Nemona: The Witch of Scaranton

Chapter 12: The Guardian Revealed

The mansion exuded the hushed ambiance of a time when shadows grew longer, and secrets were whispered under the breath of the day's waning light. The revelation about Nemona weighed heavily on my mind, but I had no luxury of time. An ominous feeling, like the calm before a storm, settled over me.

Drawn by an unsettling sound, I wandered deeper into the mansion, to one of the long, dimly lit corridors. A soft but haunting hum echoed, its origin unclear but beckoning nonetheless. My heartbeat quickened as I moved closer to the west wing.

Emerging from the shadows was a figure. No longer a child, but a young woman. Nemona. She had transformed into a striking teenager with raven-black hair cascading down her back in loose waves. Her eyes, deep pools of emerald ink. She wore a long, flowing gown that seemed to be woven from moonlight itself, shimmering with every step. It was reminiscent of the olden days, with high collars and intricate silver embroidery depicting magical runes. An aura of power radiated from her.

Before her stood Tommy, his gaze vacant, camera clutched in his hand. The presence of Nemona seemed to put him in a trance, binding him to her will.

"Nemona," I murmured, voice shaking.

She turned, her eyes locking onto mine, a playful yet ancient smirk playing on her lips. "You see me now, not as a lost child, but as the guardian I once was."

"I've learned of your past," I responded, trying to project strength. "Of your duties, the betrayal you faced was not from a lover, but from those you protected."

A haunting laugh escaped her lips. "Knowing is the first step, Arria. But understanding... that's a different matter. You call me, yet you don't understand"

Before I could respond, the scene shifted. The wall absorbed her image, leaving only a fading echo of her laughter. Tommy, released from her grip, crumpled to the ground, still clutching his camera.

I rushed to his side, ensuring he was safe. His eyes blinked in confusion, the trance evidently lifted. But the realization hit me: the camera. It was a conduit, a tool for Nemona to claim her victim. And just then, as if on cue, the camera flashed, and an image slowly appeared.

As the image materialized, I saw not just the hallway, but Beatrice with her violin. Beside her, Nemona's ethereal figure stood, their hands almost touching, the two of them surrounded by an intertwining aura.

The realization struck me hard. Beatrice's melodies were not just an activator for the locket but also a bridge for Nemona. The next stages of this confrontation were approaching fast, and the threads of destiny seemed more entangled than ever.

**Enchantments of Old**

As I moved through the corridors to get to Beatrice as fast as possible, the stories from folklore danced in my mind. The tale of the Banshees who foretold death with their mournful cries. The legends of fae folk who stole away humans, only to return them untouched by time. And the whispers of witches, who were revered and feared in equal measure during medieval times.

In the heart of it all lay the magical languages, some so ancient they've been forgotten, others evolved into what some of us use today. Words that held power. "Drùidhteach", a Gaelic word that echoed of druidic magic. The druids, after all, were the wise men and women who had deep connections to the earth, stars, and the spirit realm.

Was Nemona from an era where druids held great power? An age where witchcraft wasn't just feared but respected, and where she was perhaps a guardian of sorts, ensuring balance and harmony?

As I continued to ponder, a soft voice interrupted my thoughts. It was Beatrice. Her eyes were distant, and a deep melancholy clouded her features. "Arria," she started, her voice quivering, "I just felt an undeniable bond with Nemona. It's as if her pain, her hopes, her sorrows, are intertwined with mine."

The connection between Beatrice and Nemona was becoming clearer.

The haunting strains of Beatrice's melodies weren't just weaving magic or drawing out the locket's power. They were calling to Nemona, echoing an ancient bond, a pact or a promise made centuries ago. It's no wonder Nemona felt so drawn to her, to her music.

"Beatrice," I whispered, "Your music is the key. But not just to the locket. It's a key to Nemona's past, to her heart. We need to delve deeper into these ancient tales, to find the truth, and the real incantation that could either free Nemona or keep her bound."

Beatrice's hands trembled as she clutched her violin, a stark contrast to the confident grace with which she usually played. The hallway, bathed in the melancholy glow of dusk, seemed to amplify the weight of our discovery.

"Nemona," Beatrice whispered, her voice laden with a mix of curiosity and dread. "Why does my music resonate with her so?"

I took a deep breath. "Your connection to Nemona is deeper than mere notes on a page. It's as if your melodies echo a past song, one that maybe she once knew or cherished. This link, Beatrice, could be our way of reaching her, understanding her, or even calming her wrath."

"But Arria," Beatrice interrupted, her eyes glistening, "what if this connection is what she's after? What if my bond with her becomes a vulnerability?"

It was a question I had been grappling with myself. Would the bond between Beatrice and Nemona be a gift in our quest for answers, or a curse that would trap us further in the web of Nemona's haunting past?

"Remember," I said, hoping to instill some confidence, "connections can be a double-edged sword. While Nemona may be drawn to you, it also means she's more susceptible to your influence."

As we pondered this, Tommy's camera lay ominously on the side table, its lens reflecting the dying rays of the sun. We had realized its potential as a conduit, but how could we utilize it effectively?

Forgotten that Tommy was beside me from the moment he escaped Nemona's touch I turned to him, "Tommy, your camera isn't just a device; it's a bridge between realms. Maybe, just maybe, it can capture more than images. What if it could record an incantation, an ancient spell, a moment of significance that we've been missing?"

Tommy looked pensive. "It's not just about pressing the shutter, miss. The camera is old; it has seen decades, captured memories. What If, Nemona is tied to an era, perhaps we can lure her essence into a photo."

I expressed my satisfaction as I said, "Tommy, your thinking is exceptional; you definitely have tremendous potential in the mystical department. But we'll need Beatrice's music for that. It's the magnet."

Beatrice nodded, determination replacing her initial apprehension. "Then let's retrace our steps, find where our journey began. The incantation we seek may lie hidden in plain sight. A melody, a phrase, a sequence that even I may have played unknowingly."

The evening wore on as we delved into ancient manuscripts, seeking clues. The tales spoke of "Eilidh Druid", a druidic enchantment believed to bridge time. A song that wasn't just sung but was felt, one that connected souls across eons.

Hours later, as the moon shone at its zenith, Beatrice's fingers danced on the violin strings, playing a tune older than time. Tommy, with a newfound purpose, focused his camera, capturing the room's essence as it filled with an ethereal glow.

As the notes faded, an image formed on the camera's film, not of us, but of an ancient grove. In its heart stood a stone circle, and amidst it was Nemona, not as the vengeful spirit, but a guardian, with a Beatrice-like figure beside her, their hands intertwined.

Beatrice's connection to Nemona, it seemed, would be both our challenge and our salvation.

The next steps were clear. The ancient incantation needed to be completed, the bond between Beatrice and Nemona solidified. Only then could the equilibrium of magic and time be restored.