TTW - 27 (Patreon)

The thing that used to be Thomas moaned. It was soooo hungry. The human beyond the door smelled so inviting, and it could sense the beating heart. It wanted to EAT the human heart, EAT the brains, EAT EAT EAT.

But it was trapped behind something.

It slid up the something, feeling a metallic protrusion. It tried to eat the protrusion, but it wouldn't dissolve, so it moved on. It found some things it could eat, then moved up the wall and across the ceiling.

It wanted out. It slid under the sleeping place, and regenerated its (fingers) tentacles.

Sleep, when it came, was filled with visions of eating and drinking, and smacking its lips.

In these fevered visions, it hunted, chased, and devoured. Each dream victim's fear was a symphony, their screams a chorus to its ghastly feast. The creature, once Thomas, was lost in this abyss, a mere specter in the shadow of the ravenous entity it had become.

As the first light of dawn crept through the cracks of its confinement, the creature recoiled, an instinctive aversion to the purity of daylight. It retreated to the darkest corner, a grotesque mass of writhing darkness, waiting for the veil of night to descend once more.

In the quiet of its hiding place, fragments of Thomas's consciousness flickered weakly, like dying embers in a storm. Fleeting images of a life once lived – laughter, love, the gentle touch of a loved one – drifted through the mire of its mind. But these memories were quickly devoured by the all-consuming hunger, leaving behind nothing but the echo of a life that was no more.

***

Lydia was ready. She'd gathered all the items.

She paused for a moment, recognizing what this ritual would do to her. No longer would she be Lydia, not even in her mind. She wouldn't be completely Esmerelda, either, but far more Esmerelda than Lydia.

She wondered if she'd remember her grampa. Her mother.

Thomas.

Would she just kill the thing upstairs? Or would enough of Lydia remain to remember the thing had once been her husband?

She heard a racket upstairs, and knew if she didn't do something quickly, Thomas would escape and probably eat her.

Lydia steeled herself for the inevitable. The ritual items lay before her, each a symbol of the irreversible transition that awaited. She stood at a crossroads of identity, about to relinquish the very essence of who she was. Lydia, with all her memories and attachments, would soon be a mere whisper in the wind.

As she prepared the ritual space, her mind was involuntarily pulled to a memory, a day filled with joy and love. Their wedding day flashed before her eyes, a montage of happiness and hope. She saw Thomas standing across from her at the altar, his wide and infectious grin stirring deep feelings within her, a mixture of excitement, love, and a promise of a shared future.

She remembered the way his eyes lit up when he first saw her in her wedding dress and how he held her hand so gently yet firmly as they exchanged vows. His voice had trembled just slightly as he uttered his promises to her, each word laden with sincerity and devotion.

The memory shifted, and she saw them dancing their first dance as a married couple, moving in perfect harmony to a melody that seemed to have been written just for them. His hand on her waist, the other holding hers, their eyes locked in a world where they were the only two people that mattered.

She recalled the laughter, the way he threw back his head and laughed heartily at the speeches, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, how he whispered jokes in her ear, making her blush and giggle in front of all their guests. The warmth of his embrace, the safety she felt in his arms, it all came flooding back to her in a torrent of emotion.

But this poignant reverie was sharply interrupted by the harsh reality of her present. She was about to undergo a transformation that would change her very core, potentially erasing these cherished memories, these fragments of a life she so dearly loved.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia turned her attention back to the ritual. The items before her included an ancient grimoire, candles flickering with mystical flames, and a series of rare herbs and incantations. Each piece was carefully selected, their energies aligning to facilitate the profound transformation she was about to undergo.

The incense burned, filling the room with a heady scent that seemed to thin the veil between the worlds. Lydia began to chant, her voice steady but imbued with the weight of her decision. The words of the ritual were ancient, their power resonating through the ages.

"Ic, se ðe gæþ in þæs steorran leohte þe eald geworden, under sceade rīca þe arison ond feollon, ic cīge ðē, Esmerelda Devereaux, þæt ðū ācenned wierþe innan mec. Læt þīn wisdom, þīn cræft, and þīn wæstm gelimpan mid mīnum, þæt wē magon gān swā ān ofer wyrd's þrǣdum."

As she spoke, the room's atmosphere shifted, the air becoming charged with a palpable energy. The candles flickered more intensely, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. Lydia could feel the presence of Esmerelda, her spirit hovering at the periphery of her consciousness, ready to merge, to become one with her.

She continued the incantation, her voice growing stronger, more confident. The ritual was reaching its climax, the moment of fusion imminent. Lydia felt a pang of loss, a mourning for the life she was leaving behind, but also a burgeoning sense of power, of destiny unfolding.

