Chapter 1
Opening move

A few months earlier

The world was filled with secrets. Some of them were small, others important depending on the view. They could be dangerous, even lethal. Other secrets revealed the beauty and joy of life. Most of them were truths yet to be discovered, some were just dreams, yearning the day to come to light.

And then there were secrets so dire, they were best to be forgotten.

Wanda Maximoff knew. She knew that there was the world normal people lived in; it was made doing normal things, eating normal food and working at a normal workplace – but that was only a cover for another world to hide within. It was a world full of terrible truths, of legend and magic, a world where science did not dare to venture. Wanda knew, because she was part of it.

She had been called many things – gifted, terrorist, mutant, witch, freak of nature, freedom fighter, sorceress, outcast. All of them were true. Being one of the rare individuals that developed strange and somewhat frightening abilities, she had been pressed into the group of “Mutant Rights” activists led by her father in her teenage years. He had simply put his children into costumes, gave them fitting code names and utilized their abilities. “Scarlet Witch”, as her father had called her, was mostly a witch by cursing objects and people with bad luck.

It was then, at age seventeen, when she first clashed with the organization called S.H.I.E.L.D. This agency had taken up the responsibility to deal with the supernatural, mysterious and most importantly, the inhuman, whatever danger they posed. The agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. protected the world from knowing about the world in the shadows, the secrets that would disturb and endanger the average human mind.

It was then back then on a raid against a medical facility that she was badly injured and subsequently captured by an agent named Clint Barton, who later advocated her freedom, and much to Wanda's surprise, it was granted - under the condition that she would never use her powers again and cut all ties with any “terrorist element”. Although she had bent both rules, she had stayed true in the essence and tried to live a normal life. The “Scarlet Witch” had died, leaving Wanda Maximoff alone. Perhaps that was for the best.

Somewhere along the road, it had all gone wrong. But when?

Wanda laid her head on the heavy, wooden table, her nose only inches away from from a glass of water and the pills that formed the bulk of her medication. How quaint, although the water didn’t sparkle, she only saw the shade of her dark hair and pale face mirrored in the glass. She knew that she really had to take those pills. Otherwise, she would turn into a pathetic little creature who would frequently curl into a ball, sobbing and filled with self-pity. The thought alone to be in such a sorry state again stirred feelings of nausea. But the security of the medication didn’t come without a price … feelings in general had become rather rare, as though she was only a hollow shell. Indeed, she couldn’t remember her last adrenalin rush, the last time she had felt anything but a touch of sorrow and a good, healthy portion of self-loathing. She wasn’t even able to feel sexual arousal, for goodness' sake! Not even her body wanted to have anything to do with her.

And there it was again. Whine, whine, whine. She should just finally take those pills and start another day, trying to piece together that pile of broken glass which was her life. There were many burned bridges in her life that weren't even worth attending anymore, but she had to tell herself over and over again that it could be so much worse. She had been far worse before her stay with her mentor; everything she had to do was to was to roll up her sleeves and start living again.

That was so much easier said than done.

She barely noticed Agatha Harkness entering the kitchen, the woman who had been her teacher and host for so long. It was only when the old witch started gently brushing through her hair with wrinkled fingers that Wanda sat up, staring morosely at the glass on the table. “You used to be so vain and tidy.” Agatha said, the concern clearly audible in her voice. “And now you don't even brush your hair properly.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Just be kind to yourself when the mind goes to dark places.” After a pause, she let go of the younger woman’s hair, watching how she started to sort the pills on the table. “What are you doing?”

“Reducing the dosage of my medication.”

Agathas kind face was shadowed by a frown. “Do you think that wise? Would your fellow doctors approve?”

“I am not a doctor yet. I failed the final exams rather spectacularly. I lamented it thoroughly several times before, if I remember correctly.” Wanda smiled, forced and humourless, before she quietly started to explain. “One usually changes the dosage of antidepressants when something in the life or behaviour of the patient changes. After all, medicine can only support healing, but never carry the healing process by itself.”

