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Seekest thou the road to all that's foul and fair
Gather sisters, fire, water, earth, and air
Darkest hour, wake thy power, earthly and divine
Burn and brew with coven two true and glory shall be thine
(1759)
A soft breeze tickles her skin, making the hem of her hood flutter. Agatha automatically reaches for it to keep it firmly locked on her head. She purses her lips as she closely studies the crowd on the lush, green fields before her, her hooded cloak concealing her face.
It’s midsummer and a bit too warm for her cloak, but she’s used to it. Her eyes flicker to the village’s kids playing around a pole decorated with flowers, ribbons, and greenery, the attached ribbons fluttering in the soft breeze. She watches the youngsters from under her hood as they chase the colorful ribbons, attempting to catch them and shrieking with laughter at any failed attempt.
She lets out a soft gasp as her heart clenches painfully in her chest. It’s a sharp, familiar ache that never truly fades. Their laughter and shrieks of joy claw at something raw, deep inside her, poking at a festering wound that, even on the best of days, is only held together by an old and frayed thread.
Quickly averting her eyes and forcefully suppressing the emotion, she focuses her attention on a group of women nearby, laughing, dancing, and conversing near the pole.
She recognizes a coven when she sees one. Her lip curls up in a sneer, and her eyes narrow to slits.
Witches have always betrayed her, starting with her mother’s coven. She had never expected that the coven would turn on her, dragging her from her sleeping quarters and binding her to a pole, accusing her of betraying their coven by stealing magic and practicing the darkest of arts.
Even if she had.
Agatha had been a teenager, at a rebellious age when everything her mother forbade her became mightily interesting, and yes, she had bent the rules to her bidding—wasn’t every young girl like that? But not every mother was Evanora Harkness. Not every mother would condemn her to death because Agatha wanted to satisfy her curiosity. Agatha’s desperate pleas had not convinced her mother to change her opinion, resulting in the entire coven blasting their magic into Agatha to destroy her.
Well, they knew how that had turned out. Her lips twitch at the memory. Her darkest hour had awakened something inside her, a raw power that she hadn’t understood but which she had fully embraced. A power that she would soon use again.
Agatha follows the women’s movements keenly, not taking her gaze off them. She scoffs softly, narrowing her eyes at the young women laughing a little further away as if they’re the ones who personally took something from her.
It doesn’t matter. A witch is a witch, she reminds herself. None of them can be trusted.
She’s learned this the hard way.
Her mother might have condemned Agatha to death, but it hadn’t taken long before Agatha had condemned herself to Death in a much more pleasant way. Killing a bunch of witches attracted Death’s attention, and her appreciation had been anything but subtle. Their union had been as primal as nature itself, as they intimately and meticulously worshipped each other’s bodies in a celebration of life and death.
Until she, too, had betrayed her—in the worst possible way. Agatha’s heart squeezes in pain, and she clenches her jaw.
Curse Rio.
Rio had taken everything Agatha had ever loved, had crushed it beneath her eternal feet, and had left her with a raging thirst for revenge and determination to never be weak again. Agatha’s chest aches at the memory. She huffs, rubbing at the spot on her chest as if she can scrub it away. She touches her pendant, the structure always calming, and lightly strokes her throat as she lifts her chin, her gaze determined.
No. The grief-induced rage that always summons these memories is enough to set her priorities straight. Witches have never once done anything for her. Everything any of them has ever done is selfishly taking from her. She owes them nothing . So she’ll take what she needs.
Agatha’s mouth tightens, and she narrows her eyes. Then, she raises her head and, with a calculated, slow movement, she lowers her hood. She waits until two of the women are close before she hums the song, which she knows will always direct any witch in need within ear’s reach immediately to her. Step one. Set the trap.
“Seekest thou the road to all that's foul and fair…”
One of the women’s heads snaps up. Agatha follows her from the corner of her vision but ignores her as she hums the next part, softer this time. The girl keeps an eye on her as she moves away from Agatha, following her friends, but Agatha knows the woman took the bait. Now, all Agatha has to do is wait. She gets up, flings the hem of her cloak around her with a dramatic spin, and heads back to the inn where she’s been staying.
Once inside, she hangs her cloak, sits down in the worn-down armchair, and waits, silently counting the seconds until the knock that will inevitably come.
Her routine has never failed.
The first time she’d drained a coven of their power, she had winged it, struck with grief over just losing Nicky. But the witches had been desperate enough for her to succeed, resulting in five dead witches and new power for Agatha. It stilled some of the rage-filled grief that had devoured her from the inside. Quieting the searing pain in her heart while draining the witches’ magic had been a powerful motivator to shape her own path, and it had made a few things crystal clear in the process. One, she’d never attach herself to a witch again. She would forever be a covenless witch, only relying on herself. And two, she vowed she’d become the strongest witch that ever roamed the earth. For that, she needed to be cunning.
She set out to perfect the song Nicky and she had come up with together, turned her grief and pain into a lethal weapon as she reshaped some of the lyrics and added new ones to shape the story, and then set out to spread the word.
It took a conversation here, a whisper there, to cause a ripple effect about the Witches’ Road, about the song that would unlock the hidden gate to a path that would fulfill every witch’s biggest desire in their darkest hour of need. A complete coven—fire, earth, water, and air aside from herself—spirit—would be needed to even have a fighting chance of making it to the reward that awaited them at the end, and the chances of failure were high. But she’d be there with them, the sole survivor of the Witch’s Road, and she’d lead them in their quest.
Agatha’s not the only one who wants power. It’s almost too easy to find witches who want to walk the Witches’ Road to their untimely death out of sheer desperation or hunger for something more. Agatha doesn’t care about any of them, only about the magic they can give her—the magic Agatha can drain from them. And these witches? They don’t even deserve their magic, wanting a perceived shortcut to glory without putting in the work. Agatha scoffs in disdain and shakes her head.
Pathetic simpletons.
A sound outside her room alerts her, and it’s followed by a quick succession of knocks on her door. Agatha’s mouth curls into a vicious smile. The witch has arrived quicker than Agatha anticipated. She really must be desperate. “Yes?” she says when she opens the door, narrowing her eyes at the unsuspecting woman.
