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fadingdaggerr · 1 month ago

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desperately need a part 4 to your agatha story!!!! i just reread and ugh it’s too good!!

sanguis reunitus

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

pairing: agatha harkness x gn!witch!reader

summary: a tether defies time; a song unites the lost | 6.9k

inclues: angst, an attempt of humor, angry exes agatha and r, beginning of the witches’ road, alice wu-gulliver my baby angel <3, nb death because i said so, somewhat of the first two trials (jen and alice's)

warnings: verbal fighting, talks of death, blood, descriptions of injury/scars, panic/anxiety attacks, guilt

note: okay okay i’m back in the writing groove apologies for my hiatus. N E ways i'd recommend listening to around u and promise by muna when reading this. that album alone has greatly inspired this story <3

August 1834

Humidity had taken over the land in the last month, every step feeling sticky and thick, air like molasses. Without a cloud in the sky, the sun shines harshly on anyone who dares step into the light. Dirt roads of dust cloud the path in every direction, the sound of wheels always accompanied by dry coughs.

Ducking into a tavern, you feel the heat fall off your body, never lingering long anyhow. With eyes down, you avoid the looks from locals as you make your way to the bar. Skin prickling from the attention, you try to block the attention with your arms. A glass lands harshly in front of you, a wordless barkeep refusing conversation. The message is clear, no strangers welcome. Condensation licks your fingers as you grab the cup, nodding a silent thanks that is ignored entirely. You chug, knowing that it can only be better to leave sooner. Dropping coins to the bar, you leave as quickly and as quietly as you arrived. Going unnoticed was a specialty that this town was immune to, the thought of staying only makes you more weary.

With faster steps than before, you walk towards the treeline, hoping to cut to a new road once you reach it. Somewhere more populated, you think, somewhere where I can be no one. The idea has no chance to linger before a cart comes barreling down the road. Before you can move over, the buttend of a shovel shoves into your shoulder, knocking you to the rough ground. Warmth spreads over your knee, red seeping the light fabric.

“Get on out of here!” The man from the cart yells as he gets further away. “We don’t need more of your kind spreading sin!”

A pout falls to your lips without thinking, a scraped hand brushing over your ribs gently before planting to the ground to hoist yourself up. With a hobble in your step, you trudge to the treeline, leg dragging slightly.

Leaning against an old maple, you pull back your clothing to reveal your leg. Next to a faint scar on your knee, a red and crying cut, small but deep. Rolling your eyes and muttering, you press your thumb to the wound, wincing as the pad of your thumb meets the inner wound. Squeezing your eyes shut, you let the magick flow through you, feeling skin and tissue pull back together in a slow fire beneath your fingertips. Pulling away slowly, the only evidence left behind is blood staining your hands and a new, raw scar.

A short gasp to the left makes you turn, hand grasping at the knife on your hip. Unblinkingly, you approach the tree you hear movement behind, steps silent and weapon ready.

“You have three seconds to show yourself,” you warn, voice tight. With a squeak, a young woman, no more than nineteen, presents herself, pink dress stained and torn.

“I mean no harm,” her voice is quiet, shaking with fear as her eyes dart between your own and the knife in your grasp.

“And yet you follow me, why?”

She tries to take a step forward, but is stopped by your eyebrows rising and grip tightening. Blinking fast, she sputters, “I’m like you! I swear! I’m a witch, too.”

“You should be more careful about who you share that information with,” you state plainly. Carefully, you lower the blade, sheathing it once more, but keeping your hand on it.

The girl visibly relaxes, “you should be more careful about where you use your magick.” Nodding in defeat, you drop your guard more. Leaning against the tree, you slide to sit on the ground. Patting the spot beside you, your new companion joins, fingers twirling a sun pendant on her necklace. She clears her throat, “I’m Simone, by the way. Potions.”

You give her your name, but give her nothing more. Too young to be trusted with her own secrets. With a sigh, you ask, “how long have you been following me?”

Simone chuckles, “a week. The herbs you were grabbing, they were familiar. I figured you were my best chance.”

“Chance at what?” You ask with surprise. Surprise at her determining your powers, at following unnoticed until now.

“You’ll probably think it’s silly, but,” she sighs heavily, “I’m looking for the Witches’ Road.”

