Chapter Text
Mary Crosby wasn’t a witch. Agatha knew this as certain as the majority of the crowd gathered around the Hanging Tree knew it too. Perhaps she knew it more, because for as long as she could remember, she’d been able to sense the magic in others. And that evening, amongst the torch-bearing crowd, Agatha was the only one with any magical ability. Yet Moaning Mary stood on a wobbly stool, her hands tied behind her back, and her shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Her painfully ordinary, tear-stained face was framed by a noose through which her husband Thomas stared up at her in silent rage.
And what evidence against Mary was there, you might ask? Well, they had multiple witnesses. Mary had put a spell on John Knowles. Luckily for John, his wife Ann had caught Mary in the act where she’d been using her magic to manipulate him into pinning her into the hay pile at the back of their house. Ann had bravely saved him from the clutches of the evil witch by screaming to the heavens until a crowd had gathered to witness the scene. The witch had released John from her clutches and the couple had instantly reported Mary to the local clergy who charged her with the capital crime of witchcraft.
Poor John has yet to recover from his harrowing ordeal and he now stood to the back of the crowd, holding tightly onto his wife unable to look toward the Hanging Tree. Surely it was for the best that they act swiftly and decisively, before the witch could get her claws into another innocent victim.
“Please, Thomas!” Mary abruptly wailed, snot dripping from a flaring nostril and ran across the top of her lip. “He made me! I did not want to. He forced—
“Quiet, witch!” Someone shouted and the crowd jeered and roared when Mary was gagged. Blood soaked through the dirty beige cloth forced between her teeth. Dark bruises covered her face and the bared skin of her arms. There had been an interrogation conducted by the church, and Mary had been imprisoned for the duration of a quick perfunctory trial.
Agatha had only been alive going on eighteen years, surrounded by a coven of witches who could do miraculous things. And yet, this too fascinated her. This phenomenon called human nature. It had her running to Salem Town centre the second she’d heard about Moaning Mary’s death sentence. Her mother would scold her when she found out. Punish her for sure. Still, Agatha couldn’t drag her eyes away from the spectacle surrounding the execution. The way everyone just accepted Mary’s guilt and cheered on her ruthless punishment. The way they would turn on each other at the slightest hint of accusation, too.
Were they bored with their lives? Was that the reason they would betray one another so violently and at times with a chilling glee in their eyes? Were they afraid to be next, so they made sure to point and accuse the loudest? It was baffling how easily they turned against people they’d known their entire lives. None of them had ever seen a lick of magic. They would probably run the other way instead of calling for death with the bloodlust they exhibited in that moment.
Agatha wished she could show them what a real witch could do. But Evanora Harkness, her coven leader and mother, had made sure that she would never be able to cast. Apparently, there was something gravely wrong with Agatha. Something dark and poisonous in her magic that should never be unleashed. So Evanora had bound her when she was still a baby. And not the good kind of binding where she felt nothing. Where she might have grown up a normal person living a pedestrian life. No, Agatha was very much aware of the magic around her and in others. There was a constant storm brewing inside her chest, begging to be released. And with each passing day it grew more urgent. More insistent. More suffocating.
The chair Mary had stood on clattered to the ground and caught her attention. The crowd hushed as Mary’s struggle filled the air. Agatha stood enraptured as Mary wriggled and fought her restraints. Fought against imminent death. Muffled screams choked off by bursts of useless twitching. Agatha could never watch till the end, and her gaze drifted from Mary’s blotchy face to the tall trunk of the Hanging Tree. There a figure stood, casually leaning a shoulder against the bark, a bright green hood covered her head, the same colour as the elegantly embroidered cloak that fell down her body.
Her face was — Agatha gasped when the torchlight of the Hangman lit up the beautiful brown of the mysterious woman’s eyes, eyes that were staring directly at her. Dark brows furrowed above them and the woman’s head tilted to the side.
Agatha’s lips parted, her heart thumped against her breastbone. She sensed no magic from the woman, yet somehow felt that she had to be a witch. Perhaps a shield was blocking her? A protection sigil? Agatha continued to stare at the stranger, her gaze hungrily trailing every feature of the woman’s face until her lips tilted into an uncertain smile and Agatha glanced into her eyes again.