“I apologize for calling on you without you even knowing who I am,” the woman says, nervously wringing her hands. “But I heard you singing the Witches’ Ballad, and I thought… do you might know how to get to the Witches’ Road?” Her eyes are wide, hopeful, carrying a silent plea.
Agatha tilts her head as she observes her, pursing her lips. “And what if I did?” she snaps. Step two: Desperation sweetens the deal.
The woman wraps her arms around herself, before unwrapping and pressing her palms against her sternum. “Please,” she says urgently. Desperately . “I’m in dire need.”
Pathetic. This one is not even worthy of her power. Agatha will have no qualms about taking it from her.
“The road is dangerous,” she warns her, giving the woman a slow once-over, pursing her lips.
Her visitor sets her jaw and raises her chin. “I’m up to it.”
She’s pretty, Agatha supposes. Her long, flaming red hair is firmly braided and reaches halfway down her back, only a few stubborn wisps escaping to frame her face. Freckled cheeks, bright blue eyes. If the redhead hadn’t been a witch, Agatha would’ve been tempted to ask her inside to engage in other pleasant activities. “You need to be brave and strong to have a chance to survive. The Road is foul, will throw you off your path long before you even reach what you seek—the glory at the end.” She rests her chin lightly on the knuckles of her fingers, studying the woman before her.
“I am. And I’m very dedicated.” There’s confidence in her voice now. “Tell me how to get there. Please?”
Agatha tilts her head as if thinking about it, studying the woman with narrowed eyes. Then, she moves a finger up and down in the witch’s direction. “You’re a water witch?” It’s an educated guess. Agatha knows how to read people, and a lot of witches have their tells.
The woman’s eyes light up. “Yes! Yes, I am,” she beams at Agatha, “Potions are my trade. I help the people in this village with their ailments.” Pride momentarily lights up her features, but then her eyes sober. “But I am in need of power to…” Her gaze clouds over as if something is torturing her innermost self.
Agatha’s lips curl up only for a second before she hides her smirk. Step three. Draw them in. “The Road only shows itself to witches at their darkest hour. Only then can it be summoned.”
“Oh, believe me,” the woman softly says, a sheen of tears appearing in her eyes. She blinks rapidly. “I’m desperate.”
Agatha sighs dramatically for good measure. Step four. Find a coven. “We’ll need a protection witch. A green witch. And a divination witch, too.” She lets her eyes trail to the window. “We need an entire coven even to consider opening up a passage to the road. And this is a small village. I’m not sure if we could even gather an entire—”
“My coven will help,” the woman interjects quickly, and anticipation flutters in Agatha’s stomach. “They’re powerful witches. I know we can make it.”
She’s eager, this one. She’ll definitely convince her coven to join her in the woods. Raising her chin, Agatha slowly raises her hand and pushes her dark, unruly curls over her shoulder.
“Do you trust them?” She eyes the woman suspiciously. “Are you willing to place your fate in their hands? Because only then can you unlock the hidden gate to the Witches’ Road.”
“Yes! Yes. Anytime.” The witch’s voice radiates confidence. “They’re my sisters in the craft.”
Agatha takes a dramatic pause before she inhales loudly through her nose, then dropping the tension from her shoulders, visibly giving into the request. “Very well, then. Meet me at the edge of the forest after dinner. I’ll show you the road.” Step five. Grant the prize.
The woman gasps and then exhales in relief, her shoulders slumping. “Oh, thank you! I am so, so grateful. I promise we won’t disappoint you.” She steps forward and grabs Agatha’s hands, squeezing them gently. “My name is Marigold.”
“Agatha Harkness,” Agatha says, a faint smile on her lips. “Lovely to meet you, dear. Don’t be late.”
“We won’t be! I promise.” And with that, she turns, her skirts swishing around her legs as she hurries away to gather her friends.
Agatha closes the door of her room and starts gathering her sparse possessions in a small bag. Then, she moves to the window, following the woman with her eyes as she runs up to the tavern. She smiles.
Sometimes, it is almost too easy.
Almost.
Circle sewn with fate
Unlock thy hidden gate
(1753)
“Are these good, Mama?”
Nicky looks up at her, arms filled with white pebbles. His narrow face beams up at her with youthful eagerness of wanting to do good, and she can't do anything else but smile back at her son. “Perfect,” she compliments him. “Do you think you can find more?”
“Yeah!” he exclaims, and he turns to run away to the river bend where he found them. She eyes him fondly. Nicky knows not to wander too far, and she always keeps an eye on where he’s going. He’s three now, ready to explore the world under his mother’s watchful, wary gaze. She knows about dangers he’s not aware of.
As she collects the firewood for the evening campfire, he rushes back to her with another armful. She watches his small figure bouncing off again, her heart warming at his unbridled enthusiasm. It’s been a long while since they encountered their first witch circle. Nicky doesn’t remember; he was just a baby, wailing from hunger. But Agatha does. Hurt, angry, and worried for her child, she’d forcefully taken what she needed. When they left, their hunger was stilled—Agatha’s in more ways than one.
Now, they’re building their own, but this one will be firmly locked until she decides otherwise. A faint smirk at the memory plays around her lips. The pebbles, washed clean and polished white by the river, are perfect for the protection circle she will build in a minute. It’ll keep them safe for the night. If someone tries to enter, she’ll have their hides. But she knows her power and knows they’ll be safe. Nobody will enter.
Nobody but one.
The fleeting thought causes a chill to run down Agatha’s spine, and automatically, her eyes scan the surroundings. A nervous habit she’s developed over the past years. Because there’s only one who defies everything and can take everything she wants from her if she’s not cautious.
Agatha’s jaw sets, ignoring the anxious flutter in her stomach. She’s always cautious. Always on edge and prepared to fight.
It’s been a little over three years since Agatha’s seen Rio last, on the day Nicky was born. I can offer only time, Rio had said. These words are a constant presence in the back of Agatha’s head. Her gaze falls on Nicky, who’s busy turning over rocks as he determines which are the best for his mother and her chest squeezes forcefully with a mixture of love, fear, and dread. She swallows them away, forcing a smile while Nicky comes back again with another arm full, humming her approval.
