A Karmic Incest
Copyright© 2006 by Amasterfound
Chapter 2
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Twin Wicca brother and sister start to believe that they are their reincarnated ancestors who were burned at the stake in 1692 for incest and being witches. This is their tale as they learn more about their past.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Magic Heterosexual Science Fiction Historical Incest Brother Sister First Oral Sex Anal Sex Squirting Size
The fire had dwindled to glowing embers when Marian stirred, Robin’s heartbeat a steady drum beneath her ear. Sophia’s contented purr vibrated against her thigh as she blinked awake. Robin’s fingers traced lazy patterns down her spine—a touch both familiar and thrillingly new. “You felt it too,” he murmured into her hair, not a question. “The memories aren’t just dreams, are they?”
Marian lifted her head, meeting his dark, serious eyes. She didn’t need words; the truth resonated between them like a struck bell. They tasted us before, Robin’s thought brushed against her mind, tentative as a fingertip tracing skin. Calvin knew Charity’s sweetness. Charity knew Calvin’s salt. Marian shivered, pressing closer. “It’s more than memory,” she whispered aloud. “When you ... when I took you ... it was like relearning a prayer.”
Robin’s hand slid lower, fingertips teasing the curve of her ass where his fingers had plunged earlier. Do you remember this too? His mental voice roughened with desire. How Charity arched for him? How Calvin begged? Marian gasped as his telepathic touch mirrored the phantom pressure inside her. “Yes,” she breathed, arching now, her nipple hardening against his chest. “She loved when he claimed her there. It felt ... holy.” She captured his lower lip between her teeth, biting just hard enough to make him groan. “Show me again. Slowly.”
He rolled her onto her stomach, kneeling between her thighs. The scent of sex and woodsmoke thickened the air as he poured lavender oil onto his fingers—cool, then warming against her skin. “Breathe, Mari,” Robin murmured aloud while his mind whispered darker promises: I’ll stretch you until you scream. Until you feel me in your bones. His finger circled her tight rosette, pressing inward with torturous slowness. Marian clawed the sheets, her moan muffled by the pillow. “More,” she demanded, pushing back against him. “Make it burn like it did for them for us.”
Two fingers now, scissoring deep as she writhed. Robin bent over her, teeth grazing her shoulder blade while his other hand slid beneath her to pinch a nipple. Feel how Calvin filled her? His mental voice was a growl. How she came untouched just from this? Marian’s gasp became a sob as he crooked his fingers—finding that secret place that made her vision blur. “Robin—now,” she choked out. “I need you inside. Not fingers. You.”
He withdrew, slicking himself with oil, the head of his cock nudging her clenching entrance. “Look at me, Mari.” His voice trembled. “Eyes open.” She twisted her head, meeting his gaze—dark, dilated, terrified and exultant. As he pushed past the tight ring of muscle, inch by searing inch, their shared memory surged: Calvin’s hoarse cry echoing in Robin’s throat, Charity’s whimper trembling on Marian’s lips. Together, Robin thought fiercely. Always like this.
She arched deeper onto him, gasping as he seated himself fully, the stretch a delicious agony. “Move,” she begged, clutching his thigh. “Make us remember everything.” Robin obeyed, rocking shallowly at first, each thrust dragging against that electric spot inside her. Marian’s moans pitched higher, her body clenching around him. Charity loved how he owned her, Robin’s mind whispered, his hand fisting in her hair. Say it. Marian sobbed, “Yours! Only ever yours, brother—”
He slammed deeper, grunting as her muscles milked him. “Tell me how Calvin took her,” Robin demanded, his voice raw. Marian shuddered, the past bleeding into the present. “From behind ... in the hayloft,” she gasped. “He bit her neck—” Robin’s teeth sank into her shoulder, sharp and claiming. Marian screamed, her climax tearing through her as Robin roared her name, spilling inside her with pulses that echoed her own convulsions.