Your body goes cold at her words, ears ringing with a thousand voices. Ones you had heard so many times for nearly a century. A tune hummed under the breath of passing strangers, ones who hoped another would recognize it and help. Sang in effort to find their own kind. Searched in hopes for their destiny. Every note was torture, the melody a hot iron.

At your silence, Simone’s brows upturn, hand grasping your shoulder. Her lips move, but no sound reaches your ears. Eyes darting from place to place, your mind is in shambles, mouth moving to find words that escape you. The girl moves in front of you, both hands on your shoulders now, trying to stay in your line of sight to help you. With exaggerated breaths, she urges you to copy her. Slowly, you feel the tether holding you to your body return, trembling beginning to cease.

A limp hand rises, falling to Simone’s wrist, grip suddenly strong. Looking up through your lashes, you speak through gritted teeth, “why on Earth would you look for the Road?”

Grey eyes blink quickly at your question, “to complete what my grandmother set out to do. She never came back, neither did my mother. I have to do it, for them.”

“So you’ll kill yourself in their honor?” You shake your head, “find another way, any other way.”

“What do you know? You have no coven, clearly never have,” Simone states, ripping her hands from you and standing. “My grandmother went on the road to better us, to save us.”

“Seems she was mistaken,” you gruff, standing, albeit shakily, “because now you’re just like me, covenless. The Road is death, nothing more than a trick.”

“My grandmother did not make mistakes,” Simone’s hands clench into fists, taking a step back from you.

You roll your eyes, “and just who was this all knowing woman?”

“Marjorie Bennet,” she says quietly. “She was the lone survivor of her coven in 1749.” Was this a cruel joke? “Spent the rest of the year trying to find a new one before she had my mother, but witches were dying by the dozens.” Stop. “She finally found some, and she was determined to keep them safe this go around.” Please, stop. “And then she heard this song, about the road. All the glory and power it could give you.” I’m so sorry. “But she never came back. And once I was old enough, my mother went too.” Blame me, you must. “So now, it's my turn.” No. “And if you won’t help me, then there is nothing left to talk about.”

You stand there as she walks away, frozen in a guilt that you had refused to acknowledge for all these years, watching as she disappears into the trees, pink fading away into green. Not so much as a bag or coat, only her determination and necklace to keep her company. A child wandering, to nowhere and no one in particular.

Misery follows one who searches.

October 2026

“Why are we at a hospital? I thought we already had a blood witch.”

“Different type of blood, buster. There’s lineage blood and blood-blood. This one’s a dud though, we’re wasting our time.”

The boy sighs as he takes the key out of the ignition, “Dud or not, we need witches. But if I get sacrificed, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“Right back at you. Go get’em, tiger.”

A dismissive wave from the woman puts him into gear, slamming the car door as he goes. The other three had already been disgruntled at her arrival, so maybe it was best if he did the talking this time. At least some civility and manners would be a part of the conversation.

Walking through the automatic doors, he is met with the sights and sound of the emergency department. Approaching the desk, he holds his head to feign injury. The nurse at the desk tries to get his name, but he refuses it, repeating that he fell until they relent. With poorly hidden, rolling eyes, the woman walks back. The boy stands there, trying to stay in character despite his nerves. Thoughts of leaving are dismissed, we need witches.

The door where the nurse disappeared behind opens again, this time someone with a smile and white coat. With a wave forward, he follows hesitantly. He follows the doctor down the hall, to a small room. Sitting on the bed, he watches carefully, trying to deduce if this is who he is looking for. But something feels so familiar about the presence, like he had met you before.

Clearing your throat, you sit on the rolling stool, “Sarah told me you fell and hit your head?” He nods. “Did you lose consciousness?” He shakes his head. “Well that’s a good thing. When did this happen?”

“Last night,” he mumbles, “I was trying to- uh- get off the roof?” Nodding with a suppressed smile, you reach for the stethoscope around your neck.

“You got a name? Because John Doe doesn’t seem like it suits you,” you muse as you adjust the scope to your ears. The boy’s mouth opens to answer, but he shuts it, shaking his head. “That’s alright, John it is. I’m just gonna listen in, okay?” He nods quickly, guilty at lying to someone who is being so kind.

The chestpiece presses to his skin, cool to the touch, but he doesn’t flinch. Peering over at you, he sees your eyes widen ever-so-lightly, clearly suppressing a reaction. The metal moves to another spot on his back, then another, then another. Shit, do I have a murmur? Moving to his front, you pull the monitor over. A freezing hand carefully grabs his, making him jump, watching as you place a node on his finger. The machine beats in time with his heart, fast but fine. No murmur.