He smiles up at her, his eyes full of happiness and trust, and Agatha feels it so intensely that it takes her breath away. He counts on her to keep him safe, even from things he cannot yet understand.
She straightens her spine and lifts her chin, trying to shake off the intrusive, unsettling thoughts. No, this witch circle won’t stop Rio from entering, but at least it’ll prevent others from trespassing when they rest.
Nicky sees it as a game. He keeps delivering rocks, and once Agatha’s done with collecting the wood to get a fire started, she joins him in his quest. Together, they create a perfect circle around their campsite. She doesn’t always need its protection, not when they’re deeper inside the woods, but the next village is only a few hours away, and she doesn’t want to risk a lone hunter to surprise them when they sleep. Murmuring the protection spell under her breath, the stones glow up just a little. Then, the light fades.
When she’s done, she turns, only to find Nicky watching her intently. She reaches for him, and full of trust, he steps closer immediately, enabling her to run her hand through his hair right before he wraps her arms around her leg. “Good job, little witch. The circle’s perfect now,” she praises him, and he leans into her a little more, staring at the stone circle around them.
“How does it work, Mama?” he asks, his nose wrinkled adorably as he tries to figure it out.
Agatha chuckles. “Magic,” she says in an exhale, waving a hand in the air as she releases him, stepping back to the pile of firewood.
Nicky lifts his head to meet her gaze. “But how does it work ?” he presses again.
Agatha chuckles softly and squats to her knees. He’s three, and he’s starting to get more curious about magic and its mechanisms. He’s not letting her get away with an answer that won’t satisfy his inquisitive mind. “Well,” she begins, “first you need the perfect stones, which you’ve provided.” She gets up again and guides him gently to the stack of firewood. “Then, when we put them in the circle, it’s like we’re sewing it shut with magic.”
“Sewing?” he echoes. His voice sounds a bit dubious. But Agatha nods.
“Yes, Nicky. Like stitching a coat. But instead of thread, we use my purple.” Her fingers wiggle, a soft purple glow lighting up around her pads, weaving through the air in a thin thread.
Nicky gasps, understanding flickering on his face. “Invisible purple thread?” he whispers, a flicker of awe in his tone.
Agatha grins, not wanting to point out that he could hardly see the purple if it’s invisible. If it makes sense to him, she’ll continue with the image he’s provided. “Exactly. Invisible purple thread is very strong,” she tells him. “It holds the circle tight, so nothing bad can sneak in.”
Nodding, Nicky looks down at the ring of white stones. He’s silent for a little while as he processes the information. Then, his nose scrunches up adorably again. “But what about us? Can we go out?” He looks up at her, eyes wide. “Are we trapped?”
Agatha shakes her head. “There’s a gate,” she tells him, pointing at a stone in the direction of the woods. “Right there. But it’s hidden, so only the person who made the circle can open it.”
Nicky beams up at her, proud to know the secret. “So you can open it?”
“That’s right.” She taps her finger to his chest. “And you helped sew it.”
“And I can open it too?”
She pulls her son onto her lap and wraps her arms around his frail body. He automatically leans into her. “Not yet, dearest,” she murmurs in his hair, pressing a kiss to his head.
He lifts his head. “But I’m a witch, too,” he says, a little petulant.
“That you are,” Agatha tells him, tapping his nose gently, “The best kind. But the circle listens to power. It takes practice and purple to open a gate like that.” She hopes, one day, that Nicky will show signs of magic. She expects it, him being a child of two very powerful beings. Still, a twinge of unrest settles in her chest again.
“I’ll find my purple,” Nicky nods determinedly, turning in his mother’s embrace. “Then I can help. It’ll listen to me, too.”
Agatha laughs softly. “I’m sure it will once you’ve found your purple,” she agrees, and he seems content with the answer, for now. Agatha rests her cheek against his temple, eyes drifting back to the stones. She inhales his unique scent, mixed with dirt and the distinct scent of forest in the summer. He is hers. Her chest expands with all the love she has for her child, and not for the first time, she vows she will keep him safe, always.
Even from his other mother.
Marching ever forward
'Neath the wooded shrine
I stray not from the path
I hold your death's hand in mine
(1755)
“Keep up, Nicky,” Agatha calls over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” a shrill voice sounds behind her. “Scratchy doesn’t want to move. He’s cold.” His voice contains a protest covered in a whine as he drags the unwilling goat behind him. It’s not the goat who’s cold, Agatha knows, and honestly, she cannot blame her son. She knows he must be tired, hungry, and his feet probably hurt badly from sopping in his shoes. She knows, because hers are, and guilt flickers in her stomach. But they cannot stop. Not yet.
They’ve been on the road for hours after having to leave the last village, needing to cover as much ground between them and that place as swiftly as possible. Four women are dead, after all, and it never takes the villagers long to pick up their pitchforks and torches to scout the perimeter, determined to catch the murderer. Luck has been on their side because a steady rain has covered their tracks.
The downside is that their clothes and shoes are soaking wet. Agatha feels the blisters forming on her heel and toes, meaning Nicky probably has them, too, and if she’s cold to the bone, then he feels the same. She grits her teeth and plows on. Fortunately, night will fall soon, so the woods will protect them even more than they currently do, and they can find shelter. And they need to, because aside from Agatha worrying about villagers with pitchforks, she must ensure that Nicky warms up and his clothes dry. His health has been steady these past weeks, and she needs to keep it that way.
“Why do we always have to go through the woods?” His voice cracks slightly, and he swipes at his face, his little body shivering with both cold and frustration. Agatha’s guilt flares up and mixes with irritation directed at herself, and she has to be careful not to take it out on him. She slows her pace until he nearly bumps into her.
“Something you want to tell me, Nicky?” she softly says, and he scrunches his nose, rubbing it with a wet sleeve.