The woman lifted a brow, amused. A green light enveloped her and Agatha noticed the green-flamed torch that had appeared in her hand. The woman wasn’t looking at Agatha anymore, instead she walked toward Mary hanging motionless from the noose. The rope swayed and the branch creaked as Mary’s body idly swung from side-to-side. Looking around, Agatha found that most of the crowd had cleared, and then quickly glanced back to the green figure, who now stood off to the side, a black, oddly angled knife gripped in her other hand. She stabbed at the air, dragging the blade as though slashing through something visible only to her eyes.
So she was beautiful and a lunatic. Agatha had been searching for a fault in her flawless features. The woman turned, the knife gone, face impassive, and awkwardly waved at Agatha, who impulsively waved back and watched baffled when the woman simply vanished. Not a spell had been cast to do so and Agatha was left wondering whether she’d imagined it all. Perhaps she was the one with the troubled mind. No one else had paid any attention to the odd sight. That green light was so bright and unnatural, and the material of her dress had been made of such expensive-looking material, never mind the fact that the woman had walked right across the main attraction.
The clock struck ten and she flinched at each toll of the bell, and took off running toward the edge of town, silently praying to the Divine Mother that her absence hadn’t been noticed.
She wasn’t that lucky, of course.
The Salem Coven had made their home close enough to Salem Town to not stand out and far enough to ensure privacy, as they were surrounded by farmlands and forest between them and their nearest non-magical neighbours.
Elizabeth spotted her from where she stood on the porch of their house, no doubt having been instructed to await Agatha’s return and inform Evanora. Agatha slowed her pace, attempting to prolong her fate. No one else was outside, thankfully. The coven tended to avoid her. Or rather, they looked right through her as though she was nothing.
To blend in, most of the coven women had either conjured husbands they had working the fields. Others mind-controlled their spouses for the same purpose. No son had been born to a Salem witch in centuries. All of them were blood witches. All of them were taught to cast and wield their magic from a young age.
Save for Agatha. Whose shoulders slumped as she took the first step onto the porch.
“Why do you keep disappointing her?” Elizabeth solemnly asked.
Agatha hated Elizabeth. She was the daughter Evanora wished she had. She even lived with them, mentored by Evanora, despite Elizabeth’s own witch mother living only two houses away.
“She is disappointed by the way I breathe. Nothing I do will ever change that.”
Elizabeth’s face fell into one of familiar pity and Agatha hated her even more for that. She squared her shoulders and walked through the front door and was instantly blinded by the swirl of bright blue magic waves that enveloped her. Agatha could barely make out the figure halfway up the stairs, the only clear image was of Evanora Harkness’s furious face glaring at her.
The magic wrapped around her throat, harshly constricting until Agatha’s vision grew bleary and her eyes rolled into the back of her head.
#
For three days she was strung up against the basement wall. Naked, with her neck, wrists, and ankles magically bound in place. Evanora must be really upset, two days were the longest she’d been punished in that manner before. Three days though, without food and water, her lips had cracked and her throat felt like sandpaper. The sour stench of Elizabeth’s ale barrels fermenting nearby was a constant source of nausea, stagnant in the dark, musty, and windowless room.
Had Evanora forgotten about her? She sometimes did, until she noticed a speck of dust on her precious bookshelves, or dinner not ready on time. It was then that it mattered where Agatha was and what she was doing.
Agatha had taught herself to surreptitiously listen in on what the other young witches were learning and sneaked around to find instruction from the tomes and scrolls in her mother’s study. The one good thing about Elizabeth living with them was that Evanora actually had detailed lesson plans drawn up.
Maybe it was worse to have the knowledge of what she could do and still not be able to do it. But Agatha found the theory behind the magic as interesting as seeing it being cast. It was what made witches excellent at their craft and set them apart from everyone else. It made them special.