“Okay,” you sigh, a weary tone bleeding through. Standing, you motion to his head, silently asking to check. He lets you, feeling gentle fingers part his curls in search of visible injury. Closing your eyes, you try to feel if there’s anything. Blood pooling, a hemorrhage, a splinter, something, anything. But there is nothing. No blood moving, no heartbeat, just silence.

It is as if you are trying to read the life of stone.

Stepping back from the boy, dread crawls up your spine. Swiping a hand across your face, you walk towards the door, ready to tell him to wait, but a force stops you in your tracks. Rhythmic thumps pound in your ears, steady, strong. So familiar, so close. Every beat makes you step back, placing yourself in front of the boy sitting eerily quiet behind you. Footsteps join the thrumming, inching closer and closer as venom rolls through your veins. As quickly as they started, the steps slowed to a halt, a body leaning against the doorway.

As she was. And here she is, beautiful as ever. Eyes of angelite, cold but inviting to look into, stare you down with a look you cannot figure out. Was it shock? Anger? Disbelief? Disguised terror? Was it everything you were feeling just being in her presence for the first time in nearly three hundred years? Your head whips to look at the boy, then back to her.

“What are you doing here?” You ask angrily, stretching an arm out to put more of yourself between them.

Her hand rises to her chest, a mock-shock on her features, “why I’m just ensuring my sweet, young friend here is getting the medical attention he deserves!”

You look back at the boy, “you know her?”

“Yes, but she was supposed to stay in the car,” he grits with a pointed look before turning back to you. “We- well I- wanted to talk to you. About the Witches’ Road.”

Your blood boils, grabbing Agatha’s wrist to tug her in the room, shutting the door. Throwing her against the wall, you hold her there with an arm braced over her chest. “What the fuck is your problem? You bring a child here, a child to me, and expect me to help you with this again? You must be desperate if you’re playing this game with me.” You tug up her hand to view, “leave for power, crawl back for power. It’s always the same with you.”

Agatha’s eyes widen, mouth gaping as she stares, skin absorbing the chill that radiates from you. The sight before her draws her back into her mind, lifetimes before.

Languid and bubbly, you swerve through the crowd, dodging every body that gets in your way. Your eyes are set on their mission, even if your feet drag with inebriation. An accidental shove pushes you the rest of the way, falling into the target of your affection.

Your arms curl into your chest, trapped between you and the woman in front of you. Fluttering eyes go wide in surprise before creasing at the corners, you grin stretching across your face. Strong hands hold onto you, fingers gently clutching the linen of your shirt. With an airy laugh, you drag your nose up her neck, burying it against her cheek.

“Someone’s happy,” Agatha purrs, voice thick with adoration.

You sigh contentedly against her skin, “when with you.”

The memory fades as quickly as it appeared, making Agatha shake her head. Shoving you off, she rubs her wrist, “like you’re wholly innocent, playing doctor to make up for everything you did willingly.”

“At least I’m trying! Unlike you who brings a- what- fourteen year old to me as a guilt trip?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“Oh, even better! So you’re delusional as well, what a joy!” The hardened sarcasm in your tone makes the teenager cringe, peering to his companion. Agatha’s eyes dim at your words, arms crossing. “Fuck you and your road. For you or it, I have nothing left to give.”

With a sharp turn, Agatha leaves, only calling out, “I told you, a dud! Let’s go!”

The boy scrambles, grabbing his things. He frantically speaks to you, though he sounds underwater, “I’m so sorry I lied to you. I am. But here is Agatha’s address, we’re meeting there tonight. If you don’t come, I get it. But I would really like it if you did.”

You faintly hear him calling after her. Just as faintly as her heartbeat fades out of range.

—⛤—

The moment the clock strikes seven, you are practically running from the building to your car. Chicken scratch handwriting gives you an address in Westview, barely a few miles away from Eastview General. Speeding through town, you find what has to be Agatha’s house, doorless with a gutter hanging down. Clambering out of the car, you walk quickly to the collapsed door. Five heartbeats fill the room, six if you count the unheard one you know is in there. Crossing the threshold, you immediately feel attention on you.

