TTW: Seven The Final Turn (Patreon)

The Thirteenth Witch.

Chapter Seven, The Final Turn

by Raine Monday

Lydia found herself immersed in a whirlwind of activity as she ushered movers through their new home, a symphony of boxes and furniture swirling around her. The previous day's shopping spree in the quaint town square had transformed into a tangible reality, as piece by piece, their house began to take shape.

She moved like a conductor, her arms directing where each item should go with a flourish. The leather sectional, its surface soft and inviting, found its place in the living room. Matching recliners followed, creating a cozy nook by the fireplace. Lydia’s eyes sparkled as she envisioned the space coming to life – a luxurious rug here, an ornate lamp there, and perhaps a collection of throw pillows to add a splash of color.

It wasn’t just furnishings that Lydia had been given carte blanche to acquire. Agnes, with a knowing smile, had opened a line of credit at all the local stores, empowering Lydia to indulge her every whim. And indulge she did. From sleek, modern bookshelves to an elegant dining set, Lydia’s selections spoke of a newfound confidence, a blend of her taste and the influence of refined aesthetics from the geas.

Below, in the basement, Lydia had carved out her own sanctum – a workshop for her burgeoning magical talents. Agnes had supplied her with a list as long as her arm – agents and reagents, herbs and remedies, oils, unguents, and a kaleidoscope of crystals.

“Zis,” she announced with a flourish, surveying the space where her magical journey would unfold, “will be where zee magic 'appens…” Her words trailed off into a playful, salacious wink directed at Thomas as he hefted a box of shimmering crystals into the room.

Thomas responded with a nod, his jaw clenched in frustration. The language barrier, once a mere inconvenience, now stood as a formidable wall between them.

Lydia exhaled deeply, her brow furrowing in concentration as she attempted to navigate the choppy waters of English. It felt foreign on her tongue, every word a struggle, every sentence a battle. She longed for the fluidity and romance of French, its melody and rhythm that seemed to dance in the air.

As the afternoon waned, a troupe of worker elves arrived, their pointed ears twitching with eagerness. Lydia watched in fascination as these diminutive beings, described by Agnes as lovers of labor, set about their tasks with a zeal and efficiency that was almost magical in itself. They assembled, arranged, and repurposed with a joy that was contagious.

In just two days, the transition from the Whispering Inn to their own abode was complete. Their house, though still echoing with the potential of unfilled spaces, now felt like a home. It was a canvas waiting for the brushstrokes of their lives.

Thomas, who had taken a while to warm up to the idea of their new life, had thrown himself into renovations. Lydia watched him with a mixture of pride and melancholy as he dismantled a non-load-bearing wall. The wall’s removal had transformed the living area, creating an open, welcoming space that stretched invitingly from one end of the house to the staircase.

Climbing down from his ladder, Thomas wrapped his arms around Lydia. “Yeah, it really opens the place up, doesn’t it?” His voice was a blend of fatigue and satisfaction.

Lydia nodded, her heart aching with a mixture of love and a longing for simpler times. She leaned into his embrace, the unfamiliar English words still tumbling awkwardly from her lips, “Zis looks amazing, my 'usband!”

Together, in the midst of sawdust and the promise of new beginnings, they stood – two souls intertwined in a dance of change, their future as unpredictable as the magic that now wove through their lives.

Lydia’s voice, soft and tentative, broke the silence. “Voulez-vous de la nourriture?” she asked, her words tinged with the unfamiliar lilt of her newly acquired French accent.

Thomas looked at her, a mixture of confusion and concern in his eyes. “I don’t know what you just asked me.”

She sighed, a hint of frustration in her gaze. “Ah, do you want zome food?” she repeated, her struggle with English evident in her voice.

“Yes, please,” Thomas replied, his heart aching at the sight of her trying so hard to bridge the gap that the geas had wedged between them.

Hand in hand, they ventured into the kitchen, where Thomas lit a few lamps, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. They sat together at the table, surrounded by the quaint charm of their new home, eating sandwiches prepared by the diligent elves.

“How are you feeling?” Thomas asked, biting into a ham sandwich, his appetite overshadowed by concern.