“We’re always marching and marching, and we’re never stopping,” he says, the complaint evident in his youthful voice. “I’m tired, I’m wet, I’m cold, and my feet hurt. I don’t want to do this anymore, Mama.” His eyes fill up with tears and when they leave his eyes, they quickly mix with the rivulets of rainwater on his cheeks.
She stops, turning to him and lowers herself to his level, wincing when rivulets of rainwater run over her back, causing cold shivers to ripple down her spine. “I know, sweetheart,” she says. “But we need to go a little further. I promise, it won’t be long now.”
“I don’t want to.” He stomps his feet to add power to his words. The defiance in his voice is firm and his brow furrows, and she knows a tantrum coming from a mile away. She cannot blame him. Guilt flutters in her belly. She exhales, finding his angry gaze with her eyes.
“Oh, no. Then I fear we’re at a deadlock.” Solemnly, she folds her hands together, and waits for him to take the bait.
A wrinkle appears on his forehead as he mulls over the sentence. “What’s that?” Agatha smiles. His curiosity has gotten the better of him, and she’s quick to explain.
“That means that you want something, namely, to find shelter, build a fire, sit down and rest, and I want something, that is to move forward a little while longer until we’re safe. But those things don’t align. Do you think we could find a solution?” The pads of her fingertips tap together rhythmically. His eyes flicker down to observe the movement for a second, before he tilts his head and looks back up.
His mind is working; she can see it. His eyebrows draw together, and then, his eyes flicker around the vicinity. Agatha gets up, too, giving him the space to order his thoughts as she takes a few steps in the direction they were going. She watches him when he scrunches his nose and slowly moves forward, deep in thought. At least he walks, she thinks, and she keeps a close eye on him when a concentrated expression appears on his face. His hurting feet and tired limbs are momentarily forgotten.
Then, something flickers in his eyes, and he stops abruptly again, his face brightening with the spark of an idea. “You can carry me on your back,” he says triumphantly, as if he’s just solved the world’s biggest problem. Surprised by his inventiveness, she laughs out loud, the cackling sound echoing in the dusk surrounding them.
“What a clever boy you are, Nicholas,” she praises him for his ingenuity, and because he weighs nothing - and they really do need to put in some extra miles before she deems them safe - she turns her back towards him. “For that, young sir, you’re rewarded with a ride on my back. Hop on.”
Nicky cheers and climbs on her back, wrapping his arms firmly around her neck. She grabs the goat’s rope and sets off at a brisk pace. The rain stops soon after, and when she feels a shiver run through her son’s body, she’s grateful for it. She’ll make sure he gets warm real quick. His resistance levels aren’t great, and she doesn’t want him sick again.
He’s already sick too often. Anxiety settles in her stomach, the familiar dread never far away. I can offer only time . Her jaw clenches. As long as she can outrun both the villagers with pitchforks and Death, she’ll be fine. They will be fine.
“Why do we always have to go through the woods, Mama?” Nicky wonders, voice close to her ears. It’s the same question as before, but he sounds more curious now, and the complaint has left his voice. She’s relieved to hear that his bad temper has settled.
“Well, the woods offer us food and shelter,” Agatha tells him, waving around them with one hand. The woods feel thicker now, and she is content with a somewhat slower pace. “They’re hiding us from prying eyes and dangers. Surely, the woods also have their own dangers, and we always need to be careful, wherever we are, but the benefits outweigh the risks.”
“Hm,” Nicky hums, tightening his arms around her shoulders and pressing his cheek against hers. “How do we make sure we don’t run into danger then?”
“For one, keep up with your mother,” Agatha says, a smile audible in her voice. “Follow my path, darling, close behind me, and don’t stray from it. I’ll always protect you.”
She feels his back tensing a little and reassuringly pats the legs he’s wrapped tightly around her waist. “The woods are our shrine, Nicky. They keep us hidden and safe. Never worry. Just… make sure to stay close to me, alright?”
Nicky hums his confirmation. He’s silent for a while, and Agatha strides through the underbrush at a steady pace. Evening is falling quickly now, and it’s becoming harder to see, but she wants to go a little deeper into the forest before they make camp.
“I have another solution, Mama,” Nicky says then.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll hold your hand next time. So you’ll know that maybe you need to walk a little slower sometimes?”
Her bright, funny, thoughtful, and smart child. Her chest is ready to explode with the love she feels for him, the warmth pouring out of her heart, warms her blood, and she gently squeezes the legs wrapped around her. “That is another excellent idea. Hold your hand in mine, and we’ll never be separated.”
He relaxes against her, and she breathes in his own unique scent as he dozes off a little, lulled to sleep by Agatha’s rhythmic pace. In the next village, she’ll remember to buy a scarf to wrap around him as she carries him. That way, he can get a little nap from time to time while resting on her back.
She smiles to herself, as she hums a song for him. He really did come up with a great solution.
Primal night, giveth sight
Familiar by thy side
If one be gone, we carry on
Spirit as our guide
(1756)
Her raw grief claws at her chest, forcibly presses down on her shoulders, suffocates her until she’s nearly unable to breathe. She can’t shake it off. Not when losing him is still so fresh. But she needs to get it together and take back control. She needs to in order to survive.
Nicky is dead. Taken by someone she trusted. Someone she loved . A sob wells up in her throat, but she forces it down. Instead, she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other as she desperately tries to suppress her emotions.
It’s so hard.
Nicky was her everything . She lived solely for him. In six years, they had never been apart, always on each other’s side. Now, she instinctively throws looks over her shoulder to see if he’s close behind her.
He isn’t.
Because of her.
She took him.
Her grief twists into something darker. The rage rises like a storm in her chest, suffocating the sorrow. Agatha embraces it. Anger will protect her more than grief ever will.
“We’re almost there.”
Agatha nods stiffly at the woman in front of her. She’d disturbed her mourning near Nicky’s grave, assuming she knew the way to a Witches’ Road. Idiot. But in all fairness, the ignorant girl has given her something to live for. It’s almost worth a thank-you.
Almost.
The woman smiles, beaming with naive gratitude. “I thank you, Agatha Harkness, for showing me the way.” In all her youthful eagerness, she adds, “I do think I know some of the words already.” She sings a few lines she must have overheard in the tavern where Nicky performed the night before. When she sings “Down the Witches’ Road,” Agatha’s heart tightens painfully.
