Page 11 of I Will Always Find You
The Romani witch was relieved to discover that these Celtae witches more often prayed to their gods for guidance and strength than attempted invocations or summonings.
Within this tribe, two witches, now long dead, victims of Christian hatred toward paganism, had begotten a beautiful baby boy, now a handsome, remarkable man named Aodhán.
To the Romani witch, Aodhán represented far more than just another man or a member of this ancient community’s mystical coven of witches; he was the sacred vessel of his beloved Aeneas’ soul, carrying within him the essence of a love that transcended time and defied predestination.
Aodhán was a compassionate and generous educator. He was renowned among his tribe for his dedication to sharing his vast knowledge of elemental and spirit magic with all who wished to have a closer relationship with the Goddess. With a warm smile and a patient demeanour, he welcomed anyone eager to learn, guiding them through the mysteries of the natural world and the ethereal realms.
His lessons were enthusiastic, as he opened his disciples up to connecting with the energies around them and harnessing the profound magic that flowed through all four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—but remained invisible and out of reach to most.
Aodhán’s revered position within his community permitted him to create a place of learning among his people and a vibrant sanctuary where curiosity blossomed and the spirit of acceptance thrived. Although they were a small, fiercely loyal,loving, and protective group, they were not isolationists and welcomed strangers.
That is, as long as they had good intentions. If not, they were dealt with nonviolently but effectively. Protecting their culture and identity—their unity—was paramount.
Through the whispers of his ancestors’ spirits, the Romani witch first learned about this powerful Celtae mystic who mind-walked in the spirit realm as if strolling down the banks of a river. A man with long, fiery red hair and gentle green eyes. Throughout each life and era, his ancestors supported him in his quest for Aeneas’ soul whenever possible.
Still, the Romani witch was well aware of the Wheel of Destiny’s never-ending interference; it was a bitter rival which directed Aeneas’ path and often created maddening obstacles, even for the spirits of the deceased who wished to help.
At seventeen, in full possession of his memories and prepared for long travel across both familiar and unfamiliar lands, the Romani witch had left Italia, where he was born into this new life in the Tuscan hills, to search for his lost love.
Ever alone, he had begun this life’s search for Aeneas’ soul by travelling around Italia first, as he always did. When he had felt no trace of his beloved’s essence, he chose this time to venture eastward to Greece and Anatolia, but stopped before heading toward the Hind and the Persian Sea. Upon sensing he had gone too far and with nothing to show for his efforts, he had turned back, changing direction and moving westward toward Hispania.
Though he encountered many men, youthful and aged, throughout his extensive travels over several years, none were the vessel for his beloved’s soul. Each interaction only deepened his longing and served as a reminder of the unique bond he and Aeneas shared; no other man could evoke the same warmth or connection that lived in his heart. No man ever would.
The Romani witch never sought out the distractions of fleeting encounters in any lifetime; he desired no other man’s flesh, no other man’s touch. His heart, soul, and body longed exclusively for Aeneas, a profound connection that no other could ever compete with—nor turn of the Wheel sever. He fiercely endured through every lifetime, channelling the strength of his ancestors to defy the whims and twists of fate and chance.
He always let his instincts and intuition guide his mission to connect with Aeneas’ soul and lead him to his beloved. Yet, as the Romani witch walked the sprawling expanse of the world around him with each lifetime, he too often felt an overwhelming sense of his own smallness. Terra Mater stretched infinitely, and against its vastness, he seemed a mere speck, adrift in a boundless sea of possible directions, spiritual connection or not.
But the Romani witch would never give up, never stop searching in each new life, desiring nothing more than to be reunited with his true love. Living any lifetime as half a man with the oppressive knowledge that he could make himself whole was an unendurable prospect; it bore no alternative but to wield infinite fortitude and ultimate attainment despite whatever adversity or trial he had to endure.
As he keenly acknowledged since the beginning of all this, time was his ally and enemy.
It was while travelling through Gaul—a name given by the Roman usurpers to the region they had violently taken from the Celtae, who originally called it Celtia—that the Romani witch first heard the whispers of his ancestors. It was then that they began to guide him, their voices growing softer when he strayed off course and louder when he was on the right path.
He understood that the Roma dead never spoke lightly; their messages, though often enigmatic, were sage. Only a fool would disregard the missives from the spirits of their loved ones.
And for the Romani witch, it was especially poignant when one of the voices belonged to his grandmother.
Travelling under the cover of night, as it was the perfect time to use the Spell of Quickness to run at unnatural speeds and avoid unwanted attention, the Romani witch journeyed to the farthest point of north-west Gaul, where the rugged coastline kissed the vast expanse of the great sea.
He rested during the day and ate and drank whenever he could to replenish his physical strength. Most importantly, after consuming vervain and bay leaves—botanicals that his people profoundly associated with healing and protection—he meditated and prayed daily to his ancestors and the goddess of witchcraft herself to replenish his mystical potency.
All magic had a price, and the Romani witch would have exploded his heart had he continued his quickness spell nightly without performing these respectful rituals.
Instead of rudimentary ingestion, he occasionally steeped the fragrant leaves into a robust tea, just as his grandmother had done, the steam rising in delicate tendrils from a bubbling metal receptacle over a crackling campfire.
The Romani witch carried only a few personal items, not wanting to be burdened by the weight of unnecessary extravagance; the small crockery pieces he possessed fit easily in his leather satchel. They were a pleasant reminder of his family traditions, from which he drew strength during his travels.
Thanks to his spell, it took him less than half the time it would typically take had he walked to the coast.
Riding horseback was an activity the Romani witch did not enjoy. Despite trying many times, the horses threw him at every attempt. It was a mystery he had never solved, perhaps even a curse he could not overcome. Even his ancestors had no answer.
And so he walked—or ran.
At the coast of Gaul, the Romani witch hired an experienced fisherman with a weathered, trustworthy face to ferry him across the sea’s expanse to Éire’s southern shores.
He barely survived the voyage due to encountering highly tempestuous waters and a frightful storm that never let up during his entire nautical expedition. These attempts to delay, if not outright prevent, his seagoing excursion were something he attributed to the Wheel’s obstinate meddling.
Upon landfall, the Romani witch embarked on an arduous pilgrimage across a country he had never before laid eyes on, all to find his beloved.