“What changed?”I’m reducing my medication, that’s what changed. I’m just so sick of it all - I can’t even look in the mirror anymore. “General mood.” Strictly speaking, that answer was not a lie. It was true that she didn’t want to abide that state of apathy anymore, and she didn’t know what else to change. But Agatha was a wily old woman that wouldn’t be convinced so easily, so Wanda decided to feign enthusiasm, although she didn’t have an ounce of strength in her. “What are we going to do today? Another Thaumaturgy lesson? May we go again more in-depth into the geasa…?”

Agatha smiled affectionately, having obviously seen through the deception with ease. “Actually, I need your help with that divination spell of mine, if you are up to it.”

Wanda nodded slowly. She should be concerned, as these sessions were always particularly straining, but she felt oddly indifferent. Magic used to be such an exciting topic, and now she found herself going through the motions. Agatha’s divinations always struck her as elaborate and skilfull, something she had always admired in her mentor. But Wanda also knew that this art wasn’t exactly her expertise. “Talent, discipline ...” Agatha had said disappointedly. “ … but no patience.” With all the time at her hands, one would think that patience would be one of her virtues.

“Come on, girl.” The old witch slightly tugged at Wanda's blouse. “No rest for the wicked. I get the herbs, you prepare the mirror and the other tools.”

In the whole time Agatha had trained her, she had learned that magic was full of euphemisms. When there was talk about herbs, it was usually a herb brew that had been soaked for days while various enchantments were put upon it. Said tools also included a sharp-edged ritual dagger. Nobody said that sorcery wasn't uncomfortable at times.

Preparations took little time. Agatha's home mirrored her personality; her furniture was antique, preferably solid oak from the 19th century, carpets thick and her tableware and vases adorned with ornate pink flowers. The pictures on the wall depicted peaceful landscapes, the beds were fluffy and feathery and the whole mansion was filled with the scent of heavy perfume, wood, spices and herbs. Agatha herself was the kind of elderly woman that baked biscuits for neighbour children she barely knew and still mending their stuffed animals and let them play in her garden – all while she practiced her witchcraft in her work chamber. But that was nothing special in this town of New Salem, where Agatha as one of the original Salem witches was not only the founder, but also a common sight.

Wanda was rather sure that the mirror used for this kind of ritual had already been in her mentor's possession in the 1690s – it was heavy, with a dark, wooden frame and dull and dotted surface that revealed its age easily. She placed it on the round worktable, inside the circle of runes. She had to clean it carefully, as specks of dust would disturb the spell that was about to be cast.

“The more rare the ingredients, the more powerful the spell will be,” Agatha said as she walked in with a bowl of herbs. “Dried Milk Thistle gathered thirty-three years ago, Basil plucked by a young woman during full moon ...” Wanda snorted at this comment. How often did she have to tell that she was approaching age thirty and was therefore no young maiden anymore? “ … and several others brewed together in the night of the convergence. This will be a sublime spell.” The eyes of the old lady were shining with ardour. “What did I tell you about the convergence, my dear?”

“The convergence is a time when all the Nine Realms are perfectly aligned with each other and thus intertwined for a short time.” Wanda rattled down the lesson she had heard multiple times the last few weeks.

“Very good. There were some problems at the crossing of the leylines, I heard, but it seems that science has caught up and protected this world in this difficult time. Delightful how everything changes in such a short time, don't you think?” She tipped her chin. “Although there was an outsider involved. No matter, next time we will do it on our own.” With these words, she poured the brew onto the mirror's surface, only to be seeped away as if the surface was a sponge.

“I have a question, Agatha. I've studied your ingredients, but one just doesn't fit the spell. Why do you always add Juniper?”

The witch snickered briefly. “The potion would be awfully smelly without it. Juniper berries counter that. I live and work here, I can't have that malodour pestering me.”

“Fair enough. This spell is important and I could disturb it; shall I sit in the corner?”

Agatha shook her head. “No, I want you to partake in it.” Wanda opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by the older woman's explanation. “This isn't about inexperience or attunement. Perhaps this time, you will see some images that makes sense to you.”

Wanda seriously doubted it, as in the previous sessions, she had only seen blurry, nonsensical things that bordered on the absurd, if any at all. She nonetheless conceded with a sigh, stepped up to the table and reached for the ritual dagger.