Lydia waved her altered hand dismissively, her features etched with weariness. “Je suis fatiguée, mais c'est tout,” she replied.

Thomas exhaled, his brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and worry. “Tired,” Lydia translated, her voice low.

He nodded silently, his thoughts racing as he observed the changes in her – changes that seemed to deepen with each passing moment.

After their quiet meal, they made their way upstairs to the bedroom. In a fluid motion, Lydia untied the strings of her dress, letting the fabric cascade to the floor in a pool of grey. She stepped out of it gracefully, her movements belying the transformation her body had undergone.

“Veux-tu prendre un bain avec moi?” she asked, a hint of hope in her eyes.

“English, please?” Thomas requested gently, his heart pained by the necessity of the request.

“Do you want to take a bath, with me?” she repeated, her words laced with a mix of resignation and desire.

He nodded, his throat tight with emotion. Lydia moved to fill the tub, a magnificent clawfoot masterpiece that was a testament to their newfound affluence. She added bath salts, watching the bubbles rise and swirl in the steaming water.

In the mirror, she studied her reflection – the relentless march of the geas was evident. Thomas joined her, his lips meeting her shoulder in a tender kiss. The once-smooth skin there was now etched with wrinkles, a testament to the transformation that had claimed her body. Her legs, her torso, her neck – all bore the unmistakable signs of age's advance.

She was noticeably shorter now, her gaze barely reaching his chin. Streaks of grey marred her hair, and lines creased her eyes, mouth, forehead, and chin. Yet, she was still Lydia, her essence unmistakable.

That morning, the first tooth had fallen. She opened her mouth in the mirror, wiggling several more teeth – a grim reminder of the change’s relentless progression.

“Do you still love me?” she asked, her voice laden with vulnerability. It was Lydia speaking, her words unfiltered by translation.

“Of course, I do, babe,” Thomas assured her, his voice steady and sure.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she spoke. “I know I’m not…attractive, to you anymore, but I do appreciate you making me feel like I am.”

Thomas lifted her chin gently, compelling her to meet his gaze. “I will always be attracted to you,” he declared, sealing his words with a deep, affectionate kiss. Gently, he lifted her into the warm embrace of the bathwater, sliding in beneath her.

“I know one thing, at least,” he murmured with a soft chuckle.

“Qu’est-ce?” she inquired, curiosity lighting up her eyes.

“You’re a lot lighter now. After shedding all that dead weight,” he teased.

“Bâtard!” Lydia splashed him playfully, her laughter echoing in the room. He leaned over her, their lips meeting in a deep, passionate kiss, a moment of pure connection amidst the whirlwind of change.

As he kissed her, something began to stir in her chest. She found breathing increasingly difficult. Opening her eyes, she gasped for air.

"Lyds?" He pulled back, concern etching his features. "Lyds, what's wrong?"

She flapped her hands in front of her mouth, her lungs refusing to draw breath.

"It's the lungs," Agatha announced from the bathroom doorway, her voice laced with urgency. "Pick her up and bring her downstairs. Hurry!"

Sweeping Lydia into his arms, he lifted her out of the tub without questioning Agatha's sudden presence. He acted instinctively, and Lydia's heart swelled with love for him. Panic surged through her as she struggled to inhale, but then she remembered one of Agatha's lessons.

She closed her eyes, seeking an inner calm. Letting tranquility wash over her, she reminded herself that she could survive without air for a time, but not if panic overtook her, not if her lungs clamored desperately to be filled.

"Good girl," a voice whispered in her mind. "The final stage of your Emergence is upon you. Do you accept who and what you are, and who and what you will become?"

"I do," Lydia affirmed mentally.

Agatha led the way downstairs, bypassing the main level, and into a basement where a circle had been installed on the floor. Made of copper, it enclosed a silver six-pointed star.

"Lay her down in the middle of the star," Agatha instructed.

"But I—"

"Lay her down, boy, or she will die!" Agatha’s tone brooked no argument.

Several more women entered, their presence filling the basement with an air of solemnity. They began to chant, their voices weaving a tapestry of sound. Agatha lit six black candles, placing them at each point of the star.

