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Agatha senses her arrival, the way she always has, even through the pain. She's too attuned to her not to, even now, even still, after decades gone by and betrayals uncounted. She hates it.
She doesn't turn around. Keeps her focus down, on the book left open on the floor, amidst carved runes and flickering candles. Her knees ache from kneeling in front of it for so long, but it is nothing compared to the agony in her head, to the fiery pain weaving around her bones, sorching at her skin. Her breathing is ragged, despite all the effort she expends trying to keep it controlled. Dark magic exacts its toll, decidedly, painfully, but she won't stop. Not now. Not when she's so close.
She traces a shaky finger down the page, mouthing along as she reads. The words, words of power, incantations meant to destroy the unworthy who dare try to pronounce them, fight back. They twist in her mouth, ache in her teeth, but she doesn't let it stop her. She's come this far. She knows she can take it further.
And then — then, when she'll have unlocked the Darkhold's true potential, when she'll have mastered it… There'll be nothing standing in her way.
"Agatha."
Her hand spasms. She doesn't turn around. She keeps reading, forcing the words' meaning through the pain in her head, bringing the power they contain to heel. This is hers; she has earned it. It is owed to her, after the life she has led, after everything she has done.
"It's going to kill you."
She can't help it: she laughs, her concentration momentarily broken. She looks up through disheveled hair and grins; a show of teeth. "Oh, and wouldn't that just make your goddamn day?"
Rio stands in front of her, clad in dark fabric, her hair down, her expression unreadable as she stares down at Agatha.
Pain flares in her chest: the familiar burn of rage, the twist of betrayal, the too-tight coiling of something she will not name.
She snarls. "Leave. You are not welcome here."
Rio is unfazed. Rio is always unfazed, on the surface. She cocks her head to the side, and watches her, her gaze piercing, curious, the way it always is. Centuries back, it'd been flattering; holding Death's attention, to be granted her curiosity… It'd been special.
Now? Now her fingers clench around the ceremonial dagger she's clutching in her left hand. She has to resist the urge to throw it.
"It's killing you right now," Rio says, conversational — but Agatha knows her, sees past the mask of bleak curiosity, past the flat tone and empty eyes, to the urgency in the words. "It's how I found you."
Great. Something drips down Agatha's face, from her eye. Without looking away, she wipes it away; catches sight of a flash of crimson. "I'm not dead yet."
"Yet being the operative word."
Pain ricochets through her, starting in her fingers, tearing at her skin. She lets out a shuddering breath and clenches her jaw. Resists the urge to close her eyes until the wave passes. She refuses to lose even this much. Not to her. "Your job," she says, and spits the word with enough venom that a muscle twitches in Rio's jaw, "doesn't start until then, though, does it?" She waves the fingers of her free hand. "Off you go."
"You have to stop."
Again, she laughs. She can taste the metallic tang of blood at the back of her mouth. "Says who?"
To her surprise, Rio steps closer, kneels in front of her. Her eyes burn as they roam over her face, lined with something that looks an awful lot like concern. "Agatha," she says, low, urgent. "It's not worth it."
"Don't tell me what this is worth," Agatha hisses, clenching her hands. She's still holding the dagger, and its weight is terribly tempting.
A flash of exasperation passes over Rio's face, so familiar it feels like a slap, sharp and stinging, sending Agatha reeling back. "What could possibly be worth this?" Rio asks, leaning forward. "Hm? More power? Dark magic? It won't fix this. It won't bring—"
Agatha brings the dagger up in a flash, blade poised to her neck. "Don't," she says, very low, very quiet. "Don't you dare say that name."
She knows, rationally, that there's no killing her. That all this would achieve is a mess of blood on the floorboards.
It doesn't matter. If she says it, Agatha thinks, then she'll find a way. She'll kill Death herself, if it's the last thing she does.
Rio swallows. Agatha adds a little more pressure, until a drop of blood beads at the tip of the knife.
"You're killing yourself for nothing," Rio says, instead, not glancing away from Agatha's eyes.
The smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, unamused and cutting; Agatha lowers the knife. "You have no idea what I'm capable of," she says. "You never have."
"The Darkhold—"
"—will be mine," Agatha finishes mercilessly, putting her free hand down on its pages. It's a little like sticking her hand in an open flame. "I will master it."
"It'll master you first." Rio's voice is flat, factual. "You can't win."
"Just watch me."
Rio does. Her scrutiny is like a tangible thing, like a blade scraping her skin raw, but Agatha refuses to look away.
"Why?" Rio asks, eventually. "Just tell me why you're doing this."
Agatha could refuse to answer. Return to her pursuit, to the feverish pain in her blood, in her head, and ignore her.
But why would she refuse such a beautiful opportunity to hurt her back?
She smiles. Small, almost sweet. "Haven't you worked it out yet?"
Rio stays silent.
Slowly, very slowly, Agatha leans forward. She gets closer, until her lips are brushing the shell of Rio's ear, until she can feel the tremor of her power, hovering in the minuscule space between them, immense and lethal.
"The Darkhold's magic," she whispers, "surpasses yours." She breathes, smiles at the shiver Rio can't quite suppress. "With it, you can't touch me."
"Agatha—"
"With it," she continues, a murmur, as sweet as a lover's, "you can't find me. With it," and she pulls back, just enough to look her in the eye, "I am free of you."
The words land; she sees the flash of pain, the suppressed recoil, the rushed breath. "Agatha—"
She raises a hand to silence her. "And that," she finishes, "is worth everything, my love."
Rio looks down.
Satisfied, Agatha sits back on her heels. "Now you know," she says, letting her voice go hard. "Now you know why I'll succeed."
She returns her gaze to the pages — the pain in her head spikes — but before she can resume her reading, Rio speaks.
"Do you really hate me that much?" The words are low, barely audible. Vulnerable.
Agatha swallows. Thinks of a young girl, lost in the Salem woods, hunted and alone; thinks of the first time she'd felt seen, not as a monster, but as something beautiful. Thinks of years gone by; of death, not as a curse, but as an offering. Thinks of a hand in hers.
Thinks of waking, alone, in a forest.
"More than can be said," she whispers.
Rio flinches. It's minute, quickly suppressed, but there all the same. Agatha's won.
Without looking away, Agatha brings the dagger up to her right hand. One quick, smooth motion slices her palm open. The pain barely registers, even as she clenches her fist, even as blood starts dripping onto the floor, in the center of the ornate design she's carved into the wood.
She gives Rio one last look, and then she returns her focus to the book, to the spell. She keeps her voice level as she intones the words, in time with the drip, drip, drip of her blood. Slowly, thread by thread, she untethers herself from the world. Builds the perfect shield, that will keep her hidden from the sharpest of scrutinies. It is slow. It is excruciating. She will not stop until it is perfect.
By the time it is done, her head is nothing but pain, her floor drowned in a pool of blood, her fingertips darkened.
But when she looks up, Rio is gone. She'll never find her again.
It is a victory — one she has been seeking for years.
It is a victory.
It is.