I Will Always Find You, page 2
“And who makes that distinction?”
“We do,” the three countenances of the goddess, Maiden, Mother, and Crone, stated. The architect of witchcraft showed how easily and quickly her face could switch between them, as their voices sounded in unison. “It is our power, our right.”
“My cause—is just,” the Romani witch stammered, bitter, angry, and exhausted.
“Is it? We shall see.”
“So—you will help me?”
Hecate paused for a moment before answering the weary young mortal. She sniffed the night air around Vesuvius, noting its thickness due to the noxious hot vapour seeping out from the ground. She snickered, for the disturbed mountain was not all her nose could sense.
“Vesuvius is angry, but that petulance is not all I detect. I also smell your desperation hanging heavy in the air as plainly as I see in your mind’s eye the attempt earlier to call upon another to help in this time of need—or is it desire? That distinction is essential, but I will speak on that in a moment.
“Allow me to explain why the great god of hate and vengeance, the god of shadow and secrecy, has ignored your pleas. He is a broken god, with a heart turned cold from a true love—a fated love—denied. He will hear no more requests from mortals. He cares for nothing and no one, consumed solely by the memory of his great lost love, whose absence haunts his every moment.
“I came because you intrigue me, young witch. I know what those fearful, ignorant fools did to your great love. But unlike poor Olympius, god of heartache and impotence, your suffering has driven you to action! A deep desire to rain fire and retribution down upon the witch-killers of Pompeii! But you need the power of a god to complete this act of revenge—”
“Justice!” the Romani witch cried out, interrupting the goddess. “Not—not just revenge. I see now that calling it that lessens the weight of their crime. Aeneas and I were more than wronged. He—he was—what they did to my poor, innocent, beautiful—” But the Romani witch had no strength left in his mortal body to speak condemnations or explain his cause of righteousness. “I—I am out of time. Will you help me—or not?”
The bold question from an exasperated young man was barely audible, little more than a wheeze but not yet a death rattle.
“All magic has a price, witch-boy. The power you desire to accomplish such a feat as this!” Hecate lifted her arm and pointed toward Vesuvius, her vibrant sashes illuminating it from base to peak. “The eruption of this mountain’s simmering fury, the desire for destruction on such a level, will come at a steep price.”
“I will pay anything. Take—take my blood.”
“I am no blood-drinker, witch-boy! I am magic incarnate! You are so quick to give up everything for love. But what if the price is to lose that love forever, to never see Aeneas again?”
“What—what do you mean? We–” But no more words would come out. His breath was too shallow; his vitality spent; he was near death.
The witch-goddess observed that the lingering spark of determination within the young mortal had all but flickered out. She recognized that he could no longer sustain himself without her assistance.
And so Hecate bent closer to the mortal, her voice a melodic whisper weaving through the air as she cast an enchantment. A gentle breath, soft as the morning mist, escaped red lips, her mouth again that of The Maiden, and washed over the Romani witch’s body like warm water, infusing him with strength.
Almost immediately, a vibrant surge of vitality flowed through him, reinvigorating his tired limbs and uplifting his spirit.
Hecate withheld her magical energy from his spell, however, choosing not to amplify its effects just yet; whether to join forces for that task remained to be determined.
“Thank you,” the Romani witch expressed with renewed vigour, his dark eyes sparkling with sincerity.
“That was as much for me as for you. I wish to discuss your situation further without all the wheezing—and dying.” Hecate smirked as she gracefully floated a few steps back to her original spot. “Still, that shall be the first and last time I grant you my power freely.”
The Romani witch nodded his understanding.
“How can you say Aeneas and I shall never meet again, witch-goddess?! We will be reunited in Paradise! I know this! Along my journey to that land, as a spirit, I will first visit meaningful points from my mortal life, pausing at each location to connect with the memories of those places, as is the Romani belief, our tradition, our truth. And eventually, I will arrive at my eternal resting place—with Aeneas, in Paradise.”
“No, you shall not,” Hecate declared, her voice low and serious.
Again, she glided effortlessly across the ground, back closer to the young witch, and began to dance. With each graceful movement, the sashes of her flowing garment unfurled, swirling and twirling as if caught in a gentle breeze. Their bold colours—deep purples, fiery reds, and striking golds—intermingled and danced in a mesmerizing display, drawing the Romani witch into a trance.
“Behold your destiny should I lend my power to your quest for destruction,” she sang, her eyes glinting with ancient knowledge and a hint of mischief.
As the Romani witch peered intently into the swirling tempest of brilliant light and vibrant colour, he was swept away on a mesmerizing vision quest, transported deep into the realm of the future. The vivid hues whirled around him, crackling with energy, as shapes began to form, revealing fragments of what was yet to come. Each flicker and flash painted a tapestry of possibilities, drawing him further into the enigmatic journey of the one he was destined to experience.
And when that future was shown to him, he saw the truth of Hecate’s dark prophecy. And he shuddered in horror.
Near tears, the Romani witch’s voice trembled as he struggled to hold back the wave of emotion threatening to crush him. “No, witch-goddess, that cannot be our fate!” he shouted, pulling free of the vision.
