Only Love and Mourning Transcends Universes - English Version
Several parallel universes populate this world. No one understands the usefulness and the function of these universes, nevertheless all witches aware of its existence understand the principle.
Relatively simple, that principle. The main structure, the basic elements of the worlds, remain unchanged: places, individuals, circumstances, eras, fauna, flora and personalities. Only specific factors fluctuate. These variants are physical appearance, significant life choices and sometimes names as they reflect the individual paths chosen by individuals. How many of these parallel worlds exist? The general supposition is two repetitions, but we must not exclude the possibility of an indefinite, infinite number. In this case, it means two Cackle's Academy.
Admittedly, these parallel universes are perfectly mastered to witches who maintain their relations and preserve communication whirlpool. These witches make sure that nothing is exceeding or trespassing these worlds, except courteous greetings and information sharing. It is recommended to reduce acquaintances to the minimum, for logical reasons. Isn't the situation too peculiar, being able to face alter-egos? Better to indorse a detached relationship, a distant knowing, in respective universes. Especially if, occasionally through deep abysses or high atmosphere, the alter-ego manages to feel the other's sentiment, torment or euphory. Identical twins, at a distance, vaguely.
Despite range between assemblies, an unconditional solidarity exists, without being able to manifest itself on a regular basis.
From hollow, in the darkness of the night, inevitable mourning is prompting gatherings between the two parallels universes. An uncomfortable foreboding invades Hecate's mind, as if a sinister voice had screamed away, in unreachable dimensions.
Earlier in the evening, Ada Cackle received an unexpected, categorized message of utmost importance from Amelia Cackle. A teacher has just passed away, result of a long and incurable disease, Imogen Drill. Amelia requests the presence of both Headmistress and DeputyHead, for diplomatic generalities, to shield the body with a protective spell, but mainly to present their sympathies to Constance Hardbroom in this cruel moment of torment. Ada preferred not to inform Dimity Drill. More suitable to announce the death of her alter-ego in the security of a peaceful morning rather than in the middle of a heart-rending night. Besides, she may already suspect...
Restricted in time and place, the lone passageway allowing parallel universe travelling respects the lunar cycle, follows the deep roots. The perfect roundness of a full moon remains, to this day, the only way able to bring together the parallel worlds. From the instant the white reflection of the Midnight Moon reaches the surface of a precise point, the passage opens, and it closes at the last moonshine. This specific point, in the case of Cackle's Academy, is a gigantic ancestral oak rooted profoundly in the earth. In the misfortune of death, the fortuned usefulness of the full moon.
On this baneful evening, Hecate Hardbroom and Ada Cackle stand at the meeting point under the shadow of the old-aged oak, patiently waiting, heavy-hearted, for the arrival of the Moon. The saddened couple wear their official uniform, with their long-embroidered capes and witchy hats. Brooms aren't necessary as they do not travel by the airways.
The moonlight caresses the highest branches of the tree which triggers the access to the parallel world. Within a second faster than light, Ada and Hecate pass through the other side. All is calm, habitual, similar. They do not seem to have traveled under the Moon's operation, and yet here they are, in foreign territory, far off. The world where Imogen Drill has died.
Time is not conducive to comparisons, observations, or astonishments. Time is limited and grieved. Admittedly, at first glance, everything seems identical. But Ada and Hecate will soon have reason to remember that they are not at home, in their corresponding dimensions. With grace and contrition, bearing in them a deep sympathy for their sisters, they walk in the cold darkness of the night to the front doors of the school.
In distant memory, years ago, when Imogen Drill's hourglass had not poured out all its grains of sand, there had been conflicts between the two Cackle's Academy regarding relationships between teachers. On one hand, Constance and Imogen were admonished for maintaining a forbidden union between human and witch. On the other hand, Ada and Hecate were criticized for nurturing a love between director and subordinate. In the opinion of many, these relationships dishonored the witch's code. All this is ancient history, in exchange of mutual approval and lessened regulations, scandals have been avoided and relationships maintained.
Their quick steps create crunching noises on the pebbles, announcing their arrival in the main alley. They do not have much time.
Amelia Cackle, despite the late hour, remains dressed in her usual clothing. She is already standing in the doorway, offering a gloomy smile, too bothered by grief to feel uncomfortable in front of Ada, her alter-ego. Ada, meanwhile, cannot help being stunned by seeing her own, unalike bearing, self. This sensation is dispelled quickly when she has the presence of mind to take the hands of Amelia in hers and murmur her condolences for the death of Miss Drill.
Hecate Hardbroom remains stoical, vividly aware of the unveiling portrait: her alter-ego, Constance, experiencing the most painful emotion possible: the loss of better-half. She dreads this moment, their reunion, while needing to see it happen in order to help her fellow sister. Will Hecate find the appropriate words?
As they walk through the approximately familiar corridors, despite the novel perfumes and the dissimilar atmosphere, Ada Cackle and Hecate Hardbroom meet Davina Bat, dressed in a long tenebrous dress, handkerchiefs gripped tightly in her hands, some already sunk in her sleeves. Her shoulders stagger with grief. Without speaking to them, Davina throws herself into Ada's arms, then into Hecate's arms. Her fragile frame is a reminder of a warm breeze.