“You’re here!” Teen, as Agatha called him, announces. Running up to you, he grabs your elbow, dragging you closer to the group. Pointedly, you try to avoid the blue eyes boring into you, scanning and evaluating everything you do. “This is Lilia and Jen and Alice and Mrs. Ha- Sharon.”

You give them a nod, feeling Teen release his grip on you, trusting you won’t run. Quietly, you introduce yourself, eyes flitting around the room.

“Jen,” says the woman in a pink dress, “potions.”

You nod slowly, muttering, “blood.” The three women take a unified small step back. You hold your hands up, “don’t worry, not like that. Well, yeah like that, but I don’t do all the…”

“Sacrificing and puppetting?” Lilia provides.

“Yeah, that,” you mumble, pursing your lips.

“Anymore,” says a sing-song voice behind you, forcing the other women to abandon you to speak with her alone. Agatha circles you, standing too close, stopping inches from your face, “so you showed up. Should I be flattered?”

Your brow cocks, “I’m not here for you. Or these bozos that should know better than you trust you.”

“Oh, do tell. What is your divine reason to wallow here tonight?”

“You know just as well as I. I will not let this happen again,” you try to be stern. But as much as you hate it, Agatha knows you. You can feel she knows. And yet she continues.

Stepping back from you, you watch Agatha’s face go from a hidden solemn to excitement, hands wild as she talks.

The other four follow her to the basement, telling Teen to stay behind. Begrudgingly he does, but Alice looks at you questioningly. Standing still only prompts her to wave you closer. You look back to Teen.

“It won’t work without you. Blood and tears and bone, right?” Alice speaks from the doorway. It won’t work at all, you want to say. “C’mon, it’s choir time.”

Slowly, you descend rickety steps into the basement. You plant yourself between Alice and Sharon, not allowing yourself anywhere near Agatha. Clasping each woman’s hand, you feel them shiver at your touch, but neither lets go.

Agatha starts the song, looking at each person intently as she sings, but you feel her eyes linger on you as she goes. Together, you sing the ballad, though each word burns as it passes your lips. A tear falls down Alice’s cheek and you have to wonder if she knows it’s her last. Does Lilia know these are the last notes she will sing? That this is the last dress Jen will wear? That Sharon is about to witness a quadruple homicide while a teenage boy sits upstairs?

Your skin prickles as the lyrics catch up to you, eyes flicking up to meet blue eyes as the words fall from her lips. Blood and tears and bone, maiden mother crone.

The song ends, everyone glancing around for a door, but you can only look at Agatha. This is it. Voices rise as they begin to argue, Lilia taking the front of it to protect the younger witches. Stepping back, your hands instinctively rise to cover your ears. If I can’t hear them stop, it’ll be okay, you think over and over again. But the beating persists. Thumping in time with rampaging above you, in time with frantic feet running down the stairs.

“Is this it? Is this the road? Because if so, we gotta go!” Teen yells as the group cracks open a door that appeared on the floor. “Now!”

Your gaze rips from the ground to him, then where he came from. One of the Seven crawls down the stairs as everyone starts to run underground. Scrambling, you follow, trying to keep your eyes on Alice once you lose the boy.

—⛤—

Never in your life had you felt so out of place. Centuries of hiding and creeping in shadows hadn’t left you this unprepared. White rugs, white couch, white walls, Jen’s trial was too luxurious for the life you have lived. The wine bitter, it’s after effect painful, perhaps this was what normality was like. All except the timer slowly counting down.

In this uppity mirage, finding the eye of newt was starting to make you go insane. Matcha powder, organic dried basil, almond flour, hemp hearts, none of this was ringing a bell, but is all very Jen. The edges of your vision were slowly getting hazy with focus, green creeping into the corners. Knees buckling beneath you, your hands desperately grasp at the countertop to hold yourself up, a haunting tone ringing through your ears.

Vile creature, it taunts, your time of corrupting innocents is done. The voice morphs, one becoming a unified many, you have this one life, no other will be tolerated. Your body burns with memories you had shoved away the moment you left them, hot tears prick at your eyes, sizzling against cool skin. All the pain sinks into the same spot, the raised, ragged skin on your side, hot and sharp and suddenly gone. Air floods your lungs, heavy as you pant, fingers losing their grip on the marble as you slide to the floor. Your back slams into the cupboards, rattling the spice rack until a bottle hits the floor and rolls towards you. Mustard seeds. It was god damn mustard seeds.

