Nine months later, March 21st 1986

If there was one thing the citizens of Hawkins could agree on, it was that there was something peculiar about the secluded community on the outskirts of town. Ever since the large plot of farmland was bought in 1899, rumors of its owners ran rampant. Though the consensus that those who dwelled on it were undoubtedly odd, no stock was put into their speculation. They were never officially ostracized from society, but they were never truly welcomed, either. It was all just the same to them, and in the eighty-six years that followed, these peculiar souls kept to their circle, never drawing too much attention, never extending an olive branch to the rest of town, and never alluding to their true nature. All that time, they lived unbothered, in peace, in their little sanctuary.

Of course, nothing could last forever, and after the events of the summer of 1985, the community was labeled a cult. The correct term, however, would be coven. It didn't matter that none of their members were anywhere near the Starcourt Mall that night. Humans would never be comfortable with the unknown, and fingers inevitably pointed towards the secluded community on the outskirts of town that never seemed to venture far from home and never invited outsiders in. As the days dragged on through fall and winter, the whispers of witch, witch, witch, became less speculation and more accusation.

It was a rare occurrence that the pitchfork mob was correct in their conviction. While the coven may not have been at the mall that night, they were fighting on a different front. They were in no way disillusioned to think that the fire was just that and nothing more. For three years, The Coven fought battle after battle, sacrificing time after time, all to keep the tendrils of darkness from leaching into this world from the next. It was only recently that mortals grew wise to the things that went bump in the night. One could only lean on logic for so long until the coincidences became patterns, and patterns became undeniable.

The late afternoon sun shone down upon the open field with burning golden light as groups of men and women bustled about in preparation. In the center was a perfect circle of soil surrounded by acres of growing crops that had just been seeded. Martha Labelle paced the clearing, making a practiced march along its edge. Smoke trailed behind her as she went, stemming from the bundle of sage in her left hand. It was a slow lazy burn. Not a flame at its tip, only a dim glow of embers as it was strengthened by a crisp breeze.

Martha's skin glowed in the sunlight, the hue of damp soil after a fresh spring rain, her hair a perfect storm cloud of curls about her head. Her eyes, dark like the night sky, were focused intently on her task. She moved with practiced ease, performing a choreographed dance.

The sage was fanned by a midnight feather, given by the passing crows that stopped to visit their fields. Up, towards the cloudless sky. Down, to the fertile earth that gave life to their crops. Left, towards the handful of witches preparing their offering for that night. Right, towards the center of the circle, where an altar of abundance was erected for their goddess. Four directions to honor the elements — air, earth, fire, and water.

The long shadow of a woman darkened the ground beside her. Abigail Montez sat cross-legged in the dirt, a newspaper held to the light with both hands. Scarlet nails sharpened to a perfect point curled the edges possessively. The shade of her polish was a precise match to the lipstick rouged across her smirking lips. With an exaggerated clearing of her throat, Abigail straightened her posture.

"'Dungeons and Dragons: Just harmless fun -- or sorcery? Evangelists argue the game is a front for demonic worship and witchcraft.'" She adopted a voice of a news anchor reporting a breaking story with a dramatic flair of sarcasm. She raised a dark, perfectly arched brow and peered up at Martha in amusement.

"They wouldn't know witchcraft if it bit them in the ass." Martha set the still smoking sage onto the abalone shell at her feet.

"Lumping us all together like that is honestly insulting." Abigail set the paper down flat on her legs with a huff and looked to Martha in commiseration. Her friend was already on to the next task, retrieving a wood-crafted besom and sweeping the air just above the ground.

"You know, they think we sign our name with blood in Satan's book and dance naked for his pleasure. As if I would ever sign my name in a man's book!" She crossed her arms with an indignant huff.

"Deviant women, we are," Martha gave an absent chuckle, which wasn't satisfactory enough for Abigail in her vexation.

"Are you listening to me?" She narrowed her eyes at Martha's back and crossed her arms. "You know you don't have to do all of this. I'm sure someone would pick up the slack if we were to disappear until sundown."

"While some people may be content to sit and do nothing," Martha leaned down to snatch Abigail's paper up from her lap with a pointed raise of her brows. "I would actually like to contribute to my coven." Dropping her jaw in mock offense, Abigail raised a forbidden finger.

"I contribute comic relief and ineffable beauty." She flicked her silky black hair over one shoulder and shot her friend an infuriating wink. Martha was very much not amused.

"Are you going to help me with these or just sit there?" Abigail pretended to weigh her options, pursing her lips, squinting, and looking up like she was deep in thought.

"I quite enjoy sitting here." She nodded towards the besom in Martha's hands. "You look like you have things covered." Martha groaned and scanned the field for anyone else who may be able to persuade Abigail to get off her ass. Even if there was someone, it wouldn't have worked.