Collapsed together, slick with sweat and oil, Robin nuzzled her throat. “We need Dad’s journals,” he murmured, fingers tracing the bite mark. “The dreams ... they’re pieces, not the whole truth.” Marian turned, facing him, her palm pressed to his stuttering heart. “What if he sees us? What we’ve done?” Robin kissed her knuckles. “He sees magic, Mari. Not shame.” His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip. “We’ll ask tonight after dinner.”
Marian shivered, arching as his hand slid between her thighs, fingers slick with their mingled release. “But the journals...” she gasped, hips rocking against his touch. “What if they confirm ... worse?” Robin’s teeth scraped her earlobe. Then we burn it all down together, his mind growled, fingers circling her clit. Marian moaned, knees parting wider. “Robin—focus!” He chuckled darkly, pushing two fingers back into her aching ass. “I am. On how tight you get when you’re scared.”
She cried out, clutching his wrist. “Stop distracting me!” Her laughter dissolved into a gasp as he twisted his fingers deeper. “Your body never lies, Mari.” His thumb pressed hard against her clentoris. “See? Still throbbing for me.” He withdrew abruptly, leaving her trembling. “We ask Dad tonight,” Robin murmured, rolling her onto her back. “But first...” He knelt between her legs, spreading her wide. “I need to taste your fear.”
His tongue dragged slow, filthy stripes along her slit. Marian arched, fingers tangling in his hair. “Robin—the journals—” “Can wait,” he growled against her swollen flesh, sucking her clit into his mouth. Her thighs clamped around his head as he plunged two fingers back into her ass. Tell me, his mind commanded, tongue circling ruthlessly. Tell me what you’re afraid of finding. Marian’s hips jerked.
“Calvin—” she gasped aloud, the name foreign yet intimate on her tongue. Robin froze, lifting his head. His fingers remained buried deep inside her, slick with her arousal. “Calvin?” he echoed softly. Marian trembled, tears welling. “In the dream last night ... I wasn’t Charity watching. I was him. Feeling her ... feeling you beneath me.” Robin withdrew his fingers slowly, crawling up her body. His cock, half-hard again, pressed against her thigh. “Show me,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers. Their minds fused—hay prickling Calvin’s knees, Charity’s moans as he thrust into her ass.
Marian guided Robin’s hand to her throat. “He gripped her here,” she whispered, squeezing gently. Robin mirrored the pressure. “And she begged him...” “ ... harder,” Robin finished, rolling her beneath him. He entered her ass in one smooth stroke, swallowing her cry with a kiss. They moved together—Robin thrusting, Marian arching—their shared memories blurring identities. “She came when he bit her shoulder,” Marian panted. Robin’s teeth sank into her flesh. Lightning tore through her. “Now!” Calvin’s voice roared in their minds. Robin came violently, Marian milking him with pulsing clenches.
Collapsed, sticky and trembling, Robin traced Marian’s bite mark. “We’re remembering through each other,” he realized aloud. Marian nodded against his chest. “Calvin’s pleasure ... Charity’s surrender ... I feel both.” Sophia stretched, pawing Robin’s hip. He scratched her ears absently. “Dad’s journals might explain why the memories split across us.” Marian’s hand drifted to Robin’s softening cock. “Or why we crave things we’ve never done.” Her fingers tightened possessively. Robin groaned. “Focus, witch. Journals first.”
They washed in silence, Marian flinching as warm water hit the teeth marks. Robin pressed a kiss to the welt. “Proof we survived.” Dressed, they headed to Thomas Hawthorne’s study—oak-paneled, smelling of pipe tobacco and old paper. Thomas looked up from his ledger, glasses perched low. “Twins. You look ... flushed.” Marian touched her collar, hiding the bite. “We need the Salem journals. The ones about ... the twins burned in 1692.”
Thomas froze, pipe hovering. “Why?” Robin stepped forward, voice low. “Because we’re dreaming their memories. Their deaths. Their ... intimacies.” Thomas paled, fingers tightening on his pen. “Those journals aren’t for children.” Marian lifted her chin. “We tasted Calvin’s seed last night, Dad. Charity’s blood in our dreams. We’re not children.”
Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples. “The journals ... they confirm things.” He unlocked a cedar chest beneath his desk, lifting out two leather-bound volumes. “This one”—he handed Marian a journal stamped with a crescent moon—”belonged to Mercy Hawthorne, their mother.” He gave Robin one embossed with intertwined serpents. “And this was their father Ezekiel’s. Read carefully. Some truths scorch.”
Marian flipped open Mercy’s journal. Her breath hitched at an entry dated October 31, 1691: “Calvin confessed his love for Charity tonight. Not as siblings, but as soulmates bound beyond blood. Ezekiel wept, not in anger, but relief—for he and I had walked the same forbidden path before them.” Robin traced Ezekiel’s tight script: “The village suspects. We must perform the Binding Ritual at Samhain, merging their souls so they may rebirth together. Else the mob will tear them apart.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “There are ... other volumes.” He hesitated, eyes darting to the hearth. “Hidden where only they could retrieve them. Behind the—” Robin’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “The false brick in the inglenook,” he whispered, Charity’s certainty flooding his voice. Marian was already moving, fingers probing the fireplace’s sooty side until stone grated. A cavity held three slim journals wrapped in oilcloth.
Marian unswathed them reverently. The top journal bore a blood-red wax seal stamped with twin serpents biting each other’s tails. “Calvin’s private thoughts,” she breathed, tracing the symbol. Robin took the second—charcoal-gray leather smelling faintly of grave dirt. “Charity’s grimoire.” The third journal was smaller, bound in faded blue linen. Thomas paled. “That’s ... the children’s.”
Robin’s hands trembled as he opened the linen cover. Delicate, childish script filled the first page: “Today Mama taught us the Protection Rune. Papa says we must be strong. Baby Sister kicked Mama’s belly when I sang!” Marian pressed a hand over her mouth. “Twins?” Robin whispered hoarsely. Thomas nodded, eyes wet. “Charity bore twins before ... before they took her. A boy and a girl. Hidden with a wet nurse in Marblehead.” He gripped Robin’s shoulder. “The journals mention a vault beneath Gallows Hill. Ezekiel built it to preserve their truth—but only Calvin and Charity could open it.” His gaze locked onto theirs. “Do you remember? Can you remember?”
Marian closed her eyes, reaching for Robin’s mind. Stone. Cold. Wet earth. Robin’s fingers interlaced with hers. Iron hinges screaming. The scent of dried lavender and ... blood? Marian gasped. “Blood oath. They sealed it with their blood.” Robin nodded fiercely. “Under the oldest oak—the one split by lightning.”
Thomas leaned forward, pipe forgotten. “The Gallows Hill vault hasn’t been touched since 1692. Covenant law forbade it.” His voice dropped. “But the journals hint at ... more. Ezekiel wrote of a second cache.” He tapped Charity’s grimoire. “She hid her deepest secrets where ‘the moon weeps.’”
Robin’s fingers tightened around Marian’s. The willow grove, their minds whispered simultaneously. Marian gasped aloud—Calvin’s memory surged: Charity’s laughter as she buried a lead box beneath twisted roots, moonlight silvering her bare shoulders. “By the pond,” Robin murmured, eyes distant. “Where we skinny-dipped last summer.” Thomas’s breath hitched. “You remember?”
Marian nodded, her thumb stroking Robin’s pulse. “Charity hid Ezekiel’s research there. Proof the twins weren’t...” She swallowed. “ ... abominations.” Thomas’s knuckles whitened on the desk. “Bring it to me. Tonight.” Robin stiffened. “Why? Afraid we’ll burn it like Salem did?” Thomas’s gaze dropped to Calvin’s journal still open on Marian’s lap—to a sketch of Charity, swollen with child, Calvin’s hand splayed possessively over her belly. “Afraid?” Thomas rasped. “I’ve waited lifetimes for you two to reclaim this.” He touched the drawing. “Their love defied death. Let yours defy shame.”