With a hearty struggle, you get back onto your feet, weakened and getting weaker as the Aleswife Revenge works its way through you. There had only been two times in your long life you had felt this awful, your powers uniquely suited to keep you from illness and death, but not enough to keep away the rushing pains. Supporting yourself against the counter, you practically throw the mustard seed at Jen, Teen and Alice doing the same with their frankincense.

With your part over, you focus on pushing the phantom and tangible pains away, a shaking hand pressed heavily to your ribs. Lilia and Agatha reunite with the rest of you, dropping Jen’s so-called organic products in, though the sarcasm in the divination witch’s face was not matched by her search partner. Instead, eyes of lapis watch you intently, ghosting over where your hand lies in a place you pretend to forget. She had seen the fear and anguish in Lilia’s eyes when her hallucination grabbed her suddenly, frantic Sicilian flying from her. Stories of the Sicilian coven were famous, from their beginning to their terrible end, she could imagine the contents of her terrors. But you, you were a mystery to her, never passing off your pain to her, only hiding it away for yourself.

The chaos of the potion creation was surely going to end horribly, of that you were sure. No one could bear to listen to one another, or speak without cattiness. Your eyes rove around to find something worth your attention for reprieve, but instead they find the woman across from you. Eyes widening, mouth turning down. You follow Agatha’s eyes to an empty spot in the room. Tears well in her eyes, a trembling hand rising to cover her mouth as she squats before her illusion. Your fingers twitch, wanting to reach for her, pull her back, but you deny yourself. A cracking sob passes her lips, her voice thick with tears as she murmurs, “no, no, no.”

“Agatha!” You call to her, but she’s lost in it. “Agatha!” You try again, this time seeing her whip around to look at you. The fear and sadness is cloaked within seconds, disdain and nonchalance back in place.

Refusing to take your eyes off her, you focus in on the slight crease between her brows. Forcing herself to look angry is better than appearing upset, at least in her eyes. She had played that card so many times with you, but for better or for worse, you know her. Know her tells, know her thoughts, she cannot hide from you any better than you can from her.

A shotty spell, a forgotten woman, an oven to crawl in. The road sucks, fake or not.

The mystery of this place is exhausting. The mystery of your company even more so. Women you’d only ever heard of, years of legacy behind each of their names, each of their crafts. And a boy. With a sigil hiding his existence and life from each of you, a walking question mark trailing beside you. Every step against fallen leaves makes your heart race. This place is not real, should not be real. It was a bedtime story turned song turned ruse. And now it was claiming lives without even trying.

“Jen, what do we do?” Lilia exclaims, staring down at Sharon’s body, pale and slowly going cold. “You can fix this right?”

“Fix dead? What do I look like, a necromancer?”

The moment the words leave her mouth, every set of eyes lands on you, your skin tingling. You look at them, the hopeful gleam in their eyes, desperation moreso. Glancing back down at your nails, you mutter, “I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Jen huffs, arms crossing against her chest, “I cannot be the only one in this motley crew with a modicum of power.”

“Unless you wanna take her place, there’s nothing I can do,” you state roughly. “We should bury her and get on our way. Staying still isn’t doing us any good.” No one volunteers, no one argues.

Alice and Teen take the job of creating a grave for Sharon by the treeline, small yellow flowers poking up from the roots, greeting her like an old friend. You stay on your perch on a rock, knees tucked against your chest, watching everything and nothing at the same time. Prickling crawls up your arm, feeling shades of blue scanning over your skin. Tugging the sleeves of your shirt over your hands, you wrap your arms tighter around your legs.

“Did you know she traded her own child for the book of the damned?”

“That can’t be true.”

“She probably wouldn’t even recognize her own child if he showed up on her doorstep.”

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t. She wouldn’t. He was the only thing that tethered her to this world. That tethered you to life. A book, that book, would never have been worth his soul.

You can hear the others talking, fighting really, but you pay little mind. Every thought in your head races as you try to understand what is happening around you. Agatha seemed just as thrown off as you did, at least from what she allowed to bleed through when she thought no one was looking. Yet she carried herself as if this was the plan, like she knew what was happening even when she didn’t. Typical, and what used to be endearing.

“No one’s gonna mention the elephant in the room?”

“God, Jen. Ten minutes of silence, is that too much to ask?”