Nicky would have loved knowing his song was spreading. Her beautiful boy.
But then the girl sings, “If one be gone, we carry on.”
Agatha inhales sharply and halts mid-step. The words echo in her mind. Those words. Her breath catches in her throat. Agatha just whisper-sung those words to Nicky at his grave, aching and raw and straight from her bleeding heart. Hearing them voiced by this stranger feels like a punch to the gut. She presses her hands against her stomach, trying to steady herself, reeling from the sudden new surge of grief clawing at her chest.
Blinking rapidly, she shoves the rising wave of sorrow back down, fighting to breathe normally. Now is not the time for sadness. When her heart rate finally slows, the searing pain hardens into something far more dangerous. She’s livid .
This fool .
Her fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into her palms, as her magic simmers beneath the surface, ready to explode out of her. But no—not yet. She needs to take control of the narrative. She is the one who decides what happens next. This pathetic, ignorant witch won’t defile Nicky’s heritage.
“Ah, but that’s not how the sacred chant starts,” Agatha rasps, her voice steady but dangerously soft. She clears her throat and inhales deeply, forcing herself to relax and her tense muscles to ease. “We sing it together,” she says, her voice calm now, almost soothing. “Once we’ve assembled a coven. And yes, you got a few sentences right, but not the entire song. A true witch knows the lyrics.” She narrows her eyes at the girl, the slightest edge of skepticism in her tone, waiting for her to take the bait.
She does. “I am a true witch,” the young woman protests, a hint of indignance in her voice. Agatha’s lips curl up into a grim smile. She is proud, this one. Proud people are easily played. Proud people are stubborn. But then, the girl deflates, her shoulders sagging. “But I need to be stronger. The road… it can offer me strength, can it not?”
Agatha nods. “Indeed, it can. But only if you know the words to the song.”
“Might you teach me?” the woman says, her voice filled with hope, and Agatha nods gracefully and hums a confirmation, the smile that tugs at her lips more predatory than comforting. “I certainly can,” she replies with an ease that almost surprises her. “But the Witches’ Road is a dangerous place, and there is a possibility that you’ll die.” Her eyes meet the young woman’s, cold and piercing. For good measure, she lets a frown flicker on her face. “It is only fair that I let you know this before we embark on this journey. If I’m taking you, I’m also putting myself at risk.”
The girl’s face falls, and Agatha bites back a cruel smile. Yes. Let her think it’s about the danger. Let her fear. “Nothing worthwhile is ever easy,” the girl mutters after a few seconds. Her shoulders straighten with resolve. “I am willing to take the risk.”
“Very well. You are a brave lass,” Agatha says, smiling. The girl beams back at her.
Agatha hums the words of Nicky’s song, swallowing down the ache that accompanies them. But the following lines come to her easily, and she lets it out, her voice ringing strong and clear. “Primal night, giveth sight, Familiar by thy side.” Her heart aches at the words, but she keeps singing.
Nicky will always, always be in her heart. And now, this girl will sing his ballad, and it will be theirs no longer.
She can feel the young woman’s eager gaze upon her, sensing her approval. Agatha takes a moment to let the quiet settle between them, before her heart twists again, just slightly, and she finishes the verse. This time, she welcomes the pain searing through her stomach, as she sings the words the girl overheard before.
“If one be gone, we carry on, spirit as our guide.”
Nicky will always be with her, the spirit that will guide her. The one she will forever avenge. With renewed resolve, she raises her chin at the girl, waiting for her to sing them.
The girl repeats the words in perfect pitch. Agatha hadn’t expected the wave of nausea to rise in her stomach and grief surge up. It’s like a leather belt is tightened around her chest, rendering her unable to breathe. She falters but, with a sharp breath, she steadies herself. No. This can’t happen. The girl’s voice rings in her ears, eager to do it right. But it feels all wrong .
“You sing this tune,” she commands, her voice low and steady, and she repeats the words on a different tune. She watches the girl’s face as her mouth moves to mimic the change, and Agatha forces herself to smile through the pain, keeping the control tightly in her grip.
The harmony is not perfect, but it’ll do, for now.
Exhaling silently, she nods her approval at the woman next to her. The young witch beams up at her, much like Nicky had done only days ago. Her heart clenches, and she pushes it away, replacing it with anger.
“Excellent. Now,” she says, turning away from her to hide her feelings. As she spins on her heels with dramatic flair, her cloak swirls around her legs, “let’s find our coven.”
Walk, walk, walk Down, down, down the road
I walk We walk Down the wind-y witches' road
Walk, walk, walk Down, down, down the road
I walk We walk Down the wind-y witches' road
Follow me, my friend
I’ll see you at To glory at the end
(1756)
“Mama? Why do you kill witches?”
Agatha doesn’t look up from the book she’s reading as she walks alongside her son. They’ve been walking for quite some time now after she drained the magic of the witches in the last village they visited, and Nicky’s been a little moody since. She knows he’s hungry, and that his feet hurt, but he also knows they need to create some distance between the tiny town and themselves. The question surprises her, and yet, it doesn’t. It’s been a long time coming. One of these days, he was bound to ask her.
“To survive,” she answers.
“Could we not stay with the witches and survive with them?” There’s a longing in his voice mixed with a curiosity for answers she cannot give him. Her stomach clenches, and her gaze briefly slides to her son before settling back on the pages she’s reading.
“No.”
“Why?” He looks at her, nose scrunched in curiosity.
“Because then they will try to kill us.” And it’s better to kill them, first, before they get the chance. The bonus, of course, is taking their power, which she needs to replenish herself. Hoping that one of them is a strong enough witch to help her son. But she doesn’t tell him all of that.
“Why?”
She loves his curiosity, but it’s touching a raw nerve. Her jaw clenches. “If you want to survive, get used to this feeling.”
He knows her dismissive tone and stops asking. For a little while, he is quiet. Agatha returns to her book, but Nicky is never silent for long.
