I Will Always Find You, page 22
Exhausted and in pain, with his mana nearly depleted, the Romani witch turned his stiff neck toward the black carriage that sat idle across the street. Inside, he could see the man who was Aeneas, whose name he did not yet know, sitting rigidly as he desperately struggled against the spell that bound him.
Even from a distance, the Romani witch could feel the rage and hatred emanating from the still man; it tore his heart asunder.
“I’ll bring you back to me, my love,” he said, wiping the blood from his eyes and mouth. “I will. I promise.”
On May 2, 1808, a wave of public outrage surged through the streets of Madrid. The population’s violent reaction to the French military’s attempt to remove the remaining members of the Spanish royal family from power triggered what became known as the Dos de Mayo Uprising. This event marked the beginning of widespread resistance against Napoléon Bonaparte’s forces and the start of the Peninsular War.
The proud Spanish people, fueled by deep-seated resentment towards the occupying French troops, clashed violently with Napoléon’s forces.
Now, upon the dawn of December that same year, it became clear to most of Europe that Madrid was likely to fall to the French military, whose superior tactics had suppressed nearly all the rebellions. Despite this, violent skirmishes continued in the streets.
Six months had passed since the destruction of the Black School, which took place only days before the uprising.
The Romani witch had found it impossible to leave the country safely during this time of strife, especially with a hostile companion who opposed him at every turn. Instead, during the months of conflict between France and Spain, he sought refuge in Madrid, hoping to distance himself from the painful memories of Salamanca.
The capital of the Kingdom of Spain was the furthest he could reach before the incessant fighting made it too complicated to continue moving freely.
Although the innkeepers of the dwelling they were staying in were welcoming and accommodating, mistakenly believing them to be Spanish nationalists, the Romani witch longed to return to his villa in Tuscany with his beloved by his side. He eventually came to discover that the name of the former Black Monk who held Aeneas’ soul was Alejandro Trevino.
This information was not acquired easily, as the highly uncooperative man refused every request to share it. Consequently, it had been forcibly extracted from his mind, though the process was painless. Fortunately for the Romani witch, Alejandro’s natural mental defences were practically nonexistent.
The Spaniard’s access to magic was blocked by powerful sigils painted throughout the room, much to his vexation. Each sigil, from those on the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling, pulsed with mystical energy as if aware of Alejandro’s presence and consciously obstructing his access to the magical forces he so desperately sought to call upon.
Every spell he uttered to free himself or attack his captor and every otherworldly creature and deity he invoked for aid ended up being nothing more than weak words fluttering in the air like ashes from a long-extinguished fire.
The Blood Puppet spell, useful while travelling, was naturally unsuitable for facilitating genuine free thought and mutual communication; it had been withdrawn.
However, since Alejandro could not be trusted to act rationally or nonviolently, the Romani witch was forced to utilize the sigils and then conjure invisible chains to keep the handsome Spaniard physically immobilized. He was either restrained in a chair or in bed, but only during sleeping hours for the latter; Alejandro was granted control over his body from the neck up only.
“Are you hungry?” the Romani witch asked sympathetically as he tried to block out the grim sounds of gunfire and shouting outside the window. “Do you need to use the privy?”
“Go to hell, you bastard!”
The Romani witch sighed deeply as he slumped back down in the chair across from Alejandro, feeling defeated and tired. Six months and nothing I’ve attempted has changed anything. He’s still as spiteful and aggressive as when I first took him from the Black School.
The enmity in Alejandro’s voice displayed his intense hatred for both his situation and the person responsible for it; it tore at the Romani witch’s heart.
Over the past six months, he had cast the Spell of Recollection upon Alejandro many times, uttering the ancient words to help the man’s mind and heart reconnect with Aeneas’ soul and recall a piece of his past lives. And, most importantly, his true self: the half-Egyptian, half-Roman witch who had been cut down in his prime for courageously living his truth.
Nothing had come of any of it.