“If you destroy Pompeii in pursuit of immense death and destruction, you must consider that one life and one love are measured against thousands of lives and loves. The guilty exist, yes—and so do the innocent, though you cling to the belief there are none.
“Do you truly believe the Scales of Justice would balance? No, little witch, and as a consequence, my kin, The Fates, will forever separate your threads and cast you into the underworld to wander forever, a purposeless spirit. Aeneas will be lost to you. That is the price for revenge on this scale. Tell me, are you still willing to pay anything for my magic?”
The Romani witch found himself lost in thought. He could almost breathe in the sweet, enchanting scent of Aeneas’ vibrant red hair, which reminded him of warm honey, the memory of it so robust. He recalled the contrast of his beloved’s skin, rough in places like the bark of olive trees yet soft and inviting in others, an exquisite blend of strength and suppleness. When their bodies intertwined in erotic passion, it ignited a fire that always felt both tender and fierce.
Hecate watched intently in the bright light of Luna’s moon as the distraught Romani witch slowly rose from the ground, withdrawing his hands from the dark soil of Vesuvius. Some earth clung to his fingers, but the power of his spell, along with his hope for justice, like the dirt, gradually crumbled and fell away.
“While I must face my inevitable death with shame for not avenging my beloved,” the Romani witch declared with deep sadness, “I find solace in knowing we shall now meet in Paradise and be together, always.”
“Regretfully, my poor witch-boy, that is still not meant to be.”
Hecate’s voice held a cold, unyielding tone, devoid of any warmth or compassion, yet beneath the surface, a flicker of sorrow played at the edges of her heart as she delivered the crushing news. The moonlight caught the shadows on her high cheekbones, highlighting the conflict within her, even as her expression remained stoically indifferent. She was a goddess, not a monster, after all.
“The Wheel of Destiny works against you.”
BRITANNIA 4th Century
COASTAL DEVONSHIRE
TOWERING red sandstone cliffs rose majestically above the shoreline surrounding the quaint coastal village in Devonshire. Dramatic sea views unfolded from the rugged crags and jagged outcrops that dotted the landscape, revealing a vast expanse of azure waters crashing rhythmically against the coarse, pebbled beach below. The interplay of bright sunlight and vibrant cliffs created a breathtaking panorama that captivated all the residents who took the time to gaze upon it.
After a long day of fishing, the hardworking, hungry, and thirsty men gathered at the heart of their village: Gian’s Tavern. The warm glow of flickering lanterns created an inviting ambiance, drawing in locals and travellers alike, though strangers were few and far between. Inside, the place buzzed with laughter and the clinking of mugs, a typical atmosphere.
At the center of it all stood Gian, the tavern’s owner. A tall, dark-haired, and robust man, he perpetually had a broad, welcoming smile upon his bearded face and a cheerful demeanour; he made it his mission to ensure that every patron felt at home in his tavern, greeting each guest with a hearty clap on the back and an enthusiastic cheer, whether he knew them or not.
With his gentle disposition and soft-spoken nature, eighteen-year-old Rufus stood by Gian’s side, helping him manage their establishment.
Orphaned as a youth, Rufus had found himself near the banks of a winding river, alone, frail, scarcely clothed, and on the brink of death when serendipity intervened and led Gian, a stranger to the Shires of Britannia, to discover him during his travels. The burly yet compassionate man took the red-headed boy under his wing. He provided his essential needs but also nurtured him with care and affection. Together, they formed a unique bond and created a makeshift family. In Gian’s eyes, Rufus was nothing less than his son.
Eventually, however, they grew tired of their nomadic lifestyle and sought a place to settle, at least for a while.
Two years prior, they stumbled upon this charming village while exploring the sun-drenched hills of Southern Britannia. The peaceful beauty of the coastal landscape, the warmth and kindness of the Devonshire locals, and the refreshing absence of Roman rule deepened their affection for the region. The decision to make the village their new home had been swift; to this day, neither of them had any plans to leave.
However, the enigmatic Wheel of Destiny often changed the course of events in ways one could hardly imagine, as it did for Rufus one stormy night.
On this tempestuous evening, a lone figure appeared in the peaceful village as thunder rumbled ominously above his head. He was a comely, dark-haired stranger, weary from incessant travel, an arduous journey that had begun three years earlier in a country much farther to the south across the Sea of the Britons. He had arrived in this foreign village seeking refuge from the relentless downpour that lashed the land.
His modest brown tunic, crafted from sturdy linen and reinforced with leather, bore the marks of someone accustomed to living in tune with nature, designed for the rigours of long journeys across rugged terrain and through thick, shadowy forests.
Despite its durability, the fabric clung heavily to his tan skin from the soaking it endured. His leather sandals, now waterlogged and weighed down, squelched softly with each strained step, for winds of uncanny strength continuously hammered him, trying to force him backward.
When the young man saw the welcoming glow of the tavern lights, he quickly made his way to the establishment and entered.
Several heads turned to see who had come in. The traveller, accustomed to unfriendliness in his travels and mistrust of others, whispered a protection spell. An invisible energy surrounded his body; it would repel any fist or blade that sought to harm him.