Amelia explains to the sympathetic witches that Imogen's death was imminent, certainly, but they had not expected her death today. Death invited her in the arms of eternity sooner than hoped. Under the despairing look of the visitors, Amelia deepens her elucidation. Constance and Imogen slept together, lovingly but distressed by illness, to the rhythm of Imogen's difficult breathing. Constance pressed the palm of her hand between Imogen's breasts to accompany the beating of her heart until, suddenly, Imogen's chest no longer swelled, did not move, and emptied.
Amelia isn't able to describe the cry that escaped Constance Hardbroom's chest. It was of an everlasting terror. As a result, the students had to receive an oblivion spell to erase such a level of pain from their memory.
The four witches walk together, hurried. Here they meet in front of the heavy wooden door of the deceased's bedroom. On the other side reverberate the cries of Constance Hardbroom, undoubtedly cowering before the body of her beloved. With all the precaution available and respect imaginable, Amelia gently strikes her knuckles on the closed door, announcing the presence of their sisters from across the universes.
It takes a few seconds before the door is being magically unlocked. Amelia slowly pushes the door and reveals the contrite silhouette of Constance Hardbroom, standing next to the bed, involuntarily hiding Imogen's body from other's eyes. Her beautifully long hair cascades over her purple silk pajamas. There are spots of sponged tears on her blouse, tears sparkling on her cheeks and nascent tears accumulating in her puffy eyes. Her cheeks are of a doomed pink and her skin of unequaled whiteness.
The atmosphere is appallingly rueful. Constance's tensed face does not manage to repress the raining tears. She grimaces, trying to hide her mouth with a trembling hand, but does not succeed. Usually formal, proud and haughty, Constance looks like a little sister seeking out comfort that only Hecate can offer.
Without permission, without rationality, Hecate rushes to her alter-ego. Recognized for having an aversion to any marks of affection and all forms of touch, Constance Hardbroom and Hecate Hardbroom cling to each other as if they are trying to merge into one person. Constance hides her face against Hecate's cloak, where she begins to cry again. Shouts of thunderstorms, electrical thunderbolts. Her trembling fingers print on the fabric covering Hecate's shoulders and she holds it firmly with a level of composure equal to her pain. With the help of her robust heart, Hecate embraces Constance with all her strength, their arms intertwined through Constance's damp hair. Constance utters lamentations that resonate in the firmament. Under the weight of such sorrow, Hecate cannot control the redness from forming in her darkened eyes.
The embrace lasts several minutes. Meanwhile, neither Amelia, nor Davina, nor Ada dare to move. Imogen's body is still there, behind, and she needs a proper ritual worthy of the witches' code, no matter if Imogen was a witch or not. The love shared between her and Constance contained all imaginable magic and must be preserved.
Clutching a weakened Constance against her thin body, Hecate decides that it is better for them to move away slightly, in order to make way for the three witches in the room. They must access the body.
Disease has damaged her complexion, death has removed all animation in her body. Still, Imogen Drill looks peaceful. What lacks most of all is her enigmatic smile and contagious enthusiasm.
Three witches are sufficient for casting protect spells on Imogen's body before the funeral. At a distance of only a few steps, in a remote corner of the room, Constance, who hides her face against the fabric of Hecate's cloak, lets herself be lulled by the melodious chants paying homage to her lover.
Hecate, from her position, gets a perfect view of the scene of the witches formulating their incantation. Everything is a mixture of colorful mountains, multicolored waves, temperate mists. Hecate particularly pays attention to Ada's movements, resplendent and perfect. Somewhere in her being, Hecate feels guilty for enjoying life at her lover's side while hugging her bereaved alter-ego.
Constance calms down and her breathing resumes at a normal rhythm. Her long hair has damped against her moist cheeks. Her red nose is boiling. She heads up and looks at Hecate directly in the eyes. Can they change the course of time? Can they travel in the forbidden? Can they implore superior forces to create an additional parallel world where Imogen would still be alive? Even if it was possible, it would not be the Imogen that Constance loved, it would be an alter-ego without memories and ready to learn everything about life, anew.
That's what Hecate carefully attempts to explain to Constance, weighing every word, while sliding Constance's hair behind her ears. With a reassuring cadence, Hecate rubs Constance's shoulders, trying to calm her frantic heart and dry her tears.
Hecate fills her sister's mind with comforting depictions, sweet words, philosophical quotes, while kissing her forehead. Hecate promises to share her suffering, to carry in her own self a piece of grief that transcends dimensions. Hecate promises her that she is not alone, that she is surrounded by solidarity and sisterhood, certainly different from romantic love, but undeniably present and robust.
Following this promise, Constance finds the strength to turn around and face the still body of Imogen, now protected by colorful spells. The blonde's figure is peaceful, angelic, dressed in ceremonial clothing. She is ready for an official memorial. This portrait only confirms the irreparable.
Grateful, Constance gently leaves the arms of Hecate and takes a few steps towards the bed, to find her sisters and their condolences. Ada holds out her hand, fingertips Constance's wrist as a sign of her affection.