“Are you going to cry again?” Alejandro snickered, staring menacingly at his captor.
The Romani witch rose in a non-threatening manner from his chair, an aura of calm confidence enveloping him as he strode toward his captive. With each measured step, the air thickened with an uneasy tension. When he was mere breaths away, he raised a hand and gently caressed Alejandro’s cheek, his touch warm and sensual.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Forever.”
Then, with a sudden and decisive grip, the Romani witch seized the red-haired man’s chin, held his neck in place, and crashed his lips against Alejandro’s in a fervent kiss.
Alejandro’s resolve hardened; he refused to respond, his muscles coiling tightly in defiance. He did not return the kiss, and if the Romani witch tried to slip his tongue into his mouth, he would fight against it with all his strength, even attempting to bite the invading appendage off.
The Romani witch tentatively withdrew his lips, a look of mild regret flickering across his face; his tongue had remained tucked away, confined within the sanctuary of his own mouth throughout the entire tumultuous encounter.
“Why can’t you see that every action I take is for your sake, the sake of your soul, Alejandro? Why do you so adamantly insist on resisting me? When I say ‘I love you,’ it’s not to this dark figure before me but to the man trapped inside—here.” The Romani witch placed his hand on Alejandro’s chest above his heart. “This bitterness, this malevolence, this relentless pursuit of the Dark Arts, none of it defines who you truly are! You possess the most radiant heart of anyone I’ve ever known!”
With a fierce glare, Alejandro spat in the Romani witch’s face. “You do not know me, witch!” His voice was a volatile mix of fury and anguish. “Who are you to intrude upon my life and obliterate everything I worked so fucking hard to achieve? I would unleash a hundred curses at your feet if only I had the power—if only your sorcery were not so damn strong! The Black School will rise again, and they will come for you!”
“Rise again, I’m almost certain it will, but seek vengeance upon me, that I doubt very much,” the Romani witch asserted as he wiped the spittle off his face. “Great power—great spectacles of power, especially, garner respect from those who covet it. They find themselves both fascinated and intimidated, drawn to its potential while fully aware of the chaos it can unleash. Anyone involved in a newly established Black School would be wise never to intentionally cross my path.”
The weight of these words left Alejandro speechless; he found himself unable to argue against their veracity.
“Another truth is that the Black School, should it rise again, has no interest in you, not in your rescue nor your welfare, Alejandro. They traded you for what they believed to be Baba Yaga’s grimoire faster than the blink of an eye. You’re dead to them.”
“That may be true,” Alejandro sneered, “but my heart is dead to the world and especially to you. I will never love you if that is truly what you desire. How pathetic you are. Though you insist we have met in the past and that we once meant something dear to each other, I cannot believe such a thing is true. I have told you time and time again that I was at the Black School by the age of thirteen! I have had no experiences of lust, certainly not love. You mean nothing to me, to my heart—if I even possess one. You will never make me love you.”
“Nothing is immutable when true love is involved,” the Romani witch stated with confidence. “I would never force you to love me, An—Alejandro. You would never need to, for you do have one, a heart, no matter how buried under layers of darkness and the scars of abuse and manipulation. And I dwell within there! I’ll find that sliver of love, that small piece of your true self, and I’ll ignite it like Greek fire and free your soul.”
Alejandro raised an eyebrow in profound curiosity. “You did it again,” he grinned, though it was an affectation most sinister.
“Did what, beloved?”
“You began to say a name and then quickly switched to my own. Who exactly do you think I am? Are you mad, believing I am some other man who would foolishly love a pitiful wretch like you? Is that why I am in this predicament? An absurd mistake of identity?! I shall never be this person you love, and I hope this knowledge eats away at your soul like flesh decomposing off a rotting corpse.”
The hateful words were like a sharp slap across the Romani witch’s face. He found himself at a loss for words, unsure of how to respond to accusations that had never been voiced during their time together, whether on the road or in this small room.
