Page 62 of I Will Always Find You
“What have they done to you, my love? What have I done to you? This is all my fault.”
As a wave of raw emotion poured over him, leading to gut-wrenching tears and deep moans of grief, the Romani witch attempted to heal Alejandro. However, within seconds, he realized there was no point; the spirit had already departed. Reviving a body without a soul was a magic only found within the Dark Arts, and he had experienced enough of that to last an eternity.
Only he had learned his lesson far too late, and the price was too steep; tragically, he was not the only one to pay it.
Looking up into the night sky, the Romani witch screamed out his pain, his suffering, his guilt. He despised this lifetime more than any other filled with strife. It was even worse than the time he had found Aeneas’ soul too late, and the vessel was dead. This existence was infinitely more damning because he knew that man had died a hero in Greece, while this one had descended into villainy and black-heartedness.
The Romani witch took full blame for inadvertently corrupting Aeneas as Alejandro and ultimately causing his death. He had stripped the wizard of his power, robbing him of the only chance he had to defend himself.
As he felt the heat of the fires approaching, the Romani witch kissed Alejandro softly on the lips and hugged him tightly. In that moment, he became aware of the dagger’s remaining presence. As there was no pain, he had completely forgotten it was still embedded in his chest.
The Romani witch shifted the weight of Alejandro’s lifeless body to one arm and pulled the dagger out with his free hand. The instant the blade was removed, the flesh closed up as if the wound had never existed. Pressing a kiss to the hilt, he activated a charm etched into the weapon, causing it to vanish, returning to its secret hiding place somewhere in Tuscany, known only to him.
As he ran his fingers through Alejandro’s hair, the Romani witch gazed out at the streets filled with death, destruction, and looming fires. In that moment, he realized there was no place for him in this life anymore. He desired nothing more from it, and it had nothing to offer him.
Bending down, he pressed his lips gently against Alejandro’s; they were cold and still. A tremor of fathomless sorrow shook through him as he pulled away, his heart too heavy with grief. In a barely audible whisper, he murmured, “Beloved, please forgive me.”
Then, with an air of resolute acceptance, he embraced the encroaching flames that roared toward them.
ITALIA 19th Century
TUSCANY
FORgenerations, the Bianchi family had been renowned throughout Tuscany for producing the finest olive oil in the region. Their land was among the most fertile in the area, yielding the hardiest olive trees and the plumpest olives season after season.
When drought or pestilence struck other farms, the Bianchi groves always escaped unscathed, as if by magic. Most believed it was the result of divine intervention, but a handful of family members knew the truth: it was witchcraft. The land had been enchanted centuries earlier by an ancestor’s powerful spell—one that not only protected it, but enriched it beyond measure.
Abriana Bianchi’s bloodline continued to produce witches: women who were powerful, cunning, and wise. However, aside from Pietro, who had learned in secret, no other boy in the family was taught the ways of their ancestral magic.
After the defeat of Baba Yaga, the Romani witch had kept his promise to Abriana by periodically visiting her family,masquerading as her great-grandson, and maintaining the ruse until the death of both Pietro’s parents.
During one early visit, after recognizing the magical potential of Abriana’s youngest great-granddaughter, he secretly began teaching her the art of witchcraft, using Abriana’s books and the same lessons she had once given Pietro. He was careful not to influence or alter the Tuscan magic inherent in her bloodline with his Romani practices, choosing instead to keep his own magic to himself.
Much to the Romani witch’s annoyance, the fragment of Pietro’s essence that dwelled within his soul occasionally made its presence known. Though he was grateful for Pietro’s assistance against the Cannibal Hag, the fragment’s continued presence was unwelcome.
He particularly hated the interloping voice’s incessant condemnations of his study of black magic. That gentle yet judgmental tone constantly warned him of the corruption that always came with trafficking in the Dark Arts.
As the decades passed, Pietro’s voice grew less frequent. Yet with each erratic appearance, it became increasingly bitter—meaner, crueller. Then, on the day the Romani witch turned fifty, still living a full life with Damek, the voice returned one final time. It offered a single, enigmatic proclamation before falling silent forever: “You did this to me.”
A few years had passed since the fall of Madrid in 1808, when a despondent Romani witch had willingly succumbed to the raging fires. Tuscany was under the rule of Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi, Napoleon’s sister. While Tuscany was under French control, there were also territorial exchanges between the Kingdom of Italia—also under Napoleon’s influence—and France in other regions, like Istria and Dalmatia.
The Bianchi family had managed to stay under the radar of political unrest for years, partly due to spells crafted by theircurrent matriarch witch but also because the Grand Duchess, Elisa, had a passion for their olive oil. She wanted no obstacles to their continued operation.
One cool mid-October night at the beginning of the harvest season, the Bianchi family were all violently awakened from their formerly restful sleep and pleasant dreams by what felt like an earthquake. Only, it was but one brief violent eruption, followed by silence.
The family members exited their respective bedrooms and raced downstairs to inspect the damage, only to find nothing amiss. The windows to their home had not shattered, nor did any of their belongings appear to be harmed or moved from their natural locations by the quick, quaking movement they had all felt.
The eldest of the Bianchi family stepped outside, drawn by an unease that filled the crisp evening air, to survey any possible damage among the groves.
As they wandered through the familiar rows of gnarled trunks, their hearts sank upon reaching a section ripe for harvest at dawn. There, between two broken trees, a relatively small yet gaping maw in the earth revealed itself. Peering into the deep hole, the Bianchis were met with a well of impenetrable darkness, as if the ground itself had opened to expose an endless abyss. A chill crept down each of their spines, and they exchanged uneasy glances.
“What could have caused this?” the Bianchi patriarch exclaimed, though he was mostly talking to himself. “I see no animal tracks, not that I know of any creature native to these lands that burrows beneath the earth so deep and comes to the surface with such violence. A true mystery!”
Unlike her son and his wife, the aged nonna, a witch of extraordinary ability, felt incredible energy emanating from the hole, lingering in the very air around them. It made the hairs onher arms stand on end. This was a dark, primordial power, and it terrified her. She felt some relief that whatever had risen from the depths of the earth was now gone. Or whatever being had been powerful enough to bring something so far down up.
She prayed to the goddess Fortuna that neither she nor anyone in her family would ever encounter them.
CANADA 20th Century