But the traveller should not have worried. All the eyes that fell upon him were accompanied by smiles and well wishes to enter further and remove his dripping cloak.
“Well, you are a sorry sight,” Gian laughed heartily. “By Gaia, get in here and take a seat by my fire, man. You, Tully, your large bottom has sat there long enough! Get up and give the poor traveller that seat. He needs warmth. And Rufus, get the man an ale on the house and some linens to dry himself with. My name is Gian, stranger, and welcome to my tavern.”
Taking no notice of Rufus, who busied himself fetching the ale, his head down the entire time, the traveller accepted the now vacated seat, thanking the affable, portly man for his kindness in surrendering it. As he settled in, the traveller turned his head to nod and silently expressed his gratitude to the tavern owner.
As Gian smiled back, his eyes became pools of darkness, a transformation no one else in the tavern seemed to notice. Suddenly, the traveller heard a voice speaking to him—inside his head!
“Fear not, witch of the Roma, for no one here means you harm. This tavern, this village, is a safe place for all, strangers included. I make it so. While your intricate spellwork is impressive, it is unnecessary. And though I have no desire for conflict or violence, do not mistake my amiable demeanour for softness. I will kill you without hesitation should you attempt to use your witchcraft or any form of magic to harm anyone under my protection. Understand—you cannot match my power.”
Startled by the mental intrusion and threat, the Romani witch instinctively opened his mind to connect with the still-smiling tavern owner, linking their thoughts to extract any information that could give him an advantage over his brawny host. This ability was not spellwork; this was mind-walking, an innate power he had always possessed, inherited from his grandmother, along with his ability to move objects through sheer will and intention.
But try as he might, he could not penetrate Gian’s mind, the man’s mental defences like forged iron. As a secondary attempt to gather information, he read Gian’s aura, which immediately told him that this was no ordinary tavern owner, let alone a man! And he was no witch or druid, either.
The Romani witch realized Gian was an immortal, perhaps even a god from ancient times. He had never experienced power like this or seen such vibrant colours in an aura, except when he was once in the presence of the goddess Hecate, though her aura had felt far more potent.
“I mean no one harm or ill-will, immortal,” the Romani witch whispered trepidatiously, his lips scarcely parting as he spoke. He was acutely aware that a god—if that was what Gian was—could easily catch his hushed words. “I am on a quest driven by love, a mission of the heart. For three long years, I have searched tirelessly for my beloved, and I will not rest until I find him.
“I cannot properly explain how my intuition functions, for it is a power drawn from my very blood, but I felt an inexplicable pull toward this region. And here, on this foul-tempered night, I find your village. If he is not here, I will discover that soon enough. Then, I shall savour a warm meal, enjoy the pleasure of some fine ale, and continue on my journey. Time is both my ally and my enemy.”
“I sense no treachery in your words, traveller. Please, stay as long as you like. And though I doubt you need it, child of Hecate, you are under my protection here. I hope you find what you are looking for. I know what it is to have your great love be absent from your life. It is a terrible, soul-crushing thing.”
With that final, soundless statement, the pitch-black darkness surrounding Gian’s eyes receded, quickly restoring the orbs to their previous radiant copper hue.
The Romani witch immediately noticed that those deep, rich eyes were now accompanied by a few escaped tears, reflecting the palpable sadness emanating from the immortal’s heart. By Hecate! They are tears of blood!
Unaware—or unconcerned by his notice, which the Romani witch believed was the more probable action—the immortal moved with inhuman swiftness, brushing away the shimmering scarlet tears from his cheeks. In seconds, their glistening trails vanished beneath his touch. As the last remnants of sorrow evaporated, he seamlessly transformed back into the charming, amiable figure everyone knew and loved.
As the ale flowed and the conversations in the room remained lively, the Romani witch noted that no one appeared to have caught the tavern owner’s uncanny speed or his tears made of blood. It was evident to him that the immortal had skillfully crafted this disguise of mortality to blend in, using his abilities to aid him in the endeavour.
Sensing that his intense scrutiny of Gian could draw unwanted attention, the Romani witch turned back to the warmth of the fire, where he could dry his clothes and retreat to his private thoughts.
Where are you, beloved?
“Your ale, sir,” Rufus announced cheerfully as he set the libation on the side table. He did not recall the stranger giving out his name. “On the house, as father said, and I hope you enjoy it.” Rufus was almost hovering over his guest, eager to provide excellent service. He set down a stack of clean, dry linens beside the wooden flagon.
“I am sure it will be fine,” the Romani witch said, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.
As he turned to thank the young man directly, the Romani witch locked eyes with him. A rush of excitement surged through his body, causing his heart to race. In that exhilarating moment, which felt as if it would last forever, he realized that his long and tireless search had finally come to an end.
There, in the face of the young man named Rufus, the Romani witch saw the undeniable, haunting flicker of his beloved—his beautiful Aeneas. He felt the connection down to his soul, a bond that resonated deep within, an intensity that defied the passage of time, weaving together memories of laughter, love, and undesired endings.
It had been so long since they last met—not just in a different place but another lifetime. Such was their destiny, a tapestry of fate that the Romani witch had risked everything to weave together and create.