“Are you sure?” Agatha's brow was wrinkled in concern, and not without cause. Witchcraft and divination in general mostly lived from a connection of varying nature – in this case, part of the spell was powered by blood. Alternatively, saliva or other body fluids could be used as well, but blood was much more effective – and much more classy. The cause of concern however was the “backlash” a powerful ritual usually generated. The caster was fatigued and drained after the spell, and by shedding blood first, Wanda had just decided to take the bulk of the backlash, as she had done several times before. “I am at the peak of my physical health. Mental doesn't count here.”, she had always argued. “No offence, but you are my elder. I'll manage better than you.”As always, there was a little reluctance in Agatha's eyes; She watched her apprentice performed a small cut on the heel of her hand and let the blood trickle onto the surface of the mirror. As expected, the drops of blood just vanished into the surface, which looked now much like a small vortex of silvery water, brimming with magic.

Wanda handed the dagger to the older witch, then leaned forward to cup her chin in her hand and watch the few blood-drops trickle in an almost disinterested and bored fashion. She couldn't hold back a quip when she saw Agatha drawing a little blood as well. “That isn't sanitary. You could clean the blade beforehand, you know?”

A good-natured scoff was the answer. “Shush you, we are doing magic here.” With the droplets of blood from the old sorceress and a few, whispered incantations, the spell was complete.

Wanda knew that for an outsider, it would look like two women were just looking into a weirdly glowing mirror with a watery surface, but for the two of them, it was a whole different experience. The spell engulfed all senses, overwhelming them with senses and images from the past, the present, and sometimes even the future. For Wanda, it was like being cradled into a warm blanket while sharp icy cold cut into skin and blinded the eyes. She smelled fire and iron, heard the screeching of a bird-of-prey and the rattling of chains, which terrified her.

More impressions formed: The sickenly sweet smell of death, mirrored soul, a shield protecting her from harm, chess pieces moved on a board, cool fingertips trailing along her spine, the sight of a lifeless wasteland, a double-edged curse woven by her hand, a hero lying in a pool of blood, a soulless puppet, a wicked grin on a purple-coloured face, sharp pain in her chest, a gift of truth, Hawkeye taking aim for the kill, the sound of ruffled feathers and silent heartbeats. But most dominant of all impressions however were a soft, golden glow, the feeling of remorse and the paralyzing fear of a chained monstrosity in the dark.

That made no sense at all. She knew that visions like these were not necessarily in order, and sometimes even only allegory. But what was she supposed to think of that? Before she could even try to piece together those visions, she suddenly got very dizzy. The world just kept spinning and spinning, even as overwhelming fatigue washed over her. Finally, she felt her knees buckle and sank on the floor. Everything was in a haze, and to pick herself up proved to be a serious challenge. It took her a few moments to blink away the stars before her eyes and recover from that strange dizziness.

For a moment, Wanda entertained the idea to just keep her eyes closed and stay where she was to sleep the side-effects of the spell off. But Agatha wouldn't like that. The old witch always insisted that she at least rested in her bed, no matter how exhausting the backlash. That was probably the reason she felt her mentor shaking at her shoulder. It took quite some effort, but when Wanda finally propped herself up, she was surprised to discover that she had been covered with a blanket while still lying on the floor. When did that happen? She had been on the floor for just a few seconds.

“You have been resting here for hours. It's already past noon.” Agatha said, as if reading Wanda's thoughts.

“What?”

“I know, it's disorienting, but we have to get you moving.” The old witch's voice was marked with barely contained urgency while her face was overshadowed with concern and anxiety.

“Yes, but … what?”

“Come on, up with you. We have no time to lose. Haste, haste, haste!”

Wanda felt boneless and weak, but when Agatha Harkness' was that concerned and insisted that much on immediate hurry, there was no time for questions. She got herself up in a time that felt like eternity and staggered forward, supported by her teacher, who led her out of their home to the streets of New Salem.

The usually peaceful city in its picturesque landscape, lovingly modeled and built after the picture of ancient European cities, was in turmoil. The people, sorcerers all, disfigured, beastly and human alike were in a hurry. The sky, once beautifully bright in the midday sun, was now coloured in a foreboding, dreadful black, darker than a starless night. Foul weather had decided to play herald for foul times, it seemed.

“What's going on?” Wanda only now noticed that even her speech was a little slurred. How embarrassing. She kept stumbling and would have fallen for sure several times if not for the support of Agatha.

