#i hope she isolates herself and then chainsaws everyone To Death

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

i miss baghera i miss her. as much as qbbh was sad about not getting a flower of the day at least bagi knew to give him one and now pac too. what about baghera. where are her flowers. where is she. queen come back ill give you a bouquet.

(i know she's on break i hope she rests well but UAGHGH qbaghera hasn't gotten a flower in so long......)

[beyondconfessor]

Mortal Baking

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Agatha Night/Mary Wardwell 

Summary: The cost of sanity seemed to be isolation. Perhaps that why she decided to visit Mary Wardwell at her cottage.

N.B.: Also posted on AO3. 

Death was all around the coven. Over the last year, their numbers had dwindled catastrophically.

For Agatha, it felt like death followed her, specifically. Some of it was her own doing, others not.

Sabrina was dead. Dorcas was dead. Father Blackwood, her teachers, her parents––all of them were dead. She’d grown used to the taste of grave dirt on her tongue, and as of late, it tasted all the more bitter.

And there was no one to talk to. Everyone else had their own grief, so she didn’t reach out. Not even to Prudence.

Her sister was busy, looking after Judas and Judith, learning under Zelda Spellman's tutelage, whilst also training the once-mortal now-witch into witchcraft. Not that she cared.

All it meant was that, like everything else in her life, Prudence no longer had time for her, especially now that Agatha was no longer insane.

Though the cost of sanity seemed to be isolation.

She couldn’t even reach out and feel Hecate’s influence as everyone else seemed to. Once, on a whim, she’d prayed the Dark Lord just to see what would occur and felt her own magic slap against her in response––someone didn’t want her praying to him, so she didn’t.

She missed the madness, at least there in its influence she didn’t feel the weight of grief.

Perhaps that was why she found herself walking off campus, her feet taking her as far as to the edge of the woods where a familiar residence stood.

She knocked twice on the door and then stepped back, feeling an ache fill her. The woman was mortal; what could she offer her? And yet no one else had offered her anything as of late.

The door opened before she could talk herself out of it, and there stood Mary Wardwell. Glasses high on her nose, a furrow in her brow. “Agatha, what are you––?“

“I thought you were owed an explanation. After everything.”

She opened the door wider, and she was bid entry inside the home. Twice before she’d been inside Mary’s cottage. Once, on the first day after Mary joined her and Father Blackwood, they went as a unit to discuss everything. And the second time, by chance, for dinner––because Mary worried she wasn't eating well enough.  

As Mary placed on the kettle to make a pot of tea, Agatha's eyes drew around her home. Not much had changed, though she noticed the alcohol was no longer sitting out.

Agatha stepped into the kitchen, feeling her feet press on the linoleum. She’d wondered once what mortals did with themselves in their short lives. Her and Mary Wardwell were a similar age, not that anyone would know by looking at them both. And yet in all of her years, Agatha couldn’t recall what she’d done.

She’d lived in the orphanage, and then the Academy. Only in the last year did it feel like things were occurring outside of alcohol, sex and school.

“Sugar?”

“Two,” she confirmed and watched as Mary dropped two cubes of sugar into her tea before stirring it.  

They sat at the kitchen table and still Agatha tried to piece why she was here. What could a mortal offer her as her cup was placed before her.

“I’ve been worried about you. I tried to find the school, but…”

“It’s warded against mortals,” she advised as Mary settled into a chair opposite her. The conversation paused, and the only noise in the room was the quiet sound of a clock ticking on the wall. She wasn't sure what to say, so she tapped her nails against the cup, trying to find the words.

“You said you wanted to explain something to me?” Mary prompted.

“Father Blackwood is dead. Well….as dead as he can get. Prudence took a chainsaw to him and spread him to the corners of the earth. Fitting in some ways.”

Mary blinked, and then nodded, taking in the words as she set her cup down on the table. “Prudence is your sister. Her and Dorcas,” she recalled. “But she was Blackwood’s other daughter, is that correct?”