Robin’s fingers trembled as he traced Charity’s faded ink sketch—her belly round, Calvin’s calloused hand curved protectively over it. Marian leaned into him, their temples touching as Calvin’s memory surged: Charity’s gasp as the baby kicked, her laughter like bells as she guided his palm lower. “Feel how much she loves you?” Robin’s breath hitched. “She knew it was a girl?” Thomas nodded, wiping his eyes. “Named Hope. Her brother was Ash.” He gestured to the linen-bound journal. “They drew pictures. Hoped their parents would ... understand.”
Marian flipped the fragile pages slowly. Stick-figure drawings bloomed—a boy with Robin’s messy hair, a girl with Marian’s stubborn chin, holding hands beneath a labeled GRANPA & GRANMA HAWTHORN. “They raised them,” Marian whispered, throat tight. Robin’s thumb brushed a crayon sun. “As their own children?” Thomas’s pipe trembled in his hand. “To protect them from the mob. Ezekiel wrote it plainly: ’Our grandchildren will carry our names, our magic ... and our secret.’” He met their gaze, raw. “You carry it now.”
Robin traced Ash’s wobbly signature. He had Calvin’s laugh, Charity’s memory whispered through Robin’s mind. Robin gasped softly, leaning into Marian. “Hope drew this.” She pointed to a lopsided pentacle. “Grandma Mercy taught her sigils.” Robin’s fingers tightened on hers. Marian pressed Robin’s palm to her cheek, tears hot. “They lived,”
Marian flipped to the last page—Hope’s handwriting, now a teenager’s tight script: “Mama Mercy told us the truth today. We cried. Ash punched the oak tree till his knuckles bled. Then we hugged. Real parents loved us enough to burn.” Robin’s thumb brushed the ink smudge beneath the words—a tearstain, centuries old. Marian pressed her cheek to his shoulder, her own tears dampening his shirt. They never knew them, she thought, and Robin’s arms tightened around her. Only ashes.
Thomas cleared his throat, rough with emotion. “Hope and Ash lived together in Boston. Never married.” He tapped Ezekiel’s journal entry—1699. “They share a bedchamber. Tend the herb garden side by side. Hope braids Ash’s hair each dawn.” Robin traced the words, his voice thick. “Like us.” Marian kissed his jaw, tasting salt. “Like Calvin and Charity.”
Marian opened Hope’s diary to a pressed willow leaf. The ink bled slightly: “Ash kissed me tonight beneath the willow where Mama hid her secrets. His hands trembled. Mine didn’t.” Robin’s fingers tightened on Marian’s waist.
“They found each other,” Marian whispered, tracing the words. Robin nuzzled her neck. Just like us.
Thomas cleared his throat gently. “Hope bore three children.” He flipped Hope’s diary to a pressed violet. “Ash never wed. He raised them as his own.” Robin’s breath warmed Marian’s ear. “Because he was theirs.” Marian nodded, leaning into him. “Their parents’ love ... it wasn’t cursed. It was sacred.”
> I decide to confront Dad about his secrecy, demanding to know why he withheld our lineage’s truth and how we’re recalling memories of Hope and Ash—memories that clearly extend beyond our own deaths.
Thomas Hawthorne flinches as you slam Calvin’s journal onto his desk, the crack of leather against oak echoing sharply in the pipe-scented study. Ash’s crayon drawing of Hope flutters to the floor. “Why?” Your voice trembles with ancestral fury—Charity’s rage at betrayal blending with your own. “Three hundred years of lies, Dad. Ash’s knuckles bleeding against that oak tree? Hope crying over Mercy’s confession?”
Robin’s fingers lace through yours, anchoring you. His thumb strokes your pulse point—steady, Mari—as Calvin’s protective instincts surge through his touch. Thomas staggers back, pipe clattering onto Ezekiel’s ledger. “I tried to tell you when you turned eighteen,” he rasps, eyes fixed on the twin serpent seal. “But every time I opened Mercy’s journal...” He sinks into his chair, aged decades in seconds.
