for the reason. And I found… you».
«You found me» the girl echoed, in a whisper.
Death nodded and then raised her head, brushing some hair away from the girl’s face.
«How do they call you?».
«Agatha. Agatha Harkness» the girl replied.
«Agatha» Death replied, caressing the girl’s cheek. «Nomen omen. It fits you».
«You think so?»
«I do».
*
La più cupa speranza di riuscire
A fare della morte un’abitudine.
[The darkest hope to succeed
in making a habit out of death]
Pagliarani, Inventario Privato
Agatha smiled. «I think I should go, now» she said, whispering. «It will be morning, soon. I don’t want to be here when the villagers find out about my mother. And the coven. And I’m the only one alive. They are not bright people, but they are not that stupid either».
Death chuckled a little. And Agatha’s cheek reddened. She didn’t mind, making Death laugh. On the contrary. She was lovely, Death, wasn’t she?
Their hands had intertwined, and Agatha was not sure she wanted to let her go.
«So it’s a no to my business proposition?».
«Your business proposition?».
«Power» Death said, pointing at Agatha with her free hand. «Bodies», she added, pointing at herself.
«I… I don’t do it on purpose, you know. Taking power from other witches».
«Oh. I know. I’m mean… You are just like me. I don’t take people’s lives on purpose. It just…»
«Happens» Agatha said, finishing Death’s sentence.
«See? You get it».
Agatha nodded. She needed to think, right in that instant. And Death looked not only her better, but also her only option: she had no one left and no witch would welcome her in her coven, not after hearing about what had happened in the Salem Woods. She hadn’t meant to, but she had become a witch killer and she had no escape from that fate, except to… embrace Death.
«Come with me. I… I’ll think about your proposition if you come with me».
Death opened her mouth, then closed it again. «With you? Where?»
«I don’t know. New York. London. Rio».
«New York. London. Rio. Rio… has a good sound. Rio» Death considered, making the r roll on her tongue.
Agatha felt any intellectual capacity leaving her mind. Focus. She had to focus.
Did she want, suddenly, to kiss Death? Yes, she did.
Would she actually do it? Probably, she said to herself, because no would have been a lie and yes was way too much to deal with at the moment.
«You don’t like it? Rio?» Death asked, her tone sounding too much like teasing.
«I-I do» Agatha admitted. «You should… use it».
«What?»
«You know, as your… name. It cannot be Death if you come with me. Among… the living. So, it could be Rio. I’ll call you Rio. Or… Sally, if you want. This you can choose. Just as I can choose where to go now, and what to do. I have options, but so do you».
*
E dal tuo volto vinto di morte
Il mio conosco
[And through your face, won by death,
mine I can know]
Zanzotto, Primavera di Santa Augusta
Death hesitated. What Agatha proposed sounded dangerously like a life, to her. She was talking about choices. And names. And places.
But she was Death, she didn’t have a life, she had existence, at most. Nothing more. And yet.
Agatha.
«I like it. Rio, I mean. It can be… my name».
«Is that a yes, you’ll come with me?».
«Will you seriously think about my proposition?»
«Yes, I will. Rio».
«Good. So will I. Agatha».
*
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Frost, The Road Not Taken