When We Collide
Chapter 1
Word Count: 2.1k
Chapter Index
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The village of Salem has always felt too small for you. It's not a matter of size though. The daughters of witches are always watched, scrutinized by eyes that assume they know who you’ll become based solely on whose blood runs through your veins.
Your mother is relentless, driven by an unquenchable thirst for power. For years, she’s been challenging Evanora Harkness for leadership of the coven, insisting that her methods are outdated and weak. Evanora is cautious, preferring stability over expansion, while your mother craves growth and strength, always seeking more power, more influence. Everyone knows that she has tried and failed multiple times to replace Evanora as the head of the coven, each failure only sharpening her ambition and resentment.
Day after day the rest of the coven watches with thinly veiled suspicion as the feud festers, their judgment looming over you, seeing you as nothing but an extension of your mother’s ambition. You’ve been whispered about since you were a child—“Like mother, like daughter” they say, as if you’re already planning your own coup. It constantly felt as if you were expected to follow in your mother’s footsteps, bear the weight of her rivalry with Evanora, even if you have no interest whatsoever in ruling or leadership. You were constantly compared to Evanora’s daughter, Agatha, always so poised and confident in public, often watching you with narrowed eyes—a silent understanding of the role she’s supposed to play: your rival. As if you would care.
But despite the whispered assumptions and heavy expectations, you and Agatha barely knew each other. You have lived in the same village for all of your lives, 19 years to be exact, and you’d never exchanged more than a handful of words beyond what was strictly necessary during coven gatherings. A curt greeting, a passing acknowledgment at ritual events, and a few guarded pleasantries when the entire coven was assembled—always observed by watchful eyes. There was no need to converse when the lines had already been drawn by everyone else.
But they know nothing about you. They don’t see the way you slip away from the coven’s gatherings as soon as you can, escaping to the edge of the village, to the only place that feels like home—the forest. Out there, amidst the whispering trees and thick, wild greenery, you are alone. Free. And the village, with its heavy, judgmental stares, feels far away.
Today, however, that peace is interrupted by the unmistakable sound of anger—cracking branches, a muffled sob, and an unfamiliar voice cursing in frustration seemingly not far from you. You approach quietly, each step deliberate, curiosity overtaking caution. And there, amidst the destruction of broken branches and trampled shrubs, your eyes spot Agatha Harkness.
You’d heard the latest argument between Evanora and Agatha as you slipped out of the coven’s gathering earlier that day. It was hard not to, with Evanora’s voice rising in sharp reprimands and Agatha’s voice shaking with something halfway between defiance and desperation. The rest of the coven remained oblivious, still engrossed in the main hall. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, all you wanted was to get out of there and just be on your way to the forest, to your safe space.
As you reached the hall’s entrance, the voices grew louder. Evanora’s was sharp and unyielding, laced with an authority that seemed to cut through the air. “…after everything I’ve taught you, Agatha, is this how you repay me?”
You didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want to hear more than you already had. You kept your head low, stepping as quietly as you could toward the exit. But as you passed by the ajar door, your eyes caught a glimpse of them, and instinct held you in place.
“I’m just trying—” Agatha’s voice, raw with unsteady resolve, “—to be more than what you want me to be.”
“Enough!” Evanora’s voice cut through the space, commanding absolute silence. You could see the tension coil between them, even from this distance, and a flicker of something almost like pity stirred within you. Agatha stood her ground, eyes shimmering, her posture tense.
The slap was swift, and you flinched in spite of yourself, watching as Agatha’s head jerked to the side, dark curls spilled over her face concealing the expression beneath. You held your breath, caught in that moment of stillness, neither of them moving.
“I will not tolerate disobedience, Agatha,” Evanora’s voice was quiet but firm, a murmur heavy with finality. Agatha remained rigid, her shoulders betraying only the smallest trembling response and no words came from her in return, just a measured, shaky breath.
You couldn’t stay. As soon as the silence thickened in the room, you slipped out, cursing yourself for staying there far too long and heading toward the forest before either of them noticed your presence. You were certain they hadn’t, neither mother nor daughter focused on anything beyond each other. Whatever happened next was not your place to know.
But then, while you walked among the trees entering the forest, you couldn’t quite rid yourself of that last image—Agatha standing still, silent, as Evanora’s words hung like a shadow over her. And you couldn’t shake the feeling that their argument didn’t end there, that it had likely continued and escalated once they left the gathering hall. Perhaps things had only gotten worse behind the closed doors of their home, pushing Agatha to her breaking point.
It is evident now, as you had just traced the path of her destruction in the forest, that when Agatha had finally stormed out of her home, she had left chaos in her wake.
She is crouched down, almost hidden by the deep shadows of the tall trees still standing. Her hair, dark and wild, falls around her face in waves. You catch glimpses of her stormy blue eyes too, as she’s wiping away furious tears, her hands trembling with poorly contained anger. Agatha is wearing a simple yet beautiful black wool dress, layered with intricate stitching in deep purple along the bodice. The sleeves are long and fitted, ends flaring with delicate white cuffs that frame her slender hands. Her whole appearance is somber, fitting for someone of her lineage and in harmony with the ancient woods that surround her, despite the destruction she just caused.
You watch, as she takes a small creature in her lap, her eyes wide with remorse. A rabbit— one of its back legs broken and limp, most certainly caused by a heavy branch Agatha must’ve thrown in her fit of anger. Agatha mumbles an incantation, her voice shaking. Tendrils of violet magic swirl around her fingers, but it’s chaotic, disjointed, more like a flurry of emotions than a spell.
You can see she’s struggling as her breath catches, a sob almost breaking through as the magic fizzles out. Her fingers tremble, and she tries again, and again. You take a breath, feeling a twinge of annoyance at her carelessness.
“Damn it” Agatha curses under her breath, her voice breaking as tears spill over her cheeks. She doesn’t see you, doesn’t notice you slipping closer, the shadows of the trees hiding your approach. It’s not pity you feel—not quite. But there’s something almost familiar in the way she’s fighting back tears, trying to mend what she broke. You can’t find it in you to walk away.
Without saying a word, you raise your hand. The air hums with energy, and you let your magic flow freely, familiar sapphire blue strands wrapping around the rabbit in a soft, deliberate embrace. There’s a crack as the bone realigns, and the rabbit twitches, then scampers off Agatha’s lap and disappears into the underbrush.
Agatha gasps, her head snapping up. You meet her gaze, and you’re struck by the open vulnerability in her usually fierce and cold eyes, her face stained with tears she didn’t expect to shed. She blinks rapidly, the realization of not being alone dawning on her as embarrassment floods her features.
Of all the people she could’ve run into in the forest, it had to be you. Of course.
“What are you doing here?” she demands, a poor attempt at masking her embarrassment with indignation. You’re not sure if she’s more humiliated by the situation or by the fact that you, of all people, helped her.
“What am I doing here?” you snap, stepping forward. You can’t hold back the frustration any longer. “You storm in here like a hurricane, destroying everything in sight, and you have the audacity to ask what I’m doing here?”
Her eyes narrow, defensiveness creeping in. “It’s not like I did it on purpose—”
“You’re supposed to be a witch, Agatha” you interrupt, voice sharp. “A powerful one, if what everyone says is true. So why can’t you keep control of your own damn magic?” The words may come out harsher than you intend, but it’s too late to take them back and a part of you wants her to snap back, to give you a reason to stay angry.
But she doesn’t. Agatha’s lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think she’s going to lash out. Instead, her shoulders slump, and she looks down at the ground, her anger deflating into something that almost looks like regret. “I—I didn’t mean to—” she starts, then stops, clearly unsure of what to say.
“Didn’t mean to what?” You raise an eyebrow. “Destroy half the forest? Or injure a defenseless animal?”
Her face flushes, a mixture of shame and anger flashing in her eyes. “It’s not like I wanted to—”
“Of course” you cut in with a scoff, folding your arms. You should leave. You should simply turn around and let her deal with her mess. But something keeps you rooted to the spot, waiting to see what she’ll say.
Agatha opens her mouth to argue, but whatever retort she had dies on her lips. Instead, she swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “You think I want to be like this?” She’s looking at you, her eyes desperate for an answer you can’t give. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be constantly told you’re not enough?”
The rawness in her voice catches you off guard. You’ve always seen Agatha as confident, even arrogant—a reflection of her mother’s pride and role in your community. But there’s a vulnerability in her now that doesn’t fit with the picture you had of her.
“I—” you start, but the words don’t come.
She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “My mother” she says, almost choking on the words, “expects perfection. Strength. Control. And when I can’t give her that…” Agatha shakes her head, the tears threatening to spill over again. “I just—”
She’s breaking, and despite yourself, you feel a pang of empathy. You’ve been there too, in different ways and for different reasons, but the feeling of being constantly measured and deemed not enough is something you both share. Apparently.
For a long moment, there’s silence between you. Then, Agatha looks away and you can almost see her walls crumbling, piece by piece. When she speaks again, her voice is barely audible. “I’m sorry” she whispers, “For the rabbit. For the forest. For… everything.”
It’s an apology you never expected, from a person that you thought to be so self-entitled to be incapable of remorse. And suddenly, you’re not sure who you’re angry at anymore—her, or the version of her you’d built in your head, the one that others had helped you build, fueled. The apology hangs heavy between you both, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You want to hold onto your anger, but looking at her now, vulnerable and sincere in her remorse, something shifts in you.
You let out a long sigh, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a little. “Don’t do it again.” you finally say, and the words come out less like an order and more like a plea. Agatha blinks at you, her lips parting in surprise as she seems to be searching for words, but none come. She only nods and as the silence between you both settles into something less hostile, you turn away, allowing yourself to leave the clearing without another word.
Behind you, Agatha stays put, watching as you disappear into the shadows of the forest, her thoughts still lingering on your unexpected appearance, your strange mix of kindness and anger.
Maybe Agatha Harkness isn’t who you thought she was.
Maybe, neither of you are.