To the naked eye, the coven's compound would look like a beautiful row of family farms. There were twelve buildings in total, all centered around a sprawling field and bordered by a deep forest. The farmhouses were modest, spacious, but not showy. They acted more as dormitories than single-family homes. Martha's was the third house from the left -- The one with a bright blue door and shutters. A circular window in the center of its eaves belonged to her and Abigail's attic bedroom.

They'd shared a room for as long as she could remember, through the days of scattered toys and piles of laundry, through walls plastered with posters of teen icons, and into adulthood. Her uncle George, Jodie, and her two children occupied the rest of the house. Until last summer, Martha's mother filled the room off the kitchen. Now it sat achingly empty. Eventually it would go to someone new. Martha wasn't sure which was worse, staring at the closed door, knowing that her mom would never be behind it, or knowing that she'd been replaced by someone else entirely.

Martha's mind returned to the fading image of her mother's face more often than not in the days leading up to the spring equinox. It was always her favorite time of the year. When the seeds were sewed into the fields and their roots spread and thrived. She'd always felt most connected to the earth and all its energy. Silvia Labelle was the sort of woman who had perpetual soil beneath her fingernails and mud on her knees. No one in the coven was more talented with earth spells than she was. Martha couldn't say it rubbed off much in terms of technical talent, but in the moments of quiet, when the days were long, and skies were clear, she could feel the thrum of magic beneath her feet like the thump of a heart.

For the thousandth time that day, Martha redirected her thoughts to the task at hand. Abigail retrieved her paper and now held a cigarette between her lips as she conjured a flame from her fingertips and lit it. She took a drag and held it for a second as she extended her hand to Martha in offering. Martha glared halfheartedly, took a puff, and handed it back. Abigail's magic swirled the surrounding smoke into intricate patterns. A flock of birds in flight, a slinky that extended and retracted, and some pretty vulgar phrases that Martha would never repeat.

"Martha!"

"Shit, shit, shit!" Abigail flourished her hand and closed her fist hastily, putting an end to her cigarette. Shannon King stalked across the circle towards them purposefully. Her hair, the color of a burning sunset, was pulled back into a low ponytail against her neck. Her skin was spattered with freckles from hours in the sun. George Labelle trailed behind with his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans. Martha's uncle was a burly man, the strongest one in the coven, and in comparison to Shannon's thin frame, he looked more like her bodyguard than anything else.

"We are just about to go collect the spring water. While we're gone, the circle will need to be cleansed and sanctified. Jodie should be able to help once she finishes the flowers."

"Already done." Martha smiled proudly, gesturing to the discarded sage and besom. Shannon was taken aback. Her brows flew to her hairline. By this time, Shannon would ordinarily be scrambling to organize everything and ensure all was right before the ceremony. She'd expected the young women to be doing nothing but lounging in the field. However, Martha was proving a capable witch.

"All of it?" Shannon looked around at the circle, sensing that Martha's work was beyond adequate. Everything had been performed to perfection. Her eyes then fell on Abigail, who shifted slightly to cover the cigarette bud beneath her thigh.

"You both did this?"

"Uh, yeah," Abigail grinned enthusiastically. "I did lots of smoke spreading." Martha had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Shannon hesitated, then nodded her approval.

"Alright, then." She turned to George beside her and smiled. "All that's left is the waters and the last of the offerings."

"We need a few more people for the water gathering."

"Abigail would love to join you!" Martha beamed, and Abigail's neck almost snapped. Martha ignored her full moon eyes and continued. "She was just saying how much she'd love to see the water gathering ceremony. She's never been."

"Really, Abigail?"

"Yeah," Abigail ground out through a tight smile. "I'm just so fascinated by the ceremony to retrieve it."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Huh, well then, we'd love to have you." Shannon was pleasantly surprised, though her expression was more bewildered than anything.

"I'll make sure everything is ready when you get back," Martha assured.

"Thank you, Martha." Shannon reached out to pat her arm affectionately. "Your mother would be proud." Martha smiled at the praise. It was a great compliment coming from the High Priestess herself.

"Ready?" Shannon asked Abigail, who nodded feverishly, her brilliant smile a bit too robotic to be genuine. It fell the second Shannon turned her back and morphed into a death glare. Martha held back her laugh as Abigail scrambled up from the ground, exposing her cigarette bud. George raised a chastising brow, and Abigail gave a bashful grin.

"I have no idea where that came from." She hurried off after Shannon. George lingered before his niece as she gathered up the remnants of her clearing and turned towards the altar. She expected him to leave, too. He was to accompany them to the spring. Instead, George took the besom from her overloaded arms and walked beside her.

"Martha," He looked down at her with a thoughtful gaze. George was twice her size and if she hadn't known his nature to be of the gentlest kind, he might've been intimidating. "I know this must be hard for you." Martha set things atop the altar, packed with a plethora of gifts for the goddess, from carved visages to crystals, candles, and dried flowers.

