The Witch's Daughter

Part Nine

I pity the warden of my mind's castle. It is dark and crumbling, with hard stones splashing the cold black waters. Lightning jabs a finger into the narrow side-tower, pricking blue-white flesh on the pointed roof. Ghosts wail and wander the halls. Will she follow them?

Bathilde rolled over, barely awake. Mon Dieu, here we go again....

She never saw Yvonne as a baby anymore. She was a full-grown woman, as she should have been. She was petite and fine-boned, with honey-blonde waves tumbling down her back. She wore shimmering silver jewelry-- a slim necklace, earrings that brushed her shoulders. Everything about her exuded elegance-- the way her pointy ears poked out, the way dark freckles dotted her high forehead and straight nose, the way curly black lashes fluttered around her large brown eyes. She adjusted the sash around her long lavender robes and swayed over to her plump, half-elf mother. Her fingers fluttered, emphasizing the frosted jade of her nails. When she brushed her hand over Bathilde's cheek, she shuddered.

"I still think of you, Maman. Even as the Great Spirit calls me, I am always at your side."

Yvonne's voice was high, yet trembled with a maturity beyond her years. Before Bathilde could speak or touch her back, Yvonne tumbled backward into a swirling silver lake and immersed herself, floating just beneath the surface.

"My child!" Bathilde cried, "My poor, precious....!"

Yvonne faded until all that remained of her (and the lake) was a glittering heap of dust. Bathilde felt her body writhe and twist, shifting into the tiny, helpless body of a hummingbird. Her wings ached as she fluttered. A long tongue flicked out of a thin black beak, as she chirped in her own way: 

"Yvonne, ma bichette! YVONNE!"

Bathilde awoke and gasped at the figure standing over her. Tiberius had his hands pressed into her shoulders, his eyes shining with fear.

"Maman, you're all right. I'm here."

"Ah," she gasped, running a lizard-like hand over her eyes, "You poor thing, to see me in such a state...!"

Tiberius handed her a small stone bowl, steaming with orange soup. Bathilde sniffed it, and took a bite out of instinct.

"Carrot-ginger soup," he explained, "I found bowls and some soup-packets in my bag. Now we can eat like kings!"

Bathilde snorted at his sarcastic tone, but resumed her story:

"You know, I never told you zis...but I 'ad a child long before you. Long before Emmanuel, I should say."

Tiberius froze, but still warmed his soup over a low fire.

"When I was sixteen-- right before I married your father," Bathilde continued, wiping her eye, "I met a 'andsome water-elf man, Wati." She grinned, batting her lashes. "Tall. Blonde. Strong. From 'im, I was pregnant with a girl...I could feel it. I carried 'er for a long time, when I met your father." She pursed her lips. "When we first met, I was...pregnant. He noticed, as I am practically a dwarf. I named 'er, still za womb...Yvonne. When 'e 'eard zat I named 'er...." She inhaled deeply. "He beat my stomach. Constantly. Needless to say, my poor Yvonne...never 'ad a proper birth."

Tiberius shivered before swallowing. His mother never opened up about her life, and to hear something so sad and horrific made him nauseous.

"Y-You mean you...?"