“Hope’s diary burned in my hands,” Thomas whispers, trembling fingers miming flames. “Charity’s grimoire bled ink like tears. The magic ... it resisted me. Only you could wake it.” He gestures weakly at the oilcloth-wrapped journals. “Ash’s grief ... Hope’s longing ... they’d have shattered you before Samhain.” Robin steps forward, looming over the desk. “We felt Ash’s knuckles break against that oak,” he snarls, Charity’s fury roughening his voice.
Marian presses against Robin’s back, her palm splayed possessively over his pounding heart. Ask him about the willow grove, she pulses into his mind. Robin’s hand covers hers, squeezing. “Hope buried something else beside Mama’s box,” he demands. “What was it?” Thomas flinches. “Charity’s ... she kept a lock of Calvin’s hair.” His gaze drops to Marian’s throat. “Braided with hers. For the binding ritual.” Robin whirls, clutching Marian’s shoulders. Her hair, their minds sync. His scent.
Marian yanks the silver ribbon from her braid, chestnut waves tumbling down her back. Robin’s knife flashes—a quick slice, her fist closing around the severed strands. She grabs his collar, shearing a thick curl from his nape. Thomas watches, tears silent, as Marian weaves them together—dark and light—her fingers trembling with Calvin’s muscle memory. Robin presses his lips to her temple. Now the blood.
Marian bites her thumb. Robin mirrors her, crimson beading. They press bleeding thumbs against the braid—hers atop Charity’s hair, his atop Calvin’s. The plait pulses like a live thing. “Bind us as they were bound,” Marian whispers. Robin seals the oath with a kiss, iron and salt on their tongues. The journals flare—brief, searing light—then settle.
Thomas reaches out, hesitates. “The willow grove. Tonight?” Robin tucks the bloodied braid into Marian’s pocket, his knuckles grazing her hipbone. “We go now.” His thumb traces her lower lip.
Marian nods, turning toward the study door. Thomas’s voice cracks behind them: “The hair ... Charity used it to channel Calvin’s spirit during childbirth.” Robin freezes. Marian grips his hand. She died with his scent in her fist, their minds whisper.
Outside, October air bites their cheeks. Sophia and Merlin pads after them, tails high. Robin kicks wet leaves aside at the willow grove’s edge. “Here,” Marian breathes, Calvin’s certainty guiding her steps to the gnarled roots where moonlight once silvered Charity’s skin. Robin drops to his knees, clawing at loam until his nails scrape lead. The box is smaller than Mercy’s—charred, sealed with twin serpent sigils.
Robin presses Marian’s bleeding thumb against one serpent, his against the other. Blood calls blood, Calvin’s voice rasps in their minds. The lock clicks. Inside, coiled like a sleeping adder, lies a braid—dark hair streaked with russet gold, identical to Marian’s pocketed oath. Beneath it, brittle parchment unfurls Charity’s elegant script: “For Hope and Ash. Know your parents loved with a fierceness that scorned heaven.”
Marian lifts the braid. Charity’s scent—lavender and sweat—floods her senses. Robin’s fingers trace the parchment edge. “She err ... I wrote this after ... after they took them.” Marian nods, pressing the hair to her cheek. Charity wept as she sealed this, Robin’s thoughts whisper. I knew they’d never read it.
Robin slides his hand beneath Marian’s crimson hoodie, fingers skating up her spine. “She hid her grief here,” he murmurs, thumb pressing the dip between her shoulder blades where Charity’s teeth had marked Calvin. Marian shivers, arching into him. “Show me,” she breathes. Robin’s mind surges—Charity’s fingers clawing earth as Calvin took her from behind, their tears mingling with the willow roots.
Marian gasps as Robin’s telepathic vision floods her senses: Charity’s trembling hands wrapping Calvin’s severed braid around her own bloodied locks. “Let them feel this,” she sobbed to the moon. “Let our children know this ache.” Robin’s teeth graze Marian’s pulse point. “She buried their passion so Ash and Hope could taste it.”
Marian uncoils the ancient braid, its strands whispering against her skin like dry leaves. “We’ll weave this into our ritual cord for Samhain,” she murmurs, pressing it to Robin’s lips. He sucks her fingertip where blood still wells. “Charity’s grief...” he rasps, “ ... it’s ours now.”