“Shove it, Harkness. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re out a green witch, not that we actually had one in the first place,” the potions witch seethes. “You’re doing a fantastic job at getting us all killed, you included.”

The moment they mentioned a summoning spell, you were ready to trade yourself for Sharon. Brushing back leaves into the shape of a person, you watch Agatha place candles around, purposefully ignoring your gaze. Figures.

May she be strong and wise and the best at her craft. May she be smart and not annoying, and also not super political. May she be pleasant looking. Can she bring some Advil. May she fortify us.

All is silent and still, until an arm rips through the ground. And then another. Your hand shoots out, dragging Teen behind you, locking him there. Your other hand instinctively reaches out, brushing over indigo fabric before pulling back, balling into a fist at your side instead. The figure finally fully reveals themself, dusted and dirty and too familiar for comfort. In an instant, you flee from sight, ducking behind Alice, hand still gripping Teen’s arm.

Dark eyes, maniacal and quick, scan the group of you, fear looking them back. Agatha stands firm in her place, arms spread to cover the coven. The second the green witch looks at her, Agatha seems ready to attack.

“Oh, don’t act so upset, my lady. You invited me to your cute little party,” Death’s voice is singular, too human for you to handle. Teen rips free from your grip, tripping over himself to stand beside Agatha. His sudden movement jerked you from your hiding spot, easily in view of the newest being. “And you,” they say coolly, pointing a sharp nail in your direction, “didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon.”

“Wasn’t my desire,” you murmur, paralyzed. Their hum of understanding does nothing to ease your fear.

In a sudden motion, Agatha’s fingers become claws as she throws herself towards Death with rage in her voice, taking Alice and Jen to hold her back. Giving up, she breaks herself from their hold, spinning to get as much distance between her and them as possible. Your feet carry you quickly, only a few paces behind her as you attempt the same.

Static fills your ears, green fading your vision as you catch blips of a wooden cabin, a skeletal face, a tacky red pool at your feet. The air feels thicker with each breath, every little scar on your body burning. Each step feels like you are stumbling through the woods. An arm curls around your shoulders, another gripping your arm, voices muffled by the blood rushes through your ears. Your eyes dart around, falling to blue ones that stare back, a suppressed worry taking shape behind a wall of stoicism. Agatha’s mouth opens, but her voice dies at the dread written on your face.

Squirming, you release yourself from the grasp Alice has on you, ignoring her concerned questioning. All you can hear is the taunting skipping that Death Rio continues with, feeling their presence closer and closer by the second. The protection witch stays at your side, watching your back as you keep your eyes glued ahead of you. The pink leaves fade into orange, another trial creeping up just as you leave the previous one behind.

—⛤—

As your group continues down the road, a clearing opens up, a wooden house with stained glass appearing in the distance. The moment it does, the woman beside you stops in her place, the fear on your face now worn on hers. Her rejection of it makes you nervous, someone so confident brought down by a house. You wish you didn’t understand.

But the road insists, and thus the house takes you into its warm colors and ornate decor. The turtleneck and slacks you had been wearing morphed into a barely buttoned, satin shirt, bell bottoms grazing the floor with each step. Desperately tugging, you try to roll your sleeves back down, but the shirt resists, magick not allowing you a moment of solace. You wrap your arms around yourself, eyes flicking around the group.

Agatha’s flowing, sparkling shirt draws your attention as you watch her in the mirror over her shoulder. Her eyes pull from herself to you, all bravado left behind as she looks at you properly for the first time since she saw you in that examination room. Scanning you from her spot, she eyes the expanse of your forearms, taking a deep breath at the sheer number of scars that litter once pristine skin. She remembers the one from a gardening accident when you were twelve, now she is not sure where your skin ends and scar tissue begins. Blinking quickly, you brush away her searing attention, stepping back, but her eyes stay, brows turning up imperceptibly.

Following you to the sound booth, she lets herself sit closer to you than she thinks you’d allow if you weren’t so out of it. Fiddling with the fringe on her sleeve, Agatha asks, “so you know Rio?”

“Know is a strong word. Encountered is probably better,” you say, picking at your nails. “But you, you know them, huh?”

“Work buddies,” Agatha jokes. “They're not the worst coworker ever…”

You chuckle, finally looking at her properly, “you mean they have competition now?” Her nose scrunches as she laughs inwardly, unconsciously shifting closer. “How’d we get here, Agatha? What is this? And that boy?”