At first, he hums, then starts to sing, matching the words to the rhythm of his footsteps: “Walk, walk, walk the road, I walk the windy road.” The next time, his voice is a bit stronger: “Walk, walk, walk the road, I walk the windy road.”
Despite growing up in the woods, he is a very social boy who loves the sound of his own voice, the attention that comes with it, and performing for people. Singing is also his way of reconnecting with her when she is a bit cross with him, and at age six, he knows how to wind her around his little pinky finger. She never tires of hearing him come up with new lyrics to a melody he’s carried in his soul since he was old enough to speak, and she enjoys offering her own input when he needs it. It’s their thing, and she wouldn’t want to trade it for the world.
She eyes him from the corner of her eyes and smirks, closing her book. “Oh. You walk this road alone , do you?”
Nicky smiles back. Agatha chimes in this time, and they sing Nicky’s song together. “Walk, walk, walk the road, we walk the wind-y road.” Then, Nicky continues alone. “Wherever it may bend…” He narrows his eyes, trying to find something that rhymes with it.
“I’ll be there at the end,” Agatha sings helpfully, and his eyes light up.
“That’s great, Mama!”
“Only because your part was great,” she grins back. She loves his creativity, and the way he turns everything he learns into songs these days. It’s almost always the same melody, which he came up with when he was a few years younger, but it helps him put his mind off sore feet or a hungry belly. He’s clever and resourceful, this child of hers. With pride, she smiles down at him. In a way, he’s so much like her. Her chest aches just looking at him—she loves him so much that it hurts.
“Do you think I can sing it for someone in the next village?” he asks, and his huge, hopeful eyes make her heart stutter.
“Of course,” she tells him, putting the book away in her bag. “Maybe, though, you could spice up the lyrics a little bit.”
Nicky’s nose wrinkles. “Why?”
“Because if you make the song a little mysterious, people will wonder about it, and they’ll talk about it. And they might even give you some money because they’re so impressed with you.”
His eyes light up. “And then we can buy more food!”
Agatha claps her hands together. “We absolutely can!” she cheers, encouraging his line of thinking.
His nose scrunches, and then he smiles. “Down, down, down the road, we walk the witches’ road; Follow me, my friend, to glory at the end.” He beams up at her, and she ruffles his hair.
“Very clever, dearest,” she praises him, proud of his inventiveness. “I’m quite sure the villagers will find it exciting to hear about witches.” And it’ll make it so much easier for her to figure out who belongs to the town’s coven, a little voice lisps in her head. A smile plays around her lips as she sticks out her hand to her precious boy, humming and skipping steps as he continues to walk, their goat indulgently following him.
Blood and tears and bone
Maiden, Mother, Crone
(1754)
“What’s this, Mama?” Nicky fingers the locket as he studies it meticulously. Agatha has just finished making a campfire and the dancing flames illuminate Nicky’s features. He likes to hold the piece of jewelry, and she knows he’s careful with it, so she indulges him from time to time. It’s the first time he’s asked about its meaning, however.
“It’s a locket.” She sits down next to him and holds out her hand.
He hands over the piece of jewelry and leans in, and she cherishes the feeling of his body against hers. “Who’s on them?”
Her nimble fingers trace the three white figures on the dark background. “This is a maiden,” she says, caressing the first figure. Then, she moves on to the next two. “That’s a mother, and this one is a crone. "
“What does it mean?” His light, curious eyes look at her, his eyebrows pulled together in that adorable frown. She smiles because she can’t do anything else when looking at him. He’s four years old, sharp and cunning, just what one would expect of someone who has lived in the woods for his entire life.
“Well,” Agatha begins, “It’s the three goddesses who represent all different stages in life. This one,” she says, pointing at the figure on the left, “Is called a maiden. She’s the youngest of the three. Young, beautiful, and full of excitement about new things. She represents new beginnings, like… planting seeds that will grow into something amazing.”
“Young like me?” Nicky says, his big, beautiful eyes gleaming.
“Like you, indeed, dearest,” Agatha chuckles. “She loves to go out and explore, learn, and dreams of adventures.” She laughs as he jumps up and starts parading around her, hands on his hips and his chin moved up, eyes sparkling with mirth.
“I like her,” Nicky proclaims before he leans against her back and wraps his arms around her neck from behind. “What about the middle one?” He reaches over her shoulder to caress the figure in the middle.
“That,” Agatha explains, “is the Mother—the grown-up, who takes care of everyone.”
“Like you take care of me?”
“Yes, like me,” she smiles, gently ruffling his hair. “She’s kind and loving and makes things happen. She can build things, like… like safety circles. Or provides food. Or start a fire.”
“Like with your purple,” Nicky nods, squaring his shoulders like he’s just figured something important out.
“Like with my purple,” Agatha confirms, voice lined with praise. “Or, tending to the seeds that the Maiden has planted, to grow them into big, strong, beautiful trees.” She gestures to one of the trees nearby—a strong, big oak that’s been there for centuries.
“I like that,” Nicky says, and sits down again, leaning into her. Automatically, she lifts her arm and tugs him towards her, safe and warm, before her fingers move to the third one. “And this one is the crone.” She gently touches the figure. “She’s like the village's wise elders, who know all the stories and secrets. She might seem quiet, but she’s super smart and will help you to figure out tricky problems.”
Nicky wrinkles his nose, and the lines on his forehead are back. “Do we know someone who’s that old?”
Agatha’s heart squeezes unexpectedly firm, and she swallows hard at the memory of soft, gentle hands discovering her face and body, sending tremors of excitement and ripples of pleasure down her spine. A woman as old as time with light brown eyes and thick, dark hair, looking not a day older than a maiden, planting seeds that would grow into something extraordinary.
And they did grow into something extraordinary, heated, passionated, and loved.
But then, it was all ripped away.
Please, my love.
Anxiety flares up in her belly. When she looks at Nicky next, a fear that is always in the corner of her mind jumps to the forefront, and she inhales with a stutter. “We don’t,” she says, a little sharper than she intended, and she tries to make up for it by smiling at him before quickly scanning the surroundings to make sure that the woman she’s thinking of isn’t suddenly standing near.