She entered a headspace, not unlike the headspace the coven generated.

Another person emerged. Smaller in stature, but flamboyant in character. Her bouffant floated like a halo above her wizened face, which was etched with the lines of ages and decorated with makeup of such extravagance, Lydia was amazed. Extended lashes literally fluttered with magic as she smiled up at Lydia.

Lydia heard the voice of Esmerelda in her mind.

Do you bind yourself to me now, and forevermore?

The question struck a deeper chord, asking her to forsake not just her identity but her past, her memories, and her life as she knew it. Lydia felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she realized the full extent of her decision. But her resolve did not waver.

Lydia nodded, her eyes clamped shut against the storm.

Lydia winced as she felt Esmerelda's form replacing her own. She saw through Esmerelda's eyes, spoke with Esmerelda's lips, breathed with Esmerelda's lungs as Esmerelda's heart beat in her chest.

The voice demanded confirmation, its tone imbued with finality. "Lydia Thompson, I ask, do you fully and irrevocably consent to this union, to let go of who you were and emerge anew as Esmerelda Devereaux, carrying both our legacies within you?"

Again Lydia nodded, Yes.

Thrice I ask. Do you bind yourself to me, now and forever more?

This was it, the final vow, the last step. Lydia thought of Thomas's smile, their shared dreams, and the love they had nurtured. But she also thought of the greater good, of the power and responsibility that now beckoned her. She made her final vow with a deep breath and a sense of solemn resignation. "I fully and irrevocably consent to this union. I let go of Lydia Thompson and emerge anew as Esmerelda Devereaux, to carry both our legacies within me."

Heat rose within her body. Lydia faded from the front of Esmerelda's mind, as the magical energy of her body assumed it's rightful place. She was so young! Esmerelda smiled, feeling the youthful magic of the soul bound to her very core.

Thrice I am asked. Thrice I have agreed. Yes.

An essence filled her then. She could feel Esmerelda, in a much different way. She seeped into the very core of her being, wiping away her identity, like a child erasing a chalkboard.

For a brief moment, Lydia, the Lydia inside, resisted.

Please don't kill it she sent.

And then Lydia, for all intents and purposes, was absorbed into that which was Esmerelda.

A profound peace settled over her. Lydia had been under the geas of Esmerelda wearing her form but with an imposed identity upon the Lydia core. Now that Lydia had been erased, Esmerelda smiled. She did not struggle under a geas; the geas was her. Her form, her body, her mind, with the youthful unbound energy of Lydia powering the conjoined spirit. It wasn't Lydia seeing through Esmerelda's eyes, it was Esmerelda wearing her own body and breathing the magical energy of the girl that filled her with spirit.

The union was complete. Please, don't erase what I am!  A final thought rose, and Esmerelda nodded, allowing herself to feel Lydia's youthful zeal for life.

Esmerelda's memories flooded her mind – walks through the lush gardens of French chateaus, whispered conspiracies in dimly lit chambers, and the fiery passion of ancient battles.

Newfound power surged through her, a torrent of magic at her fingertips, waiting to be unleashed. Glancing down at her youthful attire, Esmerelda scoffed. With a flicker of her newfound power, the simple dress transformed into a regal ensemble of ermine and silk, adorned with sparkling clusters of diamonds.

She was Esmerelda Devereaux – queen, sorceress, a figure woven into the fabric of history. She had witnessed empires rise and fall, and now, she faced a new challenge.

As she ascended the stairs, her hand instinctively went to her voluminous hair, ensuring it remained impeccably styled. Whispering incantations of power, Esmerelda prepared to face the creature that lurked above.

As she stepped into the hallway, the voice of Lydia, now a distant echo within her, murmured a thank you. Esmerelda paused, acknowledging the bittersweet farewell to a part of herself now forever changed. She then continued, determined to confront the chaos that awaited.

Esmerelda Devereaux, Sorcière Suprême de l'Ancien Monde, Héritière de la Sagesse Éternelle, Dame de la Confluence Normande et Française, Gardienne des Secrets Oubliés, Maîtresse des Arts Sombres, Protectrice des Terres Entre les Voiles, Conjuratrice des Marées et des Lunes, Épouse du Seigneur Geoffrey de Charny du Normand, Matriarche de la Lignée Enchantée, Flambeau de la Résistance Magique, et Voix des Ancêtres Éveillés.