Robin slides Charity’s ritual dagger from the lead box. Moonlight glints along the curved blade—etched with runes Marian remembers from Calvin’s memories. “She used this to cut their hair,” Robin realizes, turning the hilt toward Marian. “And their wrists.” His thumb traces the serpentine groove where blood would channel. Marian shivers as Calvin’s memory surfaces: Charity’s hand steady as she sliced their palms before the Binding. “Blood of my blood,” she’d whispered. “Soul of my soul.”
Marian takes the dagger, pressing the cool metal to Robin’s palm. “Do it.” Her voice is low, urgent. “Like they did.” Robin’s eyes darken—part arousal, part ancestral compulsion. He draws the blade across her skin in one fluid motion. Crimson beads. “Yours,” he breathes. Marian mirrors the cut on his palm, deeper than intended. Robin gasps, his free hand tangling in her hair. “Now bind us.”
Their bleeding palms clasp. The braid coils around their joined hands like a living serpent. Magic surges—hot and electric—as Charity’s grief and Calvin’s defiance flood their veins. Robin slams Marian against the willow trunk, his mouth claiming hers with bruising force. She tastes iron, earth, and centuries of longing. “Inside me,” she demands against his lips. “Now. Where she buried their pain.”
Robin tears at her jeans, fingers slipping into damp lace. “Not your pussy,” he growls, channeling Charity’s possessive fury. “This belongs to Samhain.” His thumb circles her clit through the fabric. Marian whimpers, grinding against him. “Then my ass. Or my throat. Fuck me like they did when the mob came—”
He spins her, shoving her jeans to her knees. The willow bark scrapes her palms. Robin spits onto his fingers, slicking her tight hole. “Charity took him here,” he breathes against her ear, pressing one finger deep. Marian arches, crying out as Charity’s memory merges with hers: Charity’s scream as Calvin entered her anally against this very tree, the torchlight flickering through the leaves.
“Tell me you want it,” Robin demands, adding a second finger, stretching her. His other hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back. “Tell me how you fucked her.”
Marian moans, the words ripped from her—Calvin’s memory, Charity’s desperation. “I took her ... against the tree ... while they sharpened the stakes!” Robin’s cock presses against her entrance, thick and insistent. He doesn’t ease in; he slams home in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Marian screams, the pain-pleasure echoing Charity’s centuries-old cry. The willow grove shudders around them, leaves raining down like embers.
“Harder,” Marian gasps, pushing back against him. “Like he did—when she begged for the pain to make her forget the flames!” Robin obeys, his hips pistoning, each thrust driving her ribs against the bark. His hand snakes around her throat, not choking, but claiming—Calvin’s grip on Charity. “Whose?” he snarls into her ear, breath hot.
“Yours!” Marian cries out, tears blurring the willow roots. “Always yours, brother!” Robin’s free hand slips beneath her hoodie, pinching her nipple sharply—Charity’s remembered bite. Marian arches, clenching around him, triggering Robin’s ragged groan. “Now, Mari!” he commands telepathically, their minds fusing. “Show me how I came for you!”
Marian’s vision fractures—Calvin’s desperate thrusts into Charity’s body, her whimpers blending with the mob’s jeers outside the grove. Robin’s rhythm falters as the past overwhelms him. “She was ... tightening...” he gasps, hips stuttering. “Charity was close—” Marian slams backward onto him, forcing him deeper. “Then finish like he did!” she screams. Robin’s roar shakes the leaves as he spills inside her, his teeth sinking into her shoulder—mirroring Calvin’s final claiming bite. Charity’s ecstatic sob echoes through Marian’s mind as she shatters, wetness soaking her thighs.
They collapse against the willow, panting. Robin’s fingers trace the fresh bite mark. “He branded her,” he murmurs, kissing the bloodied skin. Marian twists in his arms, pressing their foreheads together. “So they’d know she was his in the flames.” Distant torchlight flickers at the edge of her vision—memory or omen? Robin’s hand tightens on her waist. “They’re coming.” His whisper is Charity’s terror. Marian grips the ritual dagger still clutched in her hand. “Not this time.”