“Dorcas is…is also gone,” Agatha said, swallowing as she felt the words. She could still feel her sister’s lips against her own. For a moment, it’d been sweet, and then the taste of grave dirt had returned, and there was nothing that could remove the taste. Not food, nor drink, nor sex or blood. “Dead. Forever. I think…I think I did it. In the madness, I suffered. I think I––“ she paused, watching the tea leaves float in her cup.

Perhaps she should try and read her fortune. She’d probably see a banshee or the grim––some omen of death, anyway.

Mary’s hand clasped over her own, and it's warm drawing over hers.

That was one of the things they didn’t teach at the Academy. Mortals were warm. Warmer than witches.

Was that why Sabrina––?

No, Sabrina was dead. She couldn’t allow herself to fill with questions for the dead.

“I once promised to show you how us mortals bake,” she said. “How about we make spree almond biscuits? They’d go quite nicely with the tea, and I should have all the ingredients.”

She wanted to say that the tea would be cold by the time they were finished, but that wasn’t the point. So she nodded and rose, standing beside Mary.

Mary had her wash her hands and then pulled out an apron for them both to wear. One by one, she gathered all of the ingredients they required, and pulled out the necessary implements, setting them down on the kitchen bench, so they stood side-by-side.

Kitchen witchery was old magic; it dated back to the roots of magic, to Lilith. Most old families passed on recipes from mother to daughter, though Agatha’s family specialised in fortune. Teas, cards and seances. Practices of old.

Kitchen witchery was used more by witches like Hilda Spellman. It could provide sustenance as much as it could poison, and she advised Mary as such, of the little things she recalled about kitchen witchery after Father Blackwood had poisoned the church.

“Almonds can hide the smell of cyanide,” Mary advised, smiling at her. “If you ever need to dispose of someone discreetly…outside of your magic, of course.”

“Have you ever poisoned someone?” Agatha asked.

“No. Have you?”

She couldn’t recall. Possibly. She’d done so many things, and poisoning was just another way to play with mortals. “Maybe,” she shrugged.

“I shot someone once. I think,” Mary said, her eyes squinting as she stared out the kitchen window, to where it overlooked the forest. “I can’t…quite remember.”

“Do you want to?” Agatha asked.

“No. No, I don’t think I do.”

She kept her hands busy in the cooking, whisking the eggs and butter and sugar together.  Placing four in, and then came almonds. “Sometimes, I remember what I did to Dorcas. I’ve done worse, to others.”

“Like remove tongues?” Mary asked, and there was a gentle tease in the way she asked the question. Somehow, whether through circumstances predating the eldritch terrors or because of her and Father Blackwood, Mary’s views of death had shifted.

Or maybe she’d always been that way, and the good Christian values just held over that.

“I’ve done worse,” she advised softly. She didn’t feel bad about all the death and pain she wrought––especially not about the mine collapse. But the death of her sister, even madness inflicted, left a hole in her heart.  “Dorcas hurts,” she advised.  

“You loved her,” Mary advised. “When we hurt the ones we love, it hurts us in return, no matter how much we might pretend it doesn’t.” She stopped then, and then drew in a breath, looking pale. “Here, the next step is that we cut the dough into pieces.”

Agatha followed the instructions, watching as Mary guided her like she was one of her students. Usually, Agatha would be resistant to the direction. Deliberately not follow instructions, but as of late, she was so tired. And Mary wasn’t like any of her other instructors––certainly not like anyone from the Academy.

There was a kindness she didn’t expect, in how she guided her. Even now.

“Good job,” Mary said, pressing a hand to her shoulder and squeezed. Agatha felt as if she might collapse at the pressure of it. How could someone have done what they did, and still be kind?

“They’re uneven.”

“They’re meant to be,” Mary assured, taking the tray and placing them into the oven. Then, she pulled out a timer and set it. “We’ll wash-up while we wait.”