"Why would it be hard?" She asked, busying herself with the arrangement. She knew precisely why.

"Your mother always loved the equinox." George's eyes bored into her. A telltale tingle ran along her skin like a leaf skittering against the ground. "Everyone will understand if you decide not to go." His voice was achingly, infuriatingly soft. Martha braced her palms against the table and took a steadying breath to calm the bundle of irritation in her chest. This was not the first conversation of the like.

"Mom didn't die for me to take a back seat in the coven." She turned to look at him then with the determination of a mountain.

"Martha," He tilted his head with sympathy, but it did nothing but strengthen her resolve.

"I'm not going to waste the sacrifice she made by sitting back and letting everyone else handle things." Her voice had an edge of ferocity, like a whip that cracked a hair's breadth from splitting skin.

"I'm not saying that you should. Just--" George let out a huff and ran a hand down his face. "You never gave yourself a chance to mourn. Ever since she died you've been throwing yourself into every little task. It's alright if you need to take a minute to breathe. The coven won't fall to pieces if you take a day off."

"If I want to make something of myself here, I need to prove I can handle the responsibility. Mom would've understood that." It was harsh. She knew that, but it was at the forefront of her mind. George pursed his lips, enough to show that her words had wounded him. Martha felt a pang of remorse, but it was quickly swept aside as she turned to fiddle with her arrangement. It was quiet for a moment, and she thought he might've left the conversation be. Then the low rumble of his voice sounded again, much gentler.

"I know I will never replace your mama. She was so much better at this — better at everything. But, I love you just as much, and when you're ready to talk, I'll be here." At that, he did walk away. Martha refused to look over her shoulder, even as she swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat. Her eyes pricked with the beginnings of tears. She blinked furiously to squelch them — on to the next task.

Martha reached up to unclasp the chain hung about her neck. The jade pendulum was a bittersweet reminder of the woman she wanted nothing more than to speak to at that moment. Martha brought the cut stone to her lips and said a silent prayer to her goddess for guidance. Then she set her mother's pendulum upon the dais -- her personal offering.

The others returned within the hour, just shy of sundown. A massive stone bowl was filled with pure spring water collected for the ritual. The last offerings were placed on the dais, and all was complete. Martha took her spot in the circle, all thirty-two witches of the coven surrounded the dais, hands entwined. Shannon faced the altar head-on, the High Priestess, their messenger. With her direction, each witch approached the bowl and collected a goblet of its liquid. When the last chalice filled, Shannon addressed the coven with practiced grace.

"Our coven has been tried these past years, our faith tested in ways we never thought possible. We are the servants of our Great Goddess, the keepers of her land and creatures. We were called upon to be her sword and shield and sacrifice for the prosperity of the greater whole. We have grieved our losses and parted with those who gave their lives for ours. But now, it is time to let our wounds be healed by the power of the moon. Let it cleanse your pain, heal your sorrows, and bring you new clarity as we take our first steps into a new phase. As we charge our chalice with Diana's gift to us, we offer our hearts, bodies, and souls to her. We lay our offerings at her feet and give thanks for her protection."

Shannon tilted her chin towards the sky and brought her goblet up with it like a lightning rod. In unison, the coven presented their water to the goddess Diana and let her power imbue it. Martha felt the pure magic of her moonlight across her skin like electricity and ozone before a storm. She glanced around at her brothers and sisters and watched as they reveled in such raw power, worshiping their goddess entirely.

She thought of her mother's face as she said goodbye and turned away from her only daughter. She prayed to Diana that she give her the strength to heal. She prayed that her mother be cared for in death and that her sacrifice not be in vain. Martha wished that someday she'd be able to think of her mother without a stab of agony slicing through her heart. She raised the cup to her lips and drank.

Cool liquid dampened her lips and soothed her throat like honey nectar. The power of Diana, of the moon, rushed through her veins, and Martha trembled. Her mind became void of trivial thoughts, enraptured in her goddess's light. And then, her stomach sank. Diana's magic remained, but her gift of clarity delivered a dark omen. Martha felt as if she was downing, gasping and clawing for air and receiving none. Every face around their circle had gone ashen. It was not a singular experience. Such horror, unbridled terror, and agony flowed through her with vicious clarity.

The last time she felt such dread was the day her mother died.

NOTE

So I've loosely based the covens practices on Dianic Wicca. That being said it is definitely NOT meant to be an accurate representation or a rep at all for that religion -- This is pure fantasy. If there is anything at all that is offensive or exploitative, please let me know and I will change it asap. I also realized that season 4's timeline is centered around the spring equinox which lines up PERFECTLY for this fic. This fic is sort of a new style for me to write so please bear with me while I find my groove.