*Esmerelda Devereaux, Supreme Witch of the Ancient World, Heiress of Eternal Wisdom, Lady of the Norman and French Confluence, Guardian of Forgotten Secrets, Mistress of the Dark Arts, Protector of the Lands Between the Veils, Conjurer of Tides and Moons, Wife of the Norman Lord Geoffrey de Charny , Matriarch of the Enchanted Lineage, Torch of Magical Resistance, and Voice of the Awakened Ancestors.*

She remembered being a girl in Paris. In the lush tapestry of her mind, Esmerelda Devereaux, née Élodie Martine Dubois, wandered once more through the cobbled streets of her youth, the vibrant city of Paris unfolding around her like a well-loved book. The air was a fragrant blend of fresh bread from the boulangeries, the tangy sweetness of ripe fruit from the market stalls, and the underlying musk of the Seine as it meandered through the heart of the city. Paris, with its effervescent charm, was a juxtaposition of light and shadow, where the opulence of the aristocracy danced cheek to cheek with the grit of the common folk.

Her memories painted a vivid picture of the Ile de la Cité, the island's heart where the majestic Notre-Dame Cathedral rose, its spires piercing the sky, a testament to man's devotion and architectural prowess. She remembered the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the stone floor, each beam a silent whisper of the divine.

Esmerelda's childhood was a montage of fleeting moments caught within the embrace of the city's walls: running barefoot through the Luxembourg Gardens, her laughter mingling with the wind; the awe-inspiring sight of the Louvre, its galleries an endless maze of beauty and history; the boisterous energy of Le Marais, where artists and scholars debated under the watchful eyes of stone gargoyles.

But it wasn't just the grandeur that held her heart; it was the simple pleasures. The warmth of a freshly baked croissant, buttery and flaky, against her tongue; the thrill of discovering hidden courtyards, each a secret garden waiting to be unveiled; the melody of the French language, its rhythms and cadences a song that resonated with her soul.

These memories, etched within her, were more than just reflections of a time long passed. They were the essence of who she was, a mosaic of experiences that colored her perception of the world. Paris, with its beauty and its blemishes, had shaped Esmerelda into the woman she became, a bridge between the past and the present, forever carrying the city in her heart.

The last time she'd walked the Earth had been during the Salem witch trials. She sacrificed herself for her coven then, knowing she would be reborn in time. In the late 17th century, as fear and suspicion poisoned the New World, Esmerelda found herself in the midst of the hysteria that would later be known as the Salem Witch Trials. It was a time when paranoia cloaked the village of Salem like a suffocating fog, and the air was thick with the scent of mistrust. Accusations flew like arrows, and the word "witch" was a death sentence, whispered in shadows and screamed in the light.

Esmerelda, known then as Eleanor Devore, had come to Salem seeking solace from her past, a place to blend in, a community where her healing skills could be of service. Her knowledge of herbs and natural remedies quickly garnered the attention of the villagers, but as the witch hunt fervor escalated, admiration turned to suspicion. Her kindness, once a beacon, now marked her as an outsider, her wisdom as witchcraft.

The events leading to her 'death' began with a simple fever that swept through the village, taking the young and old alike in its merciless grasp. Esmerelda worked tirelessly, her hands soothing fevered brows, her potions easing the suffering of many. But when the fever claimed the life of the magistrate's daughter, grief-stricken and desperate for someone to blame, the villagers turned their eyes towards her.

Accused of witchcraft, Esmerelda was dragged from her home, her protests drowned out by the cries for justice from those she had once healed. The trial was swift, a mockery of justice, fueled by fear and a desire for retribution. Evidence was twisted, testimonies coerced, and in the end, Esmerelda stood alone, condemned by the very people she had sought to help.

The night before her execution, Esmerelda sat in her cell, not with fear, but with a serene acceptance. She knew her death would not be an end but a transformation. As dawn broke over Salem, she walked to the gallows, her head held high, her spirit unbroken. With the noose around her neck, she whispered a final spell, a promise of rebirth. And as the floor fell away, Esmerelda Devereaux embraced the darkness, knowing that in another time, in another place, she would walk the earth again.

Power didn't just come to her. Power thrummed into her fingertips, ready, willing, and able to answer her call.

Looking down at her dress, the youthful body, Esmerelda rolled her eyes and used her power to immediately shed not only the "geas" the girl had been carrying, but clothing herself in ermine, silk, with clusters of diamonds at her throat and in her ears. She was Esmerelda Devereaux, queen, concubine, daughter of William the conquerer. She had seen nations rise and fall, held kingdoms in the palm of her hand and—

Something thumped.

"Ugh sucrebleu," she muttered. "We must zee to zis creature made from ze body of Lydia's 'usband."

Thank you, a voice echoed in her head.

She stood up, patted her bouffant, and murmured words of power as she put her hand on the doorknob.

Throwing open the door, the creature came for her almost immediately, but this was no cowering Lydia wearing Esmerelda's body and struggling against a geas.

This was Esmerelda.