Page 2 of I Will Always Find You
In this atmosphere of suspicion and paranoia, foreign gods and their religions became a looming threat, their very presence evoking a palpable anxiety among the populace. Those who dared to follow these outside influences were seen as deviant; the hunt was on to unearth these cultists, worshippers of strange faiths speaking in even stranger tongues.
Tensions mounted as the Senate ordered these renegades be sought out, apprehended, and met with severe punishment—an urgent call to protect the sanctity of their cherished traditions and avert Olympian retribution.
Upon returning to Pompeii and entering the city gates to find his Aeneas brutalized and dead, long past the point of rescue, let alone healing, the Romani witch had died inside. His heart broke into infinite pieces; he knew then not even the gods could put the broken thing back together.
And where were the gods when his beloved needed their protection? Where were the Egyptian deities Aeneas prayed to? Why had they stood idly by, silent and indifferent, and allowed this tragedy—this atrocityto happen? Were they as fickle and capricious as the Roman gods? Did Aeneas not fight back? The Romani witch knew his beloved’s magic was mighty, but he also knew Aeneas’ unwavering commitment to compassion, choosing to wield his power solely for good, never inflicting harm.
And that had been to his utter detriment.
The Romani witch ventured out to retrieve his beloved after nightfall when all were asleep in the quiet, and few guards patrolled the streets. He used his power to manipulate objects with his will to liberate Aeneas from his crucifixion. When he was finally able to cradle his beloved in his arms, the lifeless body felt both limp and heavy.
And cold. Terribly cold.
The raven-haired youth had quietly mourned, overwhelmed by an utterly indescribable pain, worse than when his grandmother passed in her sleep. Even the day of his family’s slaughter did not compare.
It had been directly after burying his beloved beneath a grand fig tree near the forest where they first kissed that the Romani witch set out for Mount Vesuvius to enact his plan of revenge.
Four days and nights eventually passed, but the Romani witch continued his attack on the mountain with his spell; he did not eat, drink, or sleep the entire time. He remained crouched, still, and chanting, hands buried in the earth. And for those four days and nights, the mountain gurgled and moaned but displayed no signs of erupting.
Unknown to the Romani witch, minor earthquakes had been reported to the leaders of Pompeii and the nearby, smaller, and wealthier town of Herculaneum, but these warnings went unrecognized. Accustomed to minor tremors in the region, theinhabitants of the cities surrounding Mount Vesuvius remained unconcerned.
Eventually, on that fourth night, the Romani witch came to a harrowing realization: he did not possess the strength to perform such a grand spell on such a large scale. No matter the righteousness of his cause or the force of his will, he was but a lone witch, barely twenty summers seen, against a mountain.
Conceding defeat and recognizing his need for help from a power greater than himself, the Romani witch looked skyward. The bright constellations twinkled above him, seemingly indifferent to his plight, but he had to try. He called out into the inky abyss, his pleas echoing through the night, fervently beseeching the aid of the enigmatic god of darkness, vengeance, and hate. This being was a shadowy deity no one publicly acknowledged worshipping, though many did.
This powerful god was known for carrying out acts of secret revenge on behalf of mortals in exchange for their blood. Not to the point of death, however, unless you displeased him, or so the whispered rumours conveyed.
The Romani witch would gladly offer every drop of his lifeblood to weave the powerful spell. He was dead inside, a hollow shell, a man lost to infinite sorrow. What did his continued mortal existence mean to him? Less than nothing.
But after hours of lamentations and fervent, sincere prayers for aid, the deity of darkness did not come. Once more, the gods had failed him, leaving the Romani witch in a desolate void of despair and abandonment.
The strain is too much! No, I cannot fail. I have to hold on.
Beneath the thick canopy of starlit sky, burdened by his fears and doubts, he made one final attempt to call out to any and all the unseen forces surrounding him. “If—if you can hear me, god or witch or jinn—please, I beg you—help me.”
His desperate pleas, emerging from dry, cracked lips, barely rose above a whisper, carried away by the chill of the night wind. Each syllable trembled in the air, struggling to escape a throat strained by thirst as the darkness wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud.
But all was not lost, for this final impassioned plea did not go unheeded.
Hecate, the thrice-faced goddess of witchcraft, an ancient and enigmatic deity even mighty Jupiter treaded lightly around, heard this desperate entreaty from the young Romani witch.
And she answered.
The goddess manifested before the weary Romani witch in a glittering shower of gold; the air suddenly thickened with the scent of myrrh, resinous and rich, with a note of dried earth.
Hecate possessed striking dark green eyes that gleamed with celestial light. Her oval face, adorned with high cheekbones, bore a resemblance to a meticulously crafted statue; her lush black hair cascaded gracefully down her back. Her skin was flawless, smooth as ivory, accentuating her timeless, pallid beauty. Her features held a transcendental quality, characterizing her immortal appearance.
She was dressed in a form-fitting sheer black linen tunic that plunged low at the neckline, accentuating the curve of her ample breasts and nearly reaching her navel. The garment was adorned with numerous flowing silk sashes in vibrant colours that danced chaotically in the night wind. The fabrics of her attire, seemingly woven from stardust and sorcery, shimmered brightly against the night. Her feet were bare, but her toes, like her fingers, were bejewelled.
Hecate gazed down at the weary and unkempt face of the Romani witch, noting the deep lines of stress etched into his skin and the dullness in his eyes that spoke of countless hours—no,daysof struggle. With a heavy sigh, she noted the disbelief that sat firmly upon the youth’s face.
“Your expression is one of astonishment, mortal,” she remarked coolly. “You called out for aid, did you not? Well, I have come. You know me, witch-boy?”
“I know you, witch-goddess,” the young Romani witch grimaced. He gritted his teeth and forced more words from his scratchy throat. “And I am no boy. You are the ancient one known as ‘She who works her will.’ Yes, I am surprised you came. You have remained a distant figure, never gracing me once with your presence in dreams or the waking world. I have felt your absence in my thoughts, and you have never manifested in my life, neither as a fleeting shadow nor a comforting warmth.
“My grandmother held you in high reverence, often speaking of your power and wisdom, saying, ‘Hecate, the thrice-faced goddess stands guard at the crossroads of life and death, one face looking in each direction.’ Yet—yet—”
The Romani witch began to cough violently, expelling heavy, ragged chunks of dark ichor from his throat. The spell was exacting a terrible toll: it was killing him. Despite the agony coursing through his tired body, he pressed on, determination flickering in his weary eyes as he fought against the debilitating pain.