“If I only knew,” she sighs, hands reaching out to where yours rests on your knee. Pulling your arm across her lap, her fingers ghost over scars, almost afraid to touch them as if they are still fresh. “It wasn’t my plan, obviously. But, it could still work,” her voice sounds uncertain. “What have you done to yourself? All of these?”

Moonlight pools on the floor through the crack in the curtains, painting the room in a soft glow that doesn’t quite reach the bed. Soft, swirling fingers trail up and down your skin, nonsensical patterns mixing with intentional tracing.

“You ought to use a poultice,” Agatha says. As much as she loves tracing every mark, she wishes they did not mean you had been harmed.

“Where’s the fun in that though?” You chuckle, fingers gently scratching her scalp.

Her nose bumps your throat as she chuckles into you, “wouldn’t you love not having a reminder of the claws on that witch?”

You snort, pulling her closer against you, “I just pretend it was from a wildcat attack. Plus I greatly enjoyed what happened after, I’m happy with a reminder of that.”

Agatha smiles at the memory, skin against skin, wandering hands fast and desperate. Her lips press to your throat, lingering there before nipping at your skin. Her insistence makes you grin, arms hauling her on top of you. Sitting up, her hands plant themselves on your chest, hovering herself over your face, “when you put it like that…”

You retract your arm from her grasp, feeling her fingers linger against your skin as you do. Folding your arms against your chest, you lean back in your chair, “nothing you haven’t seen before. It’s fine.”

“Right…” Agatha resigns, knowing you will not tell her anything. You never did and never will. It’s Teen’s shout from the main room that draws her attention from her thoughts, and you are already beside him by the time she tries to look back at you.

—⛤—

A ballad of a different form and a fire of flesh, some burns and broken glass, but the trial is over. Alice stands panting as she stares at the ash around her, tears sticking to her cheeks. The group, even Rio somehow, looks relieved with the demon gone and the curse undone.

“Yay,” Teen says breathily, all heads turning to his weakened state, “we did it.”

As his body topples to the floor, both you and Agatha dive to catch him, his head cradled in your lap. Shuffling frantically, the group gets through the exit, carefully trying to get the boy through without hurting him more. Lifting him onto a large tree stump, everyone desperate to figure out what happened. Your hand stays plastered over the wound, tinging your skin red. It’s deep, and the passing thought that it could kill him only scares you more. His heartbeat thrums under your fingers, finally reaching you with now open skin. You almost gag, feeling it fading by the second.

Agatha grabs your arm, “do something! Take it!”

“If I take it, we’ll be in the same position we are now,” you say, just short of yelling. Eyes jumping from place to place, you try to remember anything you have learned that could help. All you know would kill someone. Teen, yourself, whoever offered themself in his place. All roads will lead to it, to them. Your eyes flick to Rio, who is unblinking in their attention on Teen, and all you can do is angle your body to block their gaze.

“He’s young, he’s strong,” Lilia offers in response to Agatha’s growing distress.

“Don’t!” She growls before looking at Rio, voice now softer, “don’t.”

“Jen, you have to do something here. Please!” You cry out, maintaining pressure on Teen despite the spill between your fingers. All your effort stays in telling his blood where to be, not allowing it to go anywhere else. “Jen!”

The potions witch looks at you, eyes searching yours like you know the answer. They widen, “I need water and moonlight!”

Pulling back from Teen, you let Jen work. A magnetic pull brings you closer to Agatha, almost hiding against her, but unable to pry your eyes away as Jen chants vulnus ab aqua curare. Lilia’s voice echoes as she watches Agatha, “three of swords.” Her eyes shift to you, “reversed.”

All of it and none of it matters, nothing until you see the wound on Teen’s abdomen close, the blood on his skin the only remnant. Not even a scar. Your hands flatten over his hair, subconsciously trying to feel his pulse, but it’s hidden from you once more. Refusing to let you tears fall on him, you let Agatha and Alice move him to a place to rest while you try to start a fire.

As the flames grow, so does the conversation, everyone less freaked out by one another and sharing a life threatening experience. It starts small, like how you all ended up in the same three mile radius. And it grows to powers, special abilities, little tricks. But Lilia, with all her life behind her, starts with her so-called war stories. A vampire’s failed bite, a lover’s poor attempt on her life, it all blends together into happy memories for the divination witch.

