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June.
That voice, like a deep, distorted echo of her own, calls out to her, every day, all day. Like a caress against her ear, a whisper on the wind, a distant cry from somewhere far away. Begging for a reply - begging for a greeting, a slip of the tongue, a careless utterance of her name back.
Enchantress. Say my name. Call it back to me. Set me free.
But June resists.
She covers the mirrors, avoids reflections, steers clear of any window where a face not her own could look back at her, look deep within her and conjure to mind all the worst desires of her heart - all the dark temptations and all the wild nightmares, the bone-chilling horrors that might make her cave of offering wants won't do the trick.
June.
The witch will do whatever it takes. She called to June before June even memorized her own name, called to June before she even knew what she wanted in life, called to June before June even knew where she was going - directing, guiding, leading June right to where she wanted her, where she could infect her, invade her, possess her. The witch is in her very veins, coursing through and calling, her voice an echo inside June's own skull.
"Enchantress."
Every time she caves, whispers back, says that wretched name, it's a horror show. Visions of what came before, visions of what could come again - and it is worse than June's worst nightmares, the things that the witch seeks.
But Enchantress comes with a tender touch, a grateful stroke of her fingers against June's - thank you, child, she says before she is speaking through June again - and sometimes, the worst times, June craves that split second in-between, that one brief moment where they both exist and yet don't, caught between forms where both are almost tangible and neither one is in control.
June, she whispers then, her tongue not yet June's tongue, stay with me, child, let me give you a taste.
And June sees, hears, feels through Enchantress, senses the magic pulsating through her body, feels the burn of teleportation, smells the bitter smoke of crossing over through the darkness of where Enchantress' soul resides. When Enchantress speaks with June's tongue, she tastes the history of words she knows but doesn't understand.
Enchantress, she begs, screams, pleads, tries so hard to say it with her own tongue, form the name with her own lips.
But the witch only smiles June's smile. "Oh, June, dear child, we have only begun."