Exhausted, drained of all energy, Constance kneels, still barefoot, in front of Imogen.
Amelia understands that it is time to leave them to their intimacy, the body now being under the protection of magic, intact, by the next day.
In any case, the rays of the full moon are about to leave the big oak tree. It was clear since the beginning that the guests could unfortunately not attend to the funeral. The inter-dimensional passage will close. Ada and Hecate say goodbye with contrition to their alter-egos and Miss Bat, before returning to the outside.
Ada and Hecate carry with them the distressing memory of sorrow, but Hecate carries with it a greater weight. The shared grief of her Constance.
The short path to the ancestral oak is so painful, Hecate is convinced that all the bones in her body are broken. Vertiginous, she takes Ada's hand in her own before positioning themselves in front of the tree. The Moon will soon abandon its lunar reflection. They enter the passage and are, simply, back home, in their own dimension.
Hecate wants to cry. She represses gasps that collide in her throat. Without even looking at Ada, Hecate snaps her fingers and transfers them both directly into the Headmistress' room.
Hecate has always loved being in Ada's room. But tonight, she does not see things with the same lightness. In front of the familiarity, surrounded by Ada's particularities, Hecate's face tenses and grimaces, just like Constance did. Having in commemoration all the complaints of her sister, Hecate has a counterattack. Inconsolable, Hecate claims the arms of her own beloved. Ada, taken by surprise, willingly welcomes the thin silhouette.
How can one imagine living in any universe without sharing it with the love of one's life? How to consider owning a functional body with an irreparable cavity instead of a heart? A miserably normal, humdrum existence without the slightest mention of Ada? How is such a world possible? And yet, it will happen.
Higher forces might not bring Imogen back, yet they seize Hecate to the core. She embraces Ada with infinite despair and powerful fury. Hecate does not know how to handle this shared grief, this parcel of Constance, so she tries to transfer this dark energy into an explosion of love.
Hecate applies fervent, pleasant, wet kisses without precision to Ada's lips, against her cheeks, on her chin, along her neck. With her skillful and delicate hands, Hecate removes their cloaks and hats without interrupting her kisses.
Ada is guided to the bed. They lie down, Hecate hovering over her, prolonging her caresses and embraces. They undress completely, quickly, almost unsightly, roughly. Hecate surprises herself, gasping, groaning eagerly. Their bodies are still cold, witnesses of the night, auditors of mourning, the skin strewn with shivers that quickly find heat.
Their tongues intertwine, their lips are nibbled, their hips hurry. The soft hands of Ada arise on the buttocks of her lover, encouraging her to spread her legs wider. Her pubis slides on the skin of her plump thigh. Ada encourages Hecate's hips to rock, back and forth, from right to left, and moans with pleasure as Hecate's folds are moist and warms against her skin. The bun of Hecate is undone by the force of their friction. Her hair falls around them, forming a wall of intimacy. Ada moans louder each time Hecate's sex is pressed tightly against her.
Ada is here, with her, in the present, in this dimension. Hecate is drunk with this thought, this thankfully indisputable reality. Why does she still dread, why the shadow of desperation? Why is she asking for more, more, more? Arousal, anticipation, remorse, sadness, warmth.
Hurriedly, her moans turn into complaints. Ada recognizes these signs, these appreciative hints, she venerates them. She takes the opportunity to slip her hand down between the thighs of Hecate and offers her two fingers to reach the center of her love. Filled with pleasure, Hecate comes and flutters strongly against Ada's fingers. Her boney hips dance, her belly tightens, and, bottomless in her throat, Hecate growls, grows the cry of Constance's mourning, this time altered as a tribute to life.
Hecate's eagerness does not end. Intoxicated with want, Hecate slips, clumsily but certainly, a hand between the boiling legs of her lover and puts her palm flat against Ada's folds, sharing additional heat, and creates circular friction. The witches compliment, encourage, cherish each other. The stimulation reaches its crowning. Ada, still relishing the wet sex of Hecate against her thigh, lets out a whimper of ecstasy as she comes.
The ardor dissipated, the sharp pain of mourning now mended, Ada and Hecate become moderated, breathe slowly, with relaxation.
The tears have a will of their own, since they flow down Hecate's cheeks and wet Ada's shoulder. Through Constance's mourning, Hecate visualizes their eventual separation. What nature will be the cause? What temporal length separate them from the inevitable?
Ada, who needs to be able to look into Hecate's eyes, gently pushes the interminable lock of hair away from her face and ties her hair with success.
Frozen in spacetime, savoring every thousandth of milliseconds that pass, Ada and Hecate look lovingly at each other, with a shared tenderness, almost nostalgic for the future. The night disappears and gives way to dawn, in addition to slumber mixed with sadness.
They have time, Ada promises it. Plenty of time together. Hecate nods frantically, almost desperately.
What is important is to fill this gap between the here and the inevitable. They will continue to fulfill this life with richness and extraordinary moments. In tribute to Constance's grief, they will swindler eternity by being faithful to their destiny, by accepting their fate. Their love will nourish at a distance the heart of Constance Hardbroom and foster its immeasurable emptiness.