Page 55 of I Will Always Find You
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 theDos 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.