Her stomach cramped painfully over nothing. Getting worse by the second. She couldn’t even double-over to try an alleviate the ache, bound as she was. Sweat dripped down her face, another wave of nausea making her see spots and squeezed her eyes shut at the stab of pain in her head that refused to subside.
Was this it? Had Evanora finally had enough and decided to let her die down there?
Perhaps it hadn’t been three days at all. But she’d counted the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs and how often it had struck noon. Maybe she was confused. Her mother wouldn’t actually kill her. Would she? Evanora had only spoken to her on that first day. Scolded Agatha on how her obsession with the witch trials endangered the coven. Agatha didn’t quite understand how that was, since she herself couldn’t cast and the women being executed weren’t witches at all. But she’d hung her head and stared at her mother’s feet and wondered for the millionth time why Evanora hated her so much. Whether Agatha acted good or bad, obedient or rebellious, it never changed how her mother treated her.
“You are dying.”
Agatha’s eyes flew open. She stared down into those eyes again, nearly black in the flicker of the green torch light she held. Staring up at Agatha with unabashed curiosity.
“Who are you?” Agatha croaked, throat raw, the throbbing in her head and sore muscles dulling slightly at the pretty distraction. At least her hallucinations had decided to be pleasant.
Again the woman tilted her head, intently studying her. “It does not hurt to hear me?”
The woman’s lips didn’t move, her voice echoed in Agatha’s mind. Hauntingly disturbing. But it didn’t hurt. Rather, it felt like a balm to her brain. “Feels good.”
An amused chuckle sounded that soothed her more. “You have a very strong connection to the Spirit World.”
“What are you?”
A crooked smile. “I am…a green witch.”
Agatha huffed out a laugh. That seemed highly unlikely.
“You could see me. During the hanging. Five nights ago.”
So it had been five nights. That explained why she was dying at least. “It was hard not to see you,” Agatha drowsily mumbled.
“You should not have been able to.”
“Has my mind conjured you entirely?”
“Oh, I am very much real, Agatha Harkness. You were not supposed to see me then.”
“Am I supposed to see you now?”
Those dark brows furrowed again and the woman stepped forward and lifted a hand to Agatha’s cheek. Agatha tried to lean into the touch, but the woman’s fingers went right through her. She laughed brokenly. Not even her imagination would allow her any human comfort. The Green Witch’s eyes trailed over her naked body, clinically and contemplatively. Yet the light chill that had settled against her cheek grew hot and travelled down her neck and spread across her chest. The rush of blood had her drifting off until fingers sharply snapped beside her ear, waking her again.
“Why do you let her do this to you?”
Agatha scoffed. Her throat tasted coppery. “How would I stop her?”
“You have magic.”
“I am bound.”
“Break free.”
“How?”
“You know how, Agatha. You know the spell. You know what components you need to make it work. Are you that afraid of her?”
Agatha was. All Evanora had ever bothered to teach her was that Agatha should be afraid of her.
“And yet you disobeyed her. You cannot be that afraid then, can you?”
Agatha smiled but frowned when a cool breeze blew across her skin, it smelled sweet and citrusy. Crisp and fresh like a cool sip of lemonade on a hot summer’s day. She moaned as her head cleared and the pain in her stomach settled into a satiated fullness that made her pleasantly sleepy.
“Listen carefully,” the Green Witch said. Agatha absently nodded as the cloaked figure stepped in close, levitating higher so their faces were level. Levitation without Agatha sensing any magical energy from her at all. And maybe she was imagining this woman, but what a blissful reprieve from the pain of being pinned to a wall for five days without food, water, and ablutions.
Agatha couldn’t feel anything but that pleasant breeze and yet it felt like lips moving against the shell of her ear when the stranger softly spoke into her mind and Agatha shuddered at the tranquil tenor of her voice.
“Nego potestatem tuam super me. Nihil tenetis.”
“I deny your power over me,” Agatha dutifully said, eyelids heavy as the woman’s face came into focus. “You hold nothing.”
“Will you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
And then she was gone. Her scent mercifully lingering until Agatha fell asleep.
