Page 16 of I Will Always Find You
He longed to be a part of their revelry, to be swept up in the ecstatic whirl. He had half a mind to join in.
Ultimately, he did not, for he felt it was not his place. A sense of ideological contrariness tethered the Romani witch to his spot at the edge of the clearing, a respectful distance from the bonfire.
While he appreciated the opportunity to observe and absorb the rich traditions of the Celtae witches, especially the sacred Rite of Samhain, a lingering sense of disconnection weighed heavily on him. The vibrant rituals, steeped in ancient lore and communal spirit, only highlighted the chasm between himself and those around him.
These were not his gods; these were not his people. Though there was some overlap with the Romani way, ultimately, thesewere not his customs and practices. These were not Aeneas’ either—but they were Aodháns.
The Romani witch had a thought, but was it wicked? As he gazed up at the night sky, he contemplated a change of scenery.
Should I ask Aodhán to leave the Curragh and these people and return to Italia or Greece with me? Why not Britannia—or Engla land, as I hear it is now called? We were so happy there before that fiendish blood-drinker destroyed everything. Surely, that monstrous immortal is long gone from those shores. Perhaps we could even go in search of Gian, though Aodhán could never be told who he truly is to him!
With a heavy heart, the Romani witch shrugged his shoulders and let out a deep sigh that reflected the weight of his unspoken burden: accepting the inevitable.
He understood that these thoughts came from a selfish mindset. It would be cruel to ask Aodhán to make such a painful choice, forcing him to choose between his beloved and the community that had nurtured him since childhood, including the coven that had chosen him as their leader.
Although he never questioned that Aodhán would always choose him, the Romani witch was concerned that doing so would leave a sense of guilt in his beloved’s heart for abandoning his people. He feared this would eventually lead to lingering resentment toward him, no matter how small and no matter how many times Aodhán would insist it was not true.
No, I must remain here and push aside my feelings of otherness. Nothing matters but being with Aeneas for as long as I can in bliss before the cycle of death and rebirth, of quest and find, begins again. If Aodhán must be here, then so must I.
The Romani witch shifted his gaze toward Aodhán, his heart racing as he beheld such a sight of masculine perfection. If he could love the man more, desire him more, he knew not how.
Just then, a mischievous witch flung a rich crimson splash of wine across Aodhán’s magnificent, hairy, bare form; the liquid glinted like rubies against his flesh.
An intense pang of jealousy surged within the Romani witch, tightening his chest as he watched the deep scarlet hue dance over Aodhán’s sculpted physique, highlighting every sublime curve and contour.
Then, when the foolish witch leaned in with an amorous glint in her eyes, endeavouring to steal a kiss, manly fingers suddenly reached down from behind Aodhán as another appeared, desiring to fondle his beloved’s beautiful cock; a man had boldly entered the scene, joining the highly aroused woman.
The Romani witch became incensed.The audacity! How dare he—they—!It troubled him that Aodhán seemed oblivious to the seduction and had yet to intervene and stop the perverse mauling of his body.
With an aura of authority and a deep sense of rectitude, the Romani witch drew a sigil in the air before the bonfire, preparing to cast a harsh spell upon the Celtae who sought to ravish Aodhán, who was his beloved—and his alone. They were for each other, and there had never been talk of sharing or sexual exploration. It was not what he desired, and he had assumed the same for Aodhán.
After all, no one had ever come between the Romani witch and Aeneas during their original lifetime, nor had anyone come between them afterward. Their bond was powerful and special, and their love intertwined like their bodies, a perfect fit. This was something he always believed and felt deeply.
But Aodhán was not entirely Aeneas, which currently put the Romani witch into a profound state of discomfort.
I care not if this is part of their ritual, this sex magic. I was never told of this possibility nor given a voice in its application. I shall not sit back and play a spectator to this perfidy nor—
But the Romani witch’s troubled thoughts were interrupted when he saw the interloping hands around Aodhán suddenly switch from sexual ravishing to now brandishing daggers, poised to inflict violence upon his beloved, who appeared completely oblivious to the threat.
The incomplete spell he currently had in play was not potent enough to stop this new threat; it was a spell of profound physical irritation at best, a relentless itchiness. He would take no chances with weak magic. A more powerful spell was needed to send a clear message: the leader of this coven was under his emphatic protection!
And so the Romani witch quickly altered the spell he had begun to one he learned from a witch of the Greek Isles several hundred years back, but had yet to try. It would cause no physical damage but inflict incredible pain, and best of all, it could be enacted swiftly.
He waved away the floating sigil, invisible to all but him, and traced another one of greater strength into the night air. He pulled back his arm, clenching his fist to the point where his nails dug into the skin of his palm, drawing blood. Then, he unclenched his hand and shot his palm forward, striking the sigil with his blood.
Blood magic. Like the kind taught to Aeneas by his mother.
“Odune!” [“Pain!”]
This utterance was followed by a loud clap of the Romani witch’s hands, an even louder repeat of the word of power, and another clap. Finally, he pointed two bloody fingers at the menacing Celtae witches.
But instead of hearing screams of agony and witnessing two bodies quickly wrench back, away from his beloved, the Romani witch saw and heard nothing.
The sinister, blade-wielding duo had vanished before his eyes, and a naked Aodhán danced alone, completely dry, without a drop of wine upon his skin.
“What is this?” the Romani witch snarled aloud. “Who is playing games with me? Show yourself, witch—or force me to find you. You will not like me as an enemy, I promise you.”
“Are you so brave, little Roma witch, child of Hecate?” a deep, guttural voice growled, dripping with condescension. “I am not so sure.”