He doesn’t notice, fortunately, and continues to study the cameo. “It’s so pretty, Mama. What’s it made of?”
“Bone, probably,” she answers, her mind still swirling in the past.
“Can I learn to make one?”
“You can do anything if you set your mind to it, dearest,” she tells him. “It’s hard work to become this good. Blood, sweat, and tears, it’ll cost you. But if you really want to, you’ll eventually be amazing at it—I just know it.”
A thoughtful expression crosses Nicky’s features before he smiles widely. “Maybe when I’m as big as you.” He hums a little tune, then murmurs something that sounds a lot like, "Blood and tears and bones."
Agatha chuckles, but her heart thumps painfully against her ribcage like it always does whenever he mentions the future. The uncertainty of how much time they have left hangs like a sword over her head. He coughs lightly, and a bolt of panic sets her insides on fire.
“Yes. Maybe,” she chokes out, her voice constricted. She reaches for him and pulls him firmly against her. He yelps in surprise but wraps his slender arms around her neck immediately. She buries her head in the nape of his neck. The love she feels for him burns inside her chest, radiating through her limbs, oozing from her pores. It squeezes her throat together until she’s unable to tell him how much she loves him.
But he knows. He always knows.
“I love you too, Mama.”
The road is wild and wicked
Winding through the wood
Where all that's wrong is right
And all that's bad is good
(1754)
“Nicky? Nicky!”
Agatha runs, a blind panic taking hold of her as she claws through the undergrowth. Oh, Goddess, please, no. This cannot be the time that Death takes him from her. Desperation simmers under her skin. She doesn’t feel the twigs slapping in her face, leaving red welts on her arms and legs as she makes her way through the thick underbrush, or the rocks digging into her feet as she runs to find her son. Oh, Goddess, please let her find her son. “Nicky!” she cries out, her voice a high-pitched scream. She hears her own fear echoing back to her through the pounding of her heart in her head. Branches take hold of her skirts, but she doesn’t register the ripping sounds. Her adrenaline and fear give her wings.
Nicky is gone. She woke up and he was gone. “I can offer only time,” echoes in her head. How much time? Was this it? It couldn’t be. This cannot be the end, not like this. “I need more time,” she cries out in despair, calling out to someone she has tried to avoid for years. “Please, please.” Agony washes over her in waves, and she can’t keep her eyes from leaking tears.
Agatha doesn’t beg. It’s beneath her. But for Nicky, she will do anything. She sends a silent prayer to whatever higher power is listening, hoping for some mercy. “Nicky!” she calls out again, her voice echoing through the silent forest.
“Mama?”
Her heart stops for a hot second before it starts pounding in her mind. Did she really hear him, or was it a figment of her imagination? “Nicky? Nicky, where are you?!”
“I’m here, Mama!” His voice sounds closer now, and she rages towards him through the undergrowth. The relief she feels when she finally lays her eyes on him is indescribable, and she flies to him, clutching him close, the adrenaline continuously pounding in her head and thumping through her body. When she exhales, her entire body shakes. “Nicky, Nicky,” she murmurs in his greasy hair.
“Look what I found!” He struggles to get free, and the excitement in his tone is unexpected. “It’s little bunnies!”
The panic and adrenaline slowly wear off, and she releases him reluctantly. He crawls on hands and knees to a rabbit hole nearby. “One of them was at our camp, and I followed it.” He frowns, his lower lip sticking out. “It went inside before I could get it.”
Agatha’s breath hitches, her heart still heavily drumming with the aftershocks of worry and fear. But then her anger flares up, and she digs her nails into the palms of her hands to control herself. He’s a child, she tells herself. He saw something he liked, and he went after it. He doesn’t know how dangerous these woods can be. The pain from her nails nearly breaking skin grounds her, and she focuses on the physical pain, which subdues her anger slightly. “Nicky,” she says, willing her voice to sound calm. “The forest provides for us, but can also be very dangerous.”
“Bunnies aren’t dangerous, Mama,” he says, smiling confidently.
“Bunnies aren’t,” she agrees, inhaling deeply to calm her racing heart, “But animals eating the bunnies can be. Foxes. Wolves. Bears.” She lifts a finger every time she mentions a dangerous animal.
Nicky’s brown eyes widen. “Oh,” he says, quickly scanning the parameter, a tension in his shoulder that wasn’t there before. He scoots a little closer to his mother. “Are they close?”
“No, dearest,” Agatha says, hoping she’s right because she hasn’t really paid any attention to the surroundings when she frantically searched for him. “But that doesn’t mean that they can’t be.” She inhales deeply, shedding the final slivers of her anger and anxiety, and smiles, looking down on his beautiful face that’s now shadowed with an alarmed expression. “The woods are our home, but many wild animals call it that, too.”
A frown appears on Nicky’s forehead. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“No, child,” Agatha says gently. “It’s nature. It’s the balance of all things. But it does mean that we need to be a little careful. Bears, however deadly they might be, also provide us with things. Have you noticed how adept they are at climbing trees and stealing honey from bees? The leftovers are what we eat.”
“So it’s bad and good at the same time?” His eyes turn thoughtful, and her smile widens.
“Exactly, clever boy.” She ruffles his hair gently. “Besides, bear fur is super warm and it will help us through the winter.” She lifts one eyebrow. “And I’m not even mentioning delicious bear meat.”
Nicky giggles. “You’re silly, Mama. We’ve never had bear meat.”
Agatha gasps, feigning indignance. “Perhaps you haven’t, young sir, but I most definitely have.”
“Maybe we should catch one!” His excited voice fills the area and echoes through the woods.
“Maybe we should,” she says, her heart filled with warmth as she runs her fingers through his hair. “But not today. We need to get back to camp and hit the road. We’ve lost some time now, and I’d like to make it to the next village before nightfall.”
His eyes light up. “Are we sleeping in a bed tonight?” Her stomach clenches painfully when guilt washes over her. They spend much time in the woods, only occasionally visiting a village where they sleep in a rented cabin or an inn. He loves it when they stay there, not in the least because of having a mattress that’s softer than the leaves they sleep on in the woods. He never complains about it, but she knows.