Rounding the corner from Teen’s resting spot, Agatha plants herself next to you, barely a foot between you.

“What about you, Agatha? Any battle scars?” Jen asks playfully.

With a sly chuckle, Agatha rolls up her sleeve, making Rio suppress a laugh. A long scar trails up her forearm, clean and faded, “ever heard of the Daughters of Liberty?” A unified shaking of heads. “Exactly,” she says, making the group laugh.

“And you, human punching bag? Bet you couldn’t name a single one, huh?” Alice jokes, gesturing to the marks riddling you from the neck down.

“Most of them, no. The big ones though, I’ve got some idea,” you huff out with a laugh.

“Bullshit,” Agatha says. “You never know.” How you wish you didn’t see Jen and Alice go wide-eyed and look at each other at the statement.

“I do,” you say. “Like, uh…” You roll up your pant leg to reveal a scar from your knee to ankle, thicker than the ones surrounding it. “This one. Didn’t think people still casually carried swords around in the 1940s but, I guess I was wrong.” Agatha’s eyes stay on the small scar on your knee, faded but visible, one of the oldest. The others motion for you to continue, captivated. Untucking your shirt, you lift it to reveal a jagged circle above your belly button, “undertaker thought I was a vampire.”

The edge of another scar, right at your ribs shows for just a second, undetected by the others as they stare, but not Agatha. The moment you had first spoken, she had been locked on to you. Scanning each scar, wanting to point and ask about every single one. Ones she recognized, ones she saw form firsthand, ones taken from her with ease, one she wished she knew the story of.

Nausea crawls up her throat as her mind spirals. Standing abruptly, Agatha moves away from line of sight, thumbnail anxiously being chewed. The loss of her beside you makes you reel, gaze following her until you can’t anymore, so your legs take over. Quickly, you find her, back facing you with tense shoulders.

“Agatha,” you whisper, only inches away. “Look at me.”

A deep breath passes her lips, eyes on the ground as she turns to face you. Carefully, you place your hands on her arms, ducking to find her gaze and bring it up. Her own hand rises, falling to your side, thumb brushing over that same spot it always gravitated towards.

“Where is this from?” She whispers, so close you can feel her words.

One hand slides up, holding her neck, “it’s better unsaid.”

“So we’ll never talk about it, any of it? Because it’s hard for you?”

You thumb strokes her jaw, “it’s not me that I’m quiet for.”

At your words, her eyes flutter shut, leaning closer to rest her forehead against your cheek. You feel her sigh fan across your skin, revelling in a feeling you never thought you would have again.

“I can’t hear him, the kid,” you admit, “the sigil blocks even his heart. But, when he was open, it was all right there. Beating, breathing, alive.” The words are like paste in your mouth. “But then he closed up, and it was silent again. This whole place is silent, it’s awful.”

Agatha pulls away from your cheek, eyes watery as she looks at you. The closest she has been in almost three hundred years, eyes blue as ever, freckles still painting her skin, a rogue curl by her temple that twirls the opposite way from the rest. All the same yet so different, but here she is. In the moonlight, she belongs to you again.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, lips just barely ghosting over yours.

“It’s not him,” you croak into the small space between you. “I felt him live, I felt him die, and whoever- whatever- that is, it’s not him.”

Agatha pulls back from you, glassy eyes scan over you. The sadness, the borderline wonder, drains entirely. Ice sets to stone as she hums, arms crossing over her body. Turning, she says no more, sends not a single glance your way, and leaves you there.

A fat tear falls from your eye onto the purple leaves at your feet, the red veins soaking it in. The long dormant burn at your side erupts slowly, forcing you to lean your back against the tree behind you. Your face stings with venomous tears, years of suppression pouring from you as your hands flex, trying to grab someone who isn’t there and never was.

title translation: sanguis reunitus, latin - the blood reunited

note: i know i know, she doesn't know about the scar yet. buuuuuut that will be in the next part, should you guys want me to continue this

extra note: i really do appreciate the patience on my lack of posting. i have had horrible writers block and cannot for the life of me figure out what to do with some requests, but this definitely helped get me back into it, so i will be HOPEFULLY posting some melissa content soon. thank u i love u, yes specifically you

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha all along #marvel #marvel fanfiction #lgbtq fanfiction #lesbian

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