Am I wrong? Are you truly lost to me in this life, Aeneas?
Something unexpectedly snapped inside the Romani witch: his resolve.
What if love isn’t enough this time? Is the price of using Baba Yaga’s dark magic so high, demanding my misery throughout this entire life? What if—no, I couldn’t. This is a fleeting moment of weakness. But—what if?
The Romani witch was stunned by his own thoughts. Was he really considering this absurd idea? Was he seriously contemplating embedding his memories of Aeneas into Alejandro’s mind?
It was a ludicrous notion, but nothing else had proven effective. Not physical affection, conversation or even magic. The Romani witch was acutely aware of the lethal consequences of such an action. Yet, he wondered, what if doing something drastic was the only way to break the hold that the dark teachings of the Black School had on Alejandro.
Would spending a single night with the man he loved more than his own life—the one buried so deep within the Spaniard—be preferable to a lifetime of frustration spent battling malevolence and trying to cleanse a pure soul of such a relentless, dark taint?
The Romani witch was so confused.
And so desperate.
“Alejandro—Aen—”
Only the Romani witch was unable to complete that life-changing word, that unbelievable choice.
With a deafening roar, an iron cannonball erupted through the south wall of their cramped room, its violent impact reducing the once-sturdy stucco and stone to a cloud of dust and debris. Wooden beams splintered like mere twigs, and the force of the blast sent Alejandro’s head flying backward, nearly snapping off.
In what felt like a horrifying, slow-motion moment, the cannonball hurtled past the former Black Monk, leaving a trail of chaos in its wake before crashing through the north wall and vanishing into the neighbouring room, bringing further destruction to the once tranquil inn. Hampered by his invisible bondage, he was lucky to have just barely evaded the deadly projectile.
The Romani witch was not so fortunate.
As a heavy pine beam came crashing down, he leaped aside and managed to escape its path. However, in the process, he accidentally hit his head hard on the corner of a walnut dresser, knocking himself unconscious. The pine beam then struck the dresser, causing it to topple over and trap the Romani witch beneath the heavy piece of furniture.
Coughing violently from the dust and debris in the air, Alejandro quickly assessed his situation. As he looked around the room, he could not see his captor. However, he immediately noticed that the devastation caused by the cannonball had destroyed most of the sigils. Those that remained, he had a strong belief, were insufficient to suppress his magic.
With a fierce determination, Alejandro cast an unweaving counterspell, shouting, “Catenae invisibiles, me liberate!” [“Invisible chains, release me!”] He took a deep breath and, with fervour, reversed the order of the words, his voice echoing thunderously. Finally, he let out a triumphant roar, “Incantatio dissoluta est!” [“The spell is undone!”]
The invisible chains of enchantment instantly vanished, granting Alejandro his liberation.
“Where are you, witch? I will find you and make sure you breathe no more!”
Then he quickly reconsidered. If his former captor were still alive, he would fight tooth and nail to get him back under his control, and Alejandro could not risk such a confrontation, at least, not yet. He realized his confinement had severely depleted his mana.
The months of magical suppression had inadvertently weakened Alejandro’s connection to his magic. Casting the spell to destroy the conjured chains and manifesting its success through his willpower had proven far more taxing on him than he had anticipated.
If the Romani witch was dead, that would be ideal; if not, Alejandro decided that revenge would have to wait for another time. He felt it prudent to be far away from his powerful tormentor, in a place where he could safely plan his next move and rebuild his magical strength. Then, when his former captor least expected it, he would return to claim his vengeance.
Death, but not before torture and torment.
As Alejandro waded through the debris, the sound of his black leather boots crunching against fallen plaster and shattered glass filled the air. He was relieved to be dressed appropriately for outdoor travel, wearing fine trousers, a black silk shirt, a velvet waistcoat, and a black silk cravat, rather than already being in his long drawers for sleeping.