He doesn’t know why they go there. Doesn’t know about her need to replenish and grow her magic. It keeps them safe in these wild, wicked woods. From Death.
Sometimes, she wishes to give him something other than this nomadic lifestyle. But then she reminds herself why they do it, why she doesn’t trust easily. Feels the betrayal that is always close to the surface when she remembers the last time she put her trust in someone.
“Yes, we are,” she confirms, shaking off the darker thoughts, and chuckles as he lets out a little squeal of delight, his happiness sending tiny electrical bursts from her heart to her limbs. Her heart tightens with mother’s guilt of being unable to provide for all her child’s needs. She’s trying the best she can, but oftentimes, it doesn’t feel like enough. The feeling of being out of control is something she deeply loathes. But maybe this next village will have what she needs—witches with enough power for her to take to heal her son.
Not tonight, and not tomorrow, however. She wants to give him a few days in the village. A few days of being allowed to run freely without worrying about wicked things on their path through the woods.
.
Through many miles of tricks and trials
We'll wander high and low
Tame your fears, a door appears
The time has come to go
(1754)
“So, you know what to do?” Agatha asks her son. With a serious expression etched on his face, he nods at her. The flames in the fireplace alternate light and shadow over his features in their tiny rented cabin. It’s not much, but they don’t need more. And it’s only for one more day.
“Yes, Mama.”
She smiles at him, and her heart overflows with love. “You’re such a bright boy. So smart.” She lifts her hand, cups his face, and gently pushes a lock of hair behind his ear with her other hand. It’s getting so long now.
Proudly, he beams up at her. But then, his eyes cloud over. “What is it, Nicky?” she gently prods.
He chews his lip, worried. “What if the evil witches catch me first?” he murmurs.
Her heart skips a beat. “Don’t worry, darling, they won’t.” She’s said this to him a thousand times before, but today, the words feel empty as if they aren’t enough.
“But what if they do?” The anxiety in his voice hits a nerve deep inside, and a flare of panic lights up Agatha’s inside. Her mind races. How much longer can she keep her off their tails? How many more miles must they run before she catches up with them? Because only one witch is really on the lookout for her son, and she’s managed to keep her off their trail. She inhales quietly. At least she thinks she did.
But Agatha cannot tell him that. Her son needs her reassurance. “They won’t. Trust me,” she tells him firmly. “I will have my eyes on you at all times. And when you’ve lured them here, I’ll kill them.”
“With your purple?” His eyes are not entirely free of worry yet.
“With my purple,” Agatha confirms firmly. She sees the tension drain from his shoulder, and he breathes a little easier.
“We’ll be cleverer and stronger,” he nods with newfound courage.
“Yes, we will be. Tell me, love,” she urges. “Tell me what you do when someone asks where you’re from.”
“I’m here with my mother,” Nicky says. “We’ve wandered high and low through the hills and have traveled many miles. We’ve come to rest from our travels.”
“Perfect. Now, what’s the plan?”
Nicky looks out the window. “I go to the market, and I sit down near the center. And then I’ll check the stalls to see if there’s something I can take.”
“Very good,” she praises him. “And what comes next?”
“Then I’ll run like the wind and go here.” His nose wrinkles. “But not too fast because they need to follow me.”
“You’re amazing, my child,” she says fondly. “And after?”
“I run inside, and you’ll be there.”
Agatha nods, observing her son’s face for signs of anxiety. Something flickers in his eyes again, and she raises her hands, gently rubbing his upper arms. “Are you scared, Nicky?”
“No,” he says, but then his shoulders deflate. “A little.”
“It is all right to be a little scared,” Agatha says, “It will keep you on your toes. But you'll be paralyzed if it grows in your mind until it’s a big monster. We’re going to work on taming your fears, Nicky, so that you can use them to your advantage.”
He seems a little doubtful, but nods anyway. Good boy .
“Now, when you’ve entered this cabin here,” she continues, pointing at the front door, “you’ll exit through the back door. Wait outside for me. I’ll join you as soon as possible, and when I’m done, it’s immediately time to go, alright?”
“Alright, Mama,” he says, a bit more confident now. They’ve played a cat-and-mouse game like this with local covens several times before, and Nicky knows how to play it. One could say he has some innate tricks up his sleeve; the apple doesn’t fall far from the manipulative tree. But he’s young, so she makes sure he knows where to go, what to do, and where to wait until she’s done every time.
He hums a tune he made up, and she sees his mouth move as he tries to fit her words into his song. He has done this as long as she can remember: taking lessons he needs to learn and applying them to a song to remember them better. He’s so young and so big at the same time. Her heart overflows, and suddenly overwhelmed by the need to touch him, she reaches for her son and clutches him close.
Pressing her nose into his hair and inhaling his scent—mud, the sweet scent of decaying leaves, and something uniquely his—she can’t help but wonder if they’re running out of time. How much longer do they still have together? The panic she felt earlier rises once more, and it’s hard to suppress it.
He tries to say something against her chest, but his voice is muffled, and she can’t hear. She loosens her grip. “What were you trying to say, Nicky?”
He coughs lightly, but then smiles up at her. His brown eyes shine brightly as he snuggles up closer to her. “I love you too, Mama.”
She chokes out a laugh. Her beautiful, beautiful boy. Pressing him close again, she savors the moment. She might not know how much time they have together, exactly, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t soak up every one of these moments. Nicky is her life, and she wouldn’t know what to do without him.
This right here, moments like these, make everything more meaningful. “I love you so much, dear boy,” she whispers in his hair, and in turn, he tightens his grip on her clothes before releasing her. “Sleep now because you’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mama,” he replies brightly, and snuggles up close to her. She smiles at him, drawing gentle lines over his forehead, and watches as he slowly falls asleep.
He looks so innocent when sleep softens his features, making him look even younger than he is. Her heart squeezes and spills with the love she feels for him, into her veins, warming her entire body. She softly pushes a lock of his brown hair behind his ears. This peaceful image of him will be forever etched into her mind, she knows.
Her beautiful, dear boy.
Forever hers.