Robin pulls her behind the thickest willow trunk, his palm still bleeding onto her jeans. “Hide the braid,” he urges. Marian stuffs the hair relic into her hoodie pocket just as shouting echoes through the grove—angry voices weaving with Calvin’s fragmented memories: “Abominations!” “Burn the witches!” Robin’s breath hitches. “Charity begged him to run. He refused.” Marian presses closer, her lips against his ear. “Because leaving her was worse than fire.” She feels Robin shudder, tears mingling with rain on his cheek.
Draco steps forward, shielding them with his body. “They’re memories,” Robin insists, but Marian shakes her head, dagger raised. “No. Listen.” Footsteps crunch wet leaves—too real, too now. A torch flares between the trees, illuminating Thomas’s pale face. “Children?” he calls, voice trembling. Behind him, Sophia paces, fur bristling. Merlin’s low growl vibrates the air.
Marian lowers the dagger slowly. “Dad?” Robin steps out, pulling Marian against him. “What are you doing here?” Thomas’s eyes dart to Marian’s torn jeans, the fresh blood on Robin’s palm. “Sophia led me. She was ... frantic.” He gestures to the willow trunk where Robin’s thrusts scraped bark raw. “I felt it—Charity’s terror.” He staggers, leaning on the tree. “And Calvin’s rage.”
Draco emerges from the shadows—a spectral figure with Calvin’s storm-grey eyes and Charity’s russet hair. Thomas gasps. “Ash?” Draco shakes his head, placing a translucent hand on Marian’s bleeding shoulder. “I guarded them,” he murmurs, voice echoing like wind through leaves. “When Hope buried Mother’s box.” Robin reaches out, his fingers passing through Draco’s arm. “You’re not Ash.” Draco smiles sadly. “I’m the willow’s grief. The earth remembers.”
> I decide to demand Draco reveal his true nature—whether he’s a ghost, a memory made flesh, or the willow’s spirit—and why he bears our ancestors’ blended features.
Draco’s form flickers like candle smoke as you demand answers, the willow grove suddenly hushed except for Sophia’s low whine. Rain drips from leaves onto his spectral shoulders, sizzling where it touches his translucent skin. “True nature?” His voice fractures—Calvin’s gravel tones layered over Charity’s melodic lilt. “I am the grove’s memory of their last embrace.” He gestures to the scarred bark where Robin took you moments ago. “When Calvin spilled inside her against this tree, his seed mixed with her blood in the earth. I grew from that.”
Thomas staggers backward. “A spirit born of ... of that?” Draco’s ghostly fingers brush your bleeding shoulder—the bite mirroring Charity’s wound. “Their passion became my roots. Their terror my sap.” Robin steps forward, his palm still dripping blood onto moss. “Why show our faces?” Draco’s features ripple—settling into Ash’s stubborn jawline overlaid with Hope’s wide eyes. “Because they dreamt you here tonight,” he whispers. “While you reenacted their violation, Calvin and Charity poured their memories into me. To warn you.”
Marian grips Robin’s arm. “Warn us of what?” Draco dissolves into mist, reforming as a gaunt man in Puritan garb—Ezekiel Hawthorne. “The curse lives,” he rasps with Ezekiel’s voice. “Calvin’s final act was not love—it was vengeance.” The spectral form shifts again, showing Calvin’s face contorted in agony as flames lick his legs. “Accursed be your seed... ” Calvin’s scream tears from Draco’s throat. “ ... as mine is burned!”
Robin staggers. “He cursed ... his own betrothed?” Draco solidifies, rain slicking his hair like blood. “Both betrotheds,” he corrects. “Charity’s suitor Samuel accused them; Calvin’s fiancée Mary, held the torch that lit Charity’s pyre.” Thomas gasps. “The fertility curse...?” Draco nods grimly. “Calvin screamed it as Samuel raped Charity before the burning. ‘May your wombs shrivel and your cocks wither!’”