“How do you do it?” Agatha asked.

“Do what?”

“This, all of this, it’s so…boring.”

Mary laughed. “Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it? Especially when you can just…magic up your food.”

Agatha shrugged. “We have a cook,” she advised. “Magic can’t create out of nothing. You still have to have ingredients. Potions and ceremonies require material components as well as semantic.”

“Well, that sounds pretty boring too. Finding all those ingredients, putting them together and hoping something comes out of it––not so different from cooking. Though, I’m sure a bit more deadly if it goes wrong.”

Agatha sighed. “It’s different.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” she assured. “You don’t get it. You never will. Mortals just don’t feel it like we do.”

“Could you show me?” Mary asked her voice soft. “Do something small?”

“Here,” she reached out, taking Mary’s hands in her own, holding them between each other. Then, closing her eyes she drew the warmth of the kitchen around them into her hands, feeling it pull and pulse until she was able to cause a gentle vibration from her hands through to Mary’s.

“Oh,…” Mary advised. “What–what are you doing?” She stuttered, trying to tug her hands away, but Agatha held them firm as she stared at the woman’s face.

“This is what I feel. Constantly. This ocean inside of me going back and forth like a tide coming in. That’s magic. And you don’t feel it. You can’t feel it carry in the air, or feel it spark inside of you––“ and there she let a spark crackle from her fingertips, across Mary’s palms and watched as the woman’s mouth parted her cheeks flushing. “––you mortals don’t get it. You never will.”

She pulled her hand away and watched as Mary continued to stare at her before she looked away, adjusting her glasses. “Why did you come here, to my house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Mary said, turning to look at her then. There was a surprising hardness to her tone. “What do you want, Agatha? Do you want a counsellor, a parent?”

“We’re the same age,” she scoffed.

“A teacher, then?”

Agatha ached, looking away. She didn’t want any of those things.

“A friend, then?”

“No!” She snapped. “Maybe, I don’t know. I thought––“ she paused then, uncertain as to where that trail of thought was going, but there were words on her tongue, and she may as well say whatever they were. “I thought you might understand.”

“The loneliness you’re feeling? Yes, I suppose she and I are longtime companions,” Mary said.

Companion. That was it, the word she wanted––not a friend, but a companion. “No one wants to know about what we did. They think that Father Blackwood was some mastermind, manipulating us. And he was, but…”

“He was kind, at times. Made you feel important.”

Agatha swallowed, feeling the conflict of emotions ache inside of her. Prudence and Directrix Spellman had convinced themselves that she'd been charmed into doing his will. She hadn't corrected them, if only because she was afraid to lose the only place she could call home these days. But it left her to lie awake at night, wondering if everything had been a lie. If maybe he had charmed her. He'd made her sane, while she'd been around him. Perhaps he'd done other things to her mind. “He was kind to you, too. Wasn’t he?”

Mary nodded. “Doesn’t mean that what he did to us was right. You can be angry with him and still…enjoy the good times we had.” She paused, her brow pressing. “How…how are Judith and Judas?”

“Good,” she advised. “Prudence is looking after them both. She’s teaching them magic and trying to��befriend them, I guess.”

“And you? How are you, Agatha? You don’t need to lie to me this time.”

Lonely, she wanted to say, but she smiled instead. “I miss the Church. It felt good to…work with you. If you like, I could…I could come back and help with what you’re doing, now?”

“What about your church?”

“She won’t answer me. Even Directrix feels her waver since Sabrina…” she paused then, tilting her head. “We were a good team, weren’t we?”

Mary frowned her, reaching up to cup her face as she angled Agatha’s head to look her directly in the eyes. “The church won’t provide what you’re looking for.”

“What am I looking for?” Agatha asked.

“I think you’re trying to discover who you are. I am, too.” Her hand went to move away, but Agatha snatched at her wrist to hold it still for a moment longer. She closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of the hand and pretended, for just a moment, that things weren’t so different.