“You liked looking at me in fine clothes, did you not, witch?” Alejandro sneered. “Like a plaything—a fucking doll!”
As the cool December night breeze wafted in through the massive hole in the inn’s wall, Alejandro carefully cleared a path to the heavy wooden door. His actions were illuminated by the moonlight while his heart raced with the sounds of battle outside.
He grabbed a frock coat from a chairback, put it on, and then attempted to conjure a flame in his palm for additional light, but the small fire extinguished itself just seconds after it appeared. His mana was too depleted, making his magic too feeble.
“Damn you, witch!”
Enraged by his mystical impotence, Alejandro grasped the cold metal handle and flung the door open, revealing the still-intact staircase that spiralled down into the parlour’s landing below. With a mixture of hope and desperation, he quickly descended the creaking steps, each stomp of his boots getting him closer to the exit awaiting him at the bottom; it promised escape from the insanity and chaos that had engulfed him for months.
With a last glance over his shoulder, Alejandro dashed through the inn’s front door, his heart racing as he vanished into the shadows of the night. Freedom beckoned.
Upstairs, the Romani witch had regained consciousness and was struggling to lift the dresser off of him, but he was having no success.
“Get off me!” he roared in frustration.
Drawing upon the deep well of strength within his mind, spirit, and aura, the Romani witch focused intently, calling forth his innate, invisible force. With a surge of raw energy, he not only lifted the bulky dresser off himself but also hurled the heavy piece of furniture across the room in a fit of fury, sending it crashing against the wall with a deafening thud.
“Alejandro!” the Romani witch shouted, filled with concern and dread. With his mobility returned, he surveyed the wreckage of the room, searching for his companion. He was worried about Alejandro’s safety and well-being; he was also anxious, knowing that the destruction of the sigils would grant Alejandro access to his dark magic, though he suspected his mana was extremely low. The Romani witch steeled himself, preparing for any situation he might encounter.
Alejandro was nowhere to be found.
“Dammit!”
The Romani witch quickly checked himself for any physical injuries. Aside from some aches and pains and a nasty gash on his brow, he was fine.
Calling upon a power learned in another lifetime, the Romani witch brushed his fingers over the ragged, bloody gash on his forehead with a swift motion. With reverence, he once again invoked the power of Zagovory, speaking an ancient Slavic word—a healing spell that had been taught to him by Damek centuries past.
A warmth spread in his palm, travelled through his fingers, and surged into the flesh of his forehead. The wound instantly knitted together, and all the physical discomfort from being pinned under the dresser soon disappeared.
Healed, he rushed out the open bedroom door; determination propelled him forward in his quest to search the streets of Madrid for Alejandro, utilizing both magic and mortal senses as tools to find him.
Once he stepped outside the inn into the chaos, the Romani witch’s sharp eyes scanned the smoke-choked streets of Madrid, desperately searching for Alejandro. The acrid stench of death lingered in the air, mingling with the bitter remnants of destruction as parts of the city burned fiercely. The cobblestone pathways surrounding the inn were grimly adorned with lifeless bodies, including, sadly, the kind innkeepers who had welcomed him with warmth and generosity.
Navigating this nightmarish landscape and avoiding the patrolling French soldiers became a matter of utmost urgency. The Romani witch yearned for the safety offered by his cloaking spell, a potent incantation that allowed him to meld seamlessly into the shadows of the night.
It required not only mystical words to activate the magic but also a potent elixir, one that included a drop of deadly nightshade. The potion was essential; regrettably, it was beyond his reach.
His belt and the pouches attached to it held only a scant few magical items, nothing that would help him in this war-torn situation. All of his useful, potent magical weapons, trinkets, and vialed brews lay secreted away in concealed compartments within his carriage, which was now tucked safely in a rented carriage house down a narrow street to the south.
That street, however, lay under the oppressive control of Napoléon’s troops, rendering any attempt to retrieve his belongings a perilous gamble amidst the turmoil that engulfed the city.