"Now leave us," she commanded. "Do not return, no matter what you hear."

"No!" Thomas protested. "I can't just—"

Agatha’s eyes flashed dangerously. "Do NOT test my patience, boy!" Her hiss echoed against the stone walls. Thomas glared at her, his concern for Lydia evident, but finally nodded.

"I'll be right upstairs," he murmured, his gaze lingering on Lydia.

Lydia nodded back, her ability to speak or breathe still beyond her reach.

The basement air grew thick with the scent of ancient herbs as the women encircled Lydia, their voices rising and falling in a hypnotic cadence. Agatha stood at the head of the star, her arms raised high, palms facing the ceiling. She began to recite an incantation in a language lost to time, her words resonating with a power that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the house. The candles flickered wildly, casting elongated shadows that danced along the walls, as if ancient spirits were stirring, awakened by the ritual.

As Agatha's voice crescendoed, the other women joined in, their voices harmonizing in a haunting melody. They moved in a synchronized, ritualistic dance, their steps precise and deliberate. Each movement seemed to draw energy from the air, channeling it towards Lydia, who lay at the center of the star. The copper and silver beneath her began to glow, a soft, ethereal light that pulsed in time with the chanting.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, growing heavier, as if the very air were saturated with anticipation. Lydia could feel the Essence of the One Tree, that mythical source of all life and magic, responding to the call of the incantation. It flowed towards her, a river of unseen energy, filling her with a warmth that spread from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. The Essence swirled around her, penetrating every cell, every fiber of her being, transforming her from within.

The chanting grew louder, more insistent, echoing through Lydia's mind. Images flashed before her eyes - visions of ancient forests, towering trees, and a sky filled with stars so bright they seemed within reach. She felt connected to something immeasurable, timeless, a part of the universe's endless cycle.

As the ritual reached its climax, the energy in the room coalesced into a tangible force, enveloping Lydia in a cocoon of light. The Essence of the One Tree pulsed within her, its power merging with her very essence. In that moment, Lydia felt an indescribable sense of unity with the universe, an understanding of her place within the vast tapestry of existence.

Her heart raced, then faltered, tripped, and halted. Terror gripped her as she opened her eyes. Her blood stilled, and a cold, clammy sensation threatened to overwhelm her. Defying the paralysis, her spirit soared upwards, passing through the basement ceiling into the living room where Thomas paced, knuckles in his mouth, a telltale sign of his deep anxiety.

She reassured herself silently; she was okay, just in a different state of being.

Then she heard it – the music of the spheres, a cosmic symphony from the center of the Universe, the birthplace of all existence. She drew in this power, letting it saturate her essence, flow through her—

But lurking in the vastness was a monstrous entity, a creature of tentacles and a maw as vast as a skyscraper. It oozed darkness, a malevolent force hungering for destruction. Its gaping maw opened wide—

And she plummeted back into her body. Or rather, what used to be her body. Her heart now beat with a strange rhythm, her lungs filled with unfamiliar breath. Every part of her had been transformed – not altered, but entirely replaced.

This new body resonated with a different energy, its aura distinct, firing synapses in a unique neural network.

"Open your eyes, dear," a voice, perhaps Agatha's, coaxed her.

Confusion clouded her mind as she sat up, coughing out teeth that had loosened and nearly been swallowed. Her body felt alien - her breasts sagged, veins protruded on her limbs, and her skin hung loosely. A wart adorned the side of her nose. Her hair, once full, was now thin and scraggly.

"Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?" she rasped, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears.

"Tu as traversé l'Émergence, ma chère. Prends un moment et respire," Agatha soothed.

Lydia – no, not Lydia anymore – complied, taking slow, deliberate breaths.

"Dis-nous ton nom, ma chère," prompted Agatha.

A flood of new memories, a different life, filled her mind. She was no longer the person she had been.

"Je m'appelle Esmerelda Devereaux," she declared with newfound certainty.

Agnes Wainwright, First of the Coven of Sælicbrook, lifted Esmerelda's frail arm. "Welcome our new sister, Esmerelda Devereaux!"

A chorus of applause enveloped Esmerelda, her lips curving into a smile as she embraced her new identity.