#
It was Elizabeth who eventually came to get her. That perpetual look of pity plastered on her annoyingly bland face. A full day after the Green Witch’s visit and Agatha shouldn’t have been alive, she shouldn’t have been able to walk up those basement stairs and back into the house after swatting away Elizabeth’s half-hearted attempts at assistance.
Evanora’s face when Agatha next saw her had said as much, but not a word was spoken between them. Evanora's suspicious gaze followed her each time they ended up in the same room and Agatha was sure to stay out of her way, yet also within shouting distance. She kept her head down and performed her chores and didn’t sneak around anymore. She had a plan. All she needed was an opportunity.
She was in charge of cleaning the house. Of cleaning her mother’s room and brushes. Collecting the strands of grey-white hair was easy enough. Getting her hands on the locket her mother always wore around her neck felt near impossible.
Then the night of the Summer Solstice arrived. Agatha had not been invited to partake in the festivities. Evanora was always happy when she returned from a night of flying with her sister witches. Loose and mellow, intoxicated on magic, the bond of sisterhood, and the disgusting ale Elizabeth brewed in the basement.
When Agatha sneaked into her mother’s room in the early hours of that morning, Evanora had fallen asleep on her back with an unnaturally serene smile across her face. She lay above the covers, the window open to allow a slight breeze to cool her during the warm night. Dressed in an off-white nightgown, her locket that depicted the Triple Goddess, lay mockingly against her chest.
Agatha tiptoed up to the bed and carefully touched the chain, the clasp hidden behind Evanora’s neck who shifted and sniffled in her sleep the second Agatha tried to move it into a better position to unclasp. Her heart stopped in her chest and she froze in place.
This was never going to work. Evanora never took that locket off. Agatha would be bound forever. Trapped in that house, ignored or spat upon by her peers. She might as well be a covenless witch. She should just run away, magic be damned.
Inside her, the storm raged louder and Agatha bit the inside of her cheek. She would need her magic if she aimed to survive on her own.
Desperate and panicked, her patience wearing thin, the last vestiges of it snapped at the thought of enduring another day in that oppressive house. She carefully opened the locket with trembling fingers and laid it flat on her mothers chest. A small bundle of Agatha’s baby hair was inside, neatly tied in a green ribbon. She drew the hair from her pocket and took a bunch of the grey strands that splayed out across the pillow for good measure, forcing it between the locket pieces and quietly clicked it shut.
“Nego potestatem tuam super me. Nihil tenetis,” she shakily whispered. “Nego potestatem tuam super me. Nihil tenetis.” She shut her eyes, beads of sweat dusted her forehead, and her entire body shook. “Nego potestatem tuam super me.” Her fist clenched tightly around the locket and the Maiden, Mother and Crone carvings dug into her palm. “Nego potestatem tuam super me.” Something loosened, spread like warm liquid throughout her torso, and simmered beneath her ribs. “Nihil tenetis.” She confidently stated. “Nihil tenetis.” A strong pulse thundered in her chest. “Nihil tenetis!” she screamed and a blast emanated from the locket and flung her back into the large wardrobe, knocking the wind right out of her, and she collapsed into pieces of broken wood and her mother’s collection of dull dresses.
Agatha had just enough time to sit up from the debris when the door burst open and Elizabeth rushed in. Evanora was already upright in bed glaring at Agatha, but then filled with panic when a blast of yellow magic headed straight for Agatha’s chest from Elizabeth’s palms.
“No, Liz!” Evanora shouted, but it muffled in Agatha’s ears as the magic entered her body, her bloodstream, her nerve-endings, every single part of her soul. She rose up from the debris as her power amplified, pulling more and more of the delicious golden magic into herself. She couldn’t get enough of the tantalising tingles that tickled across her skin and set the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck on edge. She shuddered and took and took and took, hungrily consuming every last drop, but before that feeling of being satiated could fill her, the well ran dry.
Elizabeth fell to the carpet with a dull thud.
