Page 10 of I Will Always Find You
In an astonishing spectacle, the fierce blaze consuming the village and ominously threatening to soon engulf the neighbouring forest suddenly converged upon the Romani witch. As the flames left the buildings and bodies and surged forward, they coiled and flitted around him, shimmering in shades of orange and crimson.
Remarkably, the fire did not sear his skin; it was controlled by the spell, forcing it to obey an invisible boundary. With an air of mastery, the Romani witch commanded the flames to bend their intensity and movement to his will.
And when the Romani witch was at the threshold of his spell, having gathered every last strand of flame, he thrust his arms forward with a dramatic flourish. He launched the massive conflagration toward his adversary, now surrounded by nothing but bloodied corpses.
“Burn, you bastard!”
The roaring inferno hurtled toward the wicked immortal with unstoppable fury, a relentless tide of flames engulfing the air with crackling heat. It soon enveloped the nefarious immortal in a harsh embrace of heat and flame.
The Romani witch, overwhelmed with grief and driven by hatred, waited with bated breath for his enemy to turn to cindersand ash, though he felt it was still too lenient a punishment for the murderous transgressor.
But the immortal would not burn.
Instead, unfazed by the flickering flames surrounding him, he let a derisive laugh escape his lips; it echoed through the chaos as he boldly made his way toward the spellcaster, each long, powerful stride obstinate to the crackling fire.
“How can this be?” the Romani witch cried. “This is madness! Why will you not succumb?” He smacked his hands together, entwined his fingers and pointed at the immortal. “Eum ardete!” [“Burn him!”]
However, no magical configuration of his hands and fingers or sheer willpower could make the fire hot or ferocious enough to immolate his enemy. “What manner of god are you to stand defiantly against the very elements themselves?!” The Romani witch was taken aback, unprepared for such an imposing adversary.
His bloodline’s witchcraft held a definite potency, imbued with spiritual power from the whispers of his ancestors and the might of Terra, Mother Earth, and Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft. Yet, he realized with growing trepidation that his skill in and knowledge of The Craft were woefully insufficient to confront a being of such primordial strength, empowered by the blood of his countless victims!
Before the Romani witch could even contemplate changing tactics, unleashing a different kind of spell, or making a desperate escape, the black-eyed immortal closed in on him with a chilling swiftness. With a grip like iron, he seized the mortal man by the back of his neck and hoisted him effortlessly off the ground. The Romani witch’s feet dangled in the air, his eyes wide with shock, as he was lifted into the cold embrace of the immortal’s power.
“I am both cursed and protected by The Fates, impudent witch,” the immortal stated through a clenched jaw, “and your hedge magic bores me. Now, I have more malevolence to create, and time is not on my side as the god you call Gian returns soon. I cannot wait for him to see you,all of you, his beloved mortal pets, dead and gutted. I will relish his pain, bathe in his torment, though I cannot be present to witness it.
“Now, little witch, the time has come for you to be out of my hair. I will send you into the final darkness, where shadows whisper secrets, and the air is dense with the weight of so many lost, tortured souls!”
The Romani witch hung in the air, suspended by the god’s firm grip upon his neck, offering no resistance; his defiance had vanished like the fire, leaving only smoke upon the wind. It was true he was utterly exhausted, and his physical and magical strength was sapped, but that was not the root cause of his acceptance of defeat; without his Aeneas in this world, he had no desire to continue existing in this lifetime.
Staring into the black emptiness of the immortal monster’s eyes, the Romani witch sneered and spoke a final epitaph for himself.
“If you truly are an immortal, foul creature, know this is not over! We will meet again. I promise y—!”
But the Romani witch could not complete his ominous, prophetic threat because the immortal had ripped his still-beating heart from his chest.
ÉIRE 9th Century
THE CURRAGH PLAINS
THECurragh, a lush landscape of undulating green plains enveloped in rich mythology and storied history, had long stood as a gathering place for witches and mystics. Nestled in the heart of Éire beneath expansive skies, this region was a vivid mosaic of Celtae culture and legend.
In this serene terrain, the echoes of a distant past rippled through the air, carried softly on the whispers of the wind to weave tales of an era when mighty gods, powerful druids, wise witches and erudite wizards wandered among everyday mortals.
Sadly, there were so few Celtae mystics left. The spread of Christianity had beaten back the wild magic, the people’s deep connection to nature, and the ancient beliefs that were once so pure and widespread. All these invaders saw was darkness and devilry everywhere.
Much had changed since the nascent days of the Holy Roman Church’s arrival in Éire centuries back: the names of things, styles of dress, and the upsurge in foreign languages.
Yet, amid all this change, one constant loomed large: the entrenched hostility directed at the indigenous faiths, the arcane mystics, and the art of witchcraft. With their rigid doctrines and religious zealotry, the missionaries and monks remained unwavering in their contempt for all that was different from them. They cast terrible darkness over Éire’s native beliefs and traditions, ones which flourished for ages before these oppressors came to conquer and overwhelm the peaceful naturalists they designated heretical.
Despite having spent a year among this secret sect of Celtae witches of the Curragh and becoming moderately familiar with their ways, the Romani witch continued to marvel at how they connected profoundly to the natural world, perceiving it as a living tapestry woven with divine energy. They venerated a multitude of ancient deities, each embodying different elements of their environment.
These mystics believed that every facet of Mother Earth—the Goddess, as they referred to her—from the whirring winds that danced through the trees to the majestic mountains that stood sentinel over the land, harboured spirits willing to impart their ancient wisdom and power.
Their practice of The Craft was profoundly tied to their deep reverence for the natural world; it shaped their spiritual rituals and guided their daily lives, creating a harmonious relationship with what the Romani witch still called Terra. The forest, the grasslands, and the rolling hills were so much more than landscape settings that framed the horizon. They were sacred sanctuaries providing sustenance, shelter, and spiritual nourishment to many.
The Romani witch had seen the strength of this tribe’s witchcraft firsthand, although he had yet to witness any manifestations of their gods.
He was well acquainted with immortals; throughout his past lives, he had encountered benevolent and malevolent deities roaming Terra Mater. Each run-in left him with a sense of awe, but more often than not, it filled him with trepidation, suspicion, and even hate. He preferred to keep a cautious distance from their unpredictable and frequently dangerous whims.
