Chapter Text
The sky is blue, the grass is green, and the liquid that’s currently seeping into the body of Mother Nature is red.
Death is beckoned to collect a soul—a young man, no older than twenty-one, who hasn’t yet experienced the world in its truest form. It’s no unfamiliar situation, except that standing before her is Agatha. The same redness stains her dress, and something wild and free flickers behind those blue eyes touched with gray.
She has taken his life.
Death keeps her silence and does her duty.
“It’s been a while,” Agatha says, smiling as if Death is an old friend.
“People usually aren’t happy to see me,” Death replies with conviction, carrying the statement like a badge of honor. Death lowers her hood, and Rio steps forward, coming to life.
“Because they’re afraid of you.”
Rio tilts her head slightly. That’s true, but it leaves implications when it comes to Agatha.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
Agatha steps closer, the dappled light filtering through autumn leaves striking her face gently. Death drinks in the sight with open arms.
“Why did you kill that man?” Rio’s eyes shift to the corpse. His eyes are wide open, his face streaked with blood that seems to create the illusion that his own blood has condemned him to death.
“He was bothering me.”
Rio nods. She has no right to decide what kind of death someone deserves, but this time, it feels justified. (Her fondness for Agatha has momentarily blindfolded the sight of her fair judgement.) They meet halfway, and Agatha’s expression shifts, something brewing behind her sharp eyes.
“Seeing me with empty hands?” Agatha sighs dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “What am I to you? Just a breathtaking view?”
Rio feels flustered, and before she can respond, a flower conjures itself in her palm—a soft lavender bloom, delicate and alive. She offers it to Agatha, who takes it with a knowing smirk, her fingers brushing against Rio’s in a way that lingers. (She’s leaving her imprint on her.)
“Do you think I’m evil?” Agatha asks, twirling the flower between her fingers—perhaps out of nervousness. It’s a rare sight, something Rio is not often graced with.
“You know what you did.” The words come with a detached patience, echoing down the alley. Death is calm, distant and blissfully outworldly.
“She would have agreed.”
Rio shakes her head sharply, as though someone has just offered her poison. She knows exactly who Agatha is referring to.
“She doesn’t know you.” The words come with the closeness of one breath following another. Rio is fiery, unwavering, and painfully human.
“And you think you do?”
“I’ve been here since the creation of the stars.”
“You’re old.”
The comment earns her a sharp look from Rio, her gaze narrowing, eyebrows furrowing. Then, Rio decides her weapon of choice will be kindness. (Death has learned the bitter reality of humanity falling on the sword of unfamiliarity.)
“You’re not your mother.”
Rio takes hold of Agatha’s wrist, feeling the steady pulse, the drum of her blood flowing through her veins—music to Rio’s ears. Agatha’s other hand clenches, her lips pressed tightly shut.
“I’ll never treat my child like that.”
“I know you won’t.”
With that, there’s a shift in Agatha. She seems lost in thought as her attention drifts back to the corpse.
“What’s the youngest soul you’ve had to take?”
“One whose lungs haven’t taken breath,” Death replies, her voice soft and lingering.
Images of Rio with a baby nestled against her surface in Agatha’s mind. Her heart blooms at the thought. It’s intriguing, she’s seen how Rio carries out her duty, how gentle she can be. Agatha’s eyes return to Rio’s face, the silence between them stretching, morbid yet oddly comforting. It lingers until Rio breaks it.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, sensing her pulse quicken.
“You with a baby.”
Rio’s lips part, but no words come. Instead, she averts her gaze, chewing on her inner cheek.
“Look at me, Rio.”
The words hit her like a death sentence, and her head lifts to face the executor. The blow lands as Agatha’s hands reach out, fingers mapping her features as if committing them to memory.
“Agatha?”
“Hm. It would be nice.”
The words come soft, like the calm before a storm.
“A child with your brows, nose, and lips—wouldn’t that be nice to have?”
Rio blinks, the connection between her mind, heart, and lips severed. Yet, somehow, her mouth moves, words slipping out unbidden.
“You’re going to be a good mother.”
(There it is, their unintentional curse, an impending doom spoken into existence.)
Without missing a beat, the lavender is tucked behind the monarch's ear, and the executor's smile blinds everything else.
"Purple does look good with green."
An observation that reaches Rio like a declaration.