Page 28 of I Will Always Find You
Not far from the solemn statue and the grieving Romani witch, surrounded by the vibrant tapestry of blooming flowers, the unseen spirit of Aeneas wafted in the breeze, smiling, caught in a moment of reflection, of pure love.
And then the spirit that had haunted this village for the past year, waiting for his beloved, vanished, finally able to move on.
In the Romani witch’s mind, words woven with a profound tenderness echoed in a voice he knew well, one attached forever to his heart.
“Find me again, my love.”
ITALIA/RUTHENIA 15th Century
TUSCANY TO THE CARPATHIAN RUS
ONCEupon a time, a spirited young Italian boy named Pietro lived in a simple village nestled in a quiet valley among the rolling hills of Tuscany. It was a tranquil setting dotted with olive groves, vineyards, and cypress trees. The boy did not come from wealth by any means, but his tight-knit family owned a moderately-sized parcel of land and took pride in their generational operation, producing high-quality olive oil.
Pietro stood at an average height for an eight-year-old boy, his physique reflecting both the playful energy of youth and the toil of farmwork. Still, he always felt small beside his papa, who towered over most with a commanding presence.
The boy’s comely attractiveness bordered on pretty more than handsomeness; his dark, expressive eyes sparkled like polished obsidian, framed