#Agatha always speaks anachronistically when i write her

[rita-repulsa-ke]

the witch who cried wolf

Two times Agatha doesn’t need Rio and one time she does.

In 1830, a coven of canny witches catches her out, places a magic circle around her to bind her while they prepare the stake. Only burning will do, for a witch-killer like her.

She tries all manners of tricks, begging and pleading and her personal favorite, pissing people off, before she resorts to murmuring, under her breath, “Look, I know we’re having our differences right now, but I could really use a hand here. Come on, for old times sake?”

Then an apprentice witch carrying a bundle of sticks stumbles, falls. Mars the edge of the circle.

By the time Rio gives in and arrives, Agatha has just finished up.

“You called?” Death asks, surveying the scene.

“Who, me? Call you?!” Agatha snorts, sputters. “As if. You must have imagined it. But look, I got you some things. Be a dear and clean all of this up for me.” She strolls past, quietly snickering.

**** The next time, she does it on purpose. She’s in the middle of nowhere, a long hike to the next town and she’s bored and maybe a touch curious. “Rio! Please! Help! Save me, oh save me!” she pretends to swoon, even though no one is there to see her, laughing at herself.

She’s not sure when she started laughing again.

And then, between one breath and the next, Death is there, knife in one hand, mask fully off, ready to sweep in and save her maiden fair.

And now Agatha is really laughing, a vicious cackle brimming with contempt. “Ah, Rio, that’s so sweet,” she coos. “My brave hero.”

Rio takes a moment to comprehend the situation, then crosses her arms across her chest. “Someday, Agatha, you might end up regretting this little game.”

Agatha’s expression hardens, her smile calcifies. “I’d burn before I’d ask for your help.”

****

No, she wouldn’t! The flames are a little too real now, crawling up the pyre toward her unprotected feet and death by fire is such an ugly way to go that her pride and shame both fly out the window, thrown by the burly arms of terror.

“Rio, please, I know I said something stupid, but come on, it’s me! I say stupid things all the time, you used to find it endearing! I know I’ve been a little rough with you for the past…hundred…years, but we can work this out! You don’t want me to come to you this way, you want to do it yourself, right?”

She can feel the heat on her skin, and she screws her eyes shut, tries to prepare for the pain. “Rio, my love, please…”

The first drop hits her cheek, rolls down it like a tear—then the downpour. Not a gentle summer’s rain, but a torrent of unseasonably ice-cold water, quenching the fire and soaking her to the skin.

Green magic.

As witches curse and wonder aloud, Rio, unseen to everyone but her, stands at the foot of the pyre, her lips curved into a skeleton’s mocking rictus grin. “Hi, Ags.”

“Oh. It’s you,” Agatha says, giving what she hopes is an imperious nod. “Well, go ahead. Untie me.”

Rio doesn’t move, forgets to even blink. After the moment hangs too long, starts to feel dangerous, Agatha squirms. “…Pretty please?” she tries.

Lightning strikes—since when was there lightning—and when her vision clears, Rio stands next to her, studies Agatha Harkness, soaked to the skin, teeth beginning to chatter. Laughs once, a sound as short and sharp as a sudden drop. “You’re right,” she says. “I do find it endearing.” She slits the ropes, reaches for Agatha’s elbow as she staggers free.

Agatha jerks violently away before they can make contact and Rio steps back, skeletal smile becoming a more human frown.

“Fine,” she says, looking down at the witches staring up. “Your turn, Agatha. Show off for me.”

Agatha’s magic levitates her into the air. She glances back, hair slicked to her cheeks, smile wide and manic. “Don’t look away,” she purrs, then turns to do what she does best.

“I never do,” Rio says, the words washed away in the rain.

If you liked this, try jealousy or for something cuter, the rabbit