And then she dropped her hold of the hand and opened her eyes, moving away. “How do mortals clean up?”

“How about this time, you show me about witches do it?”

It wasn’t so different, though witches magic made it easier to wash to the mixture from the bowls,  and a quick charm dried everything quickly enough for it to be set away. Mary marvelled at it. Making jokes about how it would certainly make roasts easier. It was like the world softened again, and all of that pain in her chest eased for a moment.

The time went off, and Mary switched its dial before she took her oven mitts and reached into the oven, pulling the tray out before she set it on the stovetop.

“Do you have a cooling charm…or sp-spell?” Mary asked.

“Charm,” Agatha confirmed. And with a summoning spell, she drew heat from the cookies, dispersing it through the kitchen.

Mary reached for the biscuits tentatively then, touching them with the back of her fingers, before confirming their warmth. There, she took one in hand and handed it to Agatha to try.

Agatha took the biscuit in grip and then brought it to her mouth.

It was good. Better than she expected. Chewing and swallowing, she nodded at Mary. “Maybe mortal cooking isn’t so bad,” she advised.

“Maybe,” Mary advised. “Though I’m intrigued to see what witch's food is like.”

Agatha shrugged, finishing the biscuit and then licking the crumbs for fingertips. It was rude, but she hardly cared––and as she looked up, she watched as Mary smiled to herself as she did the same.

It was a friendly smile, she thought.

And then, the warmth of that faded as she realised there was nothing else for them to do. Her tea had turned cold, they'd finished baking and washing-up, and there was nothing else to say.

“I...should get going,” Agatha said.

“How about…you come and visit me on Saturdays. Help me bake. It gets…lonely here, and I could use a friend––and in turn, you can talk to me about your studies?”

Agatha felt a venomous comment rise and fall in her mouth. But it faded. Mary was friendly, and if she was honest with herself for once, baking the mortal way hadn't been so horrible. So, she nodded and smiled. “I’d like that.”

“I’d like that, too,” Mary said. And then she brightened, “Now, I have a container around here somewhere…” she shifted through her cupboards, moving things around before pulling out a set of Tupperware. Standing up, she set half of the biscuits inside the container before closing the lid and handing it back to her. “There. Finish them up, and maybe next week we’ll do an upside-down cake.”

At that, Agatha paused. She didn’t understand what that meant but smiled nonetheless. “I might share them…with Prudence.”

“I’m sure she’ll like that.”

Mary followed her to the front door, and there, Agatha paused. She felt as if she should thank her, but the words didn’t come easily. So she waited, watching as Mary looked at her softly as she asked, "Was there something else, dear?"

Agatha darted forward and kissed Mary’s lips, pressing against them gently.

Mary gasped against her, but before she could move away or press further against her, Agatha pulled back and smiled at her as she licked her lips. They tasted like almonds and vanilla. “Until next Saturday,” she said, before she left, teleporting back home as she watched a red flush spread across Mary Wardwell's cheekbones, the woman's chest rising and falling as she stared at her dumbstruck.

It was a lovely expression, and she savoured the image as she carried the Tupperware, back to where her dormitory was, sitting on the edge of the bed as she tried to think about what she wanted to do the rest of the day. Maybe find Prudence, though that would likely lead to questions.

There was no way she was going to something as stupid as head to the library and study. No, maybe she would just take it easy. Have a nap, and do some simple magics, look into things that might impress Mary. Perhaps some gardening spells? She could show her how they grew crops at the Academy and watch her.

As she set the container down on the bedside table, she realised that she didn’t taste grave dirt in her mouth for the first time. The taste might come back, but for now, Agatha opened up the container and pulled out a biscuit, taking a bite. Perhaps there were some acceptable mortals. Or maybe Mary Wardwell was the only acceptable mortal.

She'd find out.