Agatha stared at her drained form in horror. Elizabeth's body was wrinkled as though she'd had every ounce of liquid squeezed from it. Her skin a dark yellow as though decayed and her face pulled in a gruesome expression of terror. Hannah and Sarah had showed up at some point and Agatha was swiftly clasped in a pair of magical shackles she couldn’t break out of, or absorb. Though she knew that with more power and practise, that it could be accomplished.
Evanora stared at Elizabeth’s body, a single tear rolling down her face before turning to Agatha with a look of unmasked disgust and contempt. “Tonight, we will rid the world of your revolting magic, once and for all.”
Agatha should have been scared, but her body still thrummed with the intoxicating magic surging through her. She felt drunk and licked her lips, a lazy smile spreading when the Green Witch emerged from the shadows, aglow in that familiar green light, softly smiling at her before Agatha was roughly pushed out of the room by Hannah and Sarah, and toward the basement.
#
They tied her to a stake in the forest, her hands bound behind her back. At least there was no wood stacked beneath her, so burning would not be the way they intended to execute her. No, it appeared they had something far worse in store as the coven started a low chant around her. Intent on destroying her very essence.
Were they that afraid? That they wouldn’t dare risk a fire might not destroy her? Or did they simply hate her that much? Elizabeth’s magic still coursed through her veins, nothing potent enough to get her out of her current predicament. Not against a group as powerful as the Salem Coven.
Agatha looked to her mother whose face was resolute and devoid of emotion. “I cannot control it. If only you would teach me.” Imagine what she could do, what she could become with the proper guidance. Her mother had accused her of doing the darkest of magic. All she did was defend herself, did that mean that her magic was dark by nature? That she was dark by nature? “Mother, please!”
Evanora began chanting along with the rest of the coven and why did that still hurt? Agatha had known that Evanora despised her. Why had she still held out hope that maybe she would one day see the potential in Agatha? Her willingness to learn? Her want to be of use to the coven in more ways than just being a servant.
Magic from seven of the most powerful witches in Northern America blasted her at once. An onslaught so intense that Agatha screamed as it threatened to tear her apart. The currents were relentless and merciless the intent to destroy so clear it nearly succeeded was it not for the purple storm that bloomed under the attack. It greedily grew and began absorbing the magnitude of magic she was being assaulted with.
Agatha’s scream turned into a satisfied groan and her mother flew up into the air, an icy blue crown forming on her head, and blasted Agatha right in her heart.
Agatha had always been in awe of her mother’s power. Of her control. Of her knowledge of the craft. All she’d ever wanted was to learn from her, to be able to wield as effortlessly as Evanora did. Her power was electrifying, and Agatha could do nothing but succumb to the urge to take in every last bit of it. The attempt was more difficult than the others. Her insides rose to a boil as her mother continued her relentless attempt to kill her. Perhaps she should just give in… She was all alone. Where would she even go? Who would take her in if her own mother—
“Please…I can be good,” Agatha murmured, tears in her eyes, trying to prevent what would come next with her mother’s magnificent magic begging to be taken.
“No, you cannot!”
The coven had made their choice. Evanora had made her choice. Agatha reminded herself of that as she closed her eyes and pulled Evanora’s magic into her body. Her head was deliciously light, her bones filled with air, power sparked through her veins like crackling lightning, her restraints melting away with the simple thought of release.
She groaned softly and breathed in what felt like her first breath, teary eyes fluttered open and took in a new world. She all but floated passed the mummified bodies of the coven and pilfered the locket from her mother’s corpse. Agatha repeated her justifications in her mind as she shakily sat down on the steps that led up to the stake, placed her hands in her hair, and wept. Her shoulders trembled and her throat was raw from trying to suppress her cries.
“You have outdone yourself.”
She startled in place, but inexplicably smiled through her tears at the familiar voice in her head. Looking up, the Green Witch stood in the light of her green torch watching her curiously.
“Is this the price of freedom?” Agatha asked.
“The price of yours it would seem. What will you do now?”
“I do not know.”
“Well, I am fairly certain we will see each other again, Agatha Harkness.” She turned and cut the air with her knife.
“Wait! Who are you?”
The Green Witch looked back over her shoulder, dark eyes searing. “I am Death,” she said and vanished.