“We are sealing this conclave.”

“But that's just for emergencies.”

“Exactly.” They entered one of the most ancient buildings in town – the hall that contained the so-called and seldom-used 'Gate'. It was possible to travel via this teleportation gate between hidden sorcerer villages. But when a conclave sealed itself, that gate was destroyed to keep whatever had befallen the sealed village from spreading to the others. As if guessing the thought again, Agatha continued to explain. “You are the last one we are sending through the gate.”

“What?” Wanda realised that she repeated herself in a rather stupid fashion and shook her head to regain at least her senses, but not to avail. What was Agatha doing? If there was someone to be sent into safety, there was certainly someone more important than she. “Why?”

“Because of the people you know.”
With all the bridges Wanda had burned and the fact that she considered herself rather isolated, she was tempted to let out a bitter laugh, but it stuck in her throat. Another wave of exhaustion washed over her and she had trouble staying on her feet. With her hazy mind, she had trouble following the conversation Agatha had with a middle-aged man she didn't recognise and who evidently was there to assist the activation of the gate.

“London.” Agatha insisted.

“Not Canterbury?”

“No, they are too distrustful. The Londoners are bold enough to hide in plain sight. They'll improvise.” The old witch then turned to Wanda and grasped her by the shoulders. “Sweetie, you have to listen to me closely, this is important.” After a weak nod, Agatha continued, her voice grave. “Tell the Sorcerer Supreme, the Hawk and the Thunderer that they have to retrace the steps of the Jotun and retrieve what he hid. The Thunderer also needs to know that the Gauntlet has been stolen. Keep it discreet and keep it safe, will you?”

“Retrace the steps, retrieve what the Jötunn hid, Gauntlet stolen.” Wanda confirmed, even though she was thoroughly confused and in her fogged mind did not really grasp the situation.

“Very good. Also, you need to find the Spymaster before he strikes. And whatever happens, don't mess with time. It doesn't work, honestly.”

While the gate was being powered in the background, Wanda couldn't help but shake her head in confusion. These were just about the strangest instructions she had ever heard, but it took no genius to guess that it had to do with the divination made in the morning. She should feel panic rising, but her feelings were numbed.“Agatha, what did you see?”

“Love and Death.” The witch smiled sadly. “Take one step at a time, work slow, but thoroughly. Please don't come back here, it isn't safe … at least don't come back now. One step at a time, remember?” Agatha stopped herself in her motherly concern and took a deep breath.”Don't worry, everything will be fine in the end.”

By now, even Wanda understood that this was goodbye. She refused to believe it, however. This wasn't happening. That was just some weird, magic-induced dream and she would wake up any minute. So she didn't ask the questions that she should ask – what would happen to Agatha.

The witch seemed to read her mind once again and answered the question warmly. “Tell those and only those who ask directly and by name that New Salem has fallen and I am no more.” With these words, she pushed Wanda into the open gate, who was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer force of the spell, consumed by a white flames and cold fire that spirited her away.

Agatha turned around and left the building, looking over the vast, rocky lands she herself had shaped for a long time; when she saw the opportunity in this New World, she couldn’t resist.

The Library was built in baroque style, an old favorite of hers, as were many of the buildings. There was this well decorated with an ugly dove-figurine she adored nevertheless, in one alley she even had managed to put a Blackhead’s Crest from Riga on the wall, lined in silver, shining once a day only in the light of the midday sun. This hidden beauty suited New Salem well.

She had kept this place hidden, fertilized and protected from the outside world with her bare hands, magic and iron will alone. And now she looked down upon her city, her home for so long, the people who trusted her leadership … it was about to end. Suddenly, she felt weary.

She had made the next to last move, even if the last phase was more hasty and less prepared than she had anticipated. What if she was wrong. What if she failed? What if the reaction wasn't as she hoped. Wasn’t it a little late for doubt? It certainly was – there was no way to stop this chain of events. She had prepared for years, and this was the best she could do. So she squared her shoulders and kept going. Soon, her last task would be to conceal the truth, and then, the Grim Reaper would arrive. It was a bittersweet meeting she almost looked forward to.

“Your turn, Allfather.”