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“I loved being a witch,” Lilia says.
And it's true. It is true, and it's not something that she's ever chosen to linger on in her adulthood. She had loved it as a child too, before the death of her coven, before the day came that she was surrounded by the fever and no one was listening and everyone was dying all around her, the smell of it heavy in the air, and when all she was left she prayed for it to take her too, for Death to take her too, and –
There had been only silence, is the thing. Only silence for all her tears, all her pleas.
It seemed only natural, after that, to go silent herself. Look away and close her eyes and block it out and don't listen, don't see, don't speak.
Only it was the most unnatural thing she could have done, to reject her magic, to reject what gifts she was given.
And she realizes it too late, of course. Just there, at the end.
All that time wasted, and now she can make up for it. Now she is making up for it.
Maestra had never been a particularly gentle woman but Lilia hopes – maybe – she would have made her proud, with this. One last act, to open her eyes and See, and Speak, and Tell.
(Jen picks at her ruined manicure with a scowl. “I swear, when I get my hands on that kid...I don't care if he is the son of the Scarlet Witch...”
Mud dries on Lilia's face, flaking off when her hand brushes over a cheek on the way to touch her hair, which is also filthy. “What?”
Jen sighs, shakes her head. “Sorry. Never mind, it isn't important right now.”
“No, what—”
“Lilia, it's fine. My bad. Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
“I'm not dying,” Lilia snaps. Something flashes in the corner of her eye, a shadow or something, but when she goes to look there's nothing. “You don't have to fuss over me. I feel just fine.”
Except for the confusion, and the ache of her body hitting the ground, which she can only imagine is something that happened because she doesn't actually remember it.
And the sensation of something behind her—)
Lilia used to dream of falling.
Sometimes she dreamed of waking up.
The fall is a beautiful thing, and it's nothing to be afraid of. It's just a pity that it's taken her so long to realize that.
In her youth, she was afraid of it. In adulthood she was afraid of it, even when it didn't haunt her nearly so much. But always, always the fall, and always the strange knowing that the fear is and will always be unreasonable. She knows that at the end and the beginning, and somewhere in between. But in the other places, at the edges of the empty spaces, there's no such comfort for her.
It doesn't matter. The end is enough. Her gift for the boy, her warning for Agatha, her truth for Jennifer, and the look on her sister witch's face when the path closes off between them, when the door is shut, when the way is blocked, and Lilia is gone.
Or Jennifer is gone.
Or maybe both, at the same time.
(“Hey, you're okay.” Jen's hand is a soft, gentle brush on her arm, and then her fingers come down and slot between Lilia's. The squeezing pressure grounds her enough for a moment that she can open her eyes and look around and know where they are, when they are, and what's happening.
They're nearly there. The gaps are closing quicker, the flashes are coming with more frequency, and –
“Jen,” Lilia says, “I'm sorry.”
“What?”
“I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other more. I'm sorry we didn't know each other longer.”
“Well, we've only known each other for, what, a week? There's not much time for heartfelt conversations and shared backstories on the Road. Let's not get worked up about it. We've got plenty of time to know each other in the future, right?”
Lilia aches.
She wants to turn, stop Jen in her tracks and hold her, hug her as tight as she can, as long as she can –
Jen's fingers twitch around her own. Lilia keeps walking, and they keep walking together, and her hold tightens on Jen's hand until she imagines it must be painful.
Jen doesn't complain even once.
“You're a good girl.”
“Okay, thank you, but not a girl, a woman. I don't care if you're like a thousand years older than me...”)
In the end, there's not even a lick of the fear that she's familiar with, from her years as a child or her years as a powerful, full-grown witch. Lilia thinks only of her coven: what they could have been, what they should have been, what they never were, and what they really, actually were.
And Lilia is so brave that she wishes all her past selves could see her just for a moment, and see how they'll feel too, when the time comes. She isn't being chased and dragged and pinned down and pushed back and shoved forward by time, not confused and lost and grasping blindly through the roots of her own life, and she is just so perfectly still.
Even when falling, Lilia has never felt so still.
It's wonderful.
Life is wonderful, but death isn't so bad either.
(Death, face in a grotesque smile – “Long time no see, Lilia.”
“Hello, Rio.”
It hasn't been that long, actually. Only since Alice.
But sometimes time doesn't matter. Sometimes it just feels long, or quick. Or like nothing at all.
Death pulls her in, half familiar and half a face like porcelain bone, gleaming and dark all at once.
The smile is even more horrifying up close, but Lilia feels only a calm settling over her like a heavy blanket. There's nothing to be afraid of when she's done her duty as a witch, when she's worked to protect her sisters. They might not have been a coven for long, but it doesn't matter if it's been seconds or minutes, hours or centuries – a coven works together.
Death seems like nothing at all when you aren't running from it. It feels just like finally fulfilling an appointment that Lilia has had waiting for a very long time.
“You know,” Rio says, “not a lot of people I come for are as interesting as you. Statistically speaking.”
Lilia thinks she should be flattered. She is, actually. It isn't every day one gets a compliment from Death.
It isn't every day Lilia can feel a rightness settle deep into her bones, and know she's done well.
Everything is so quiet.
It has never been so quiet.)
Maestra looks at her from across the table, and Lilia is not afraid, and something blooms in her chest like a new sun – bright and unwavering and whole.
She couldn't hide the smile on her face if she tried, not even when Maestra gives her a stern warning to focus.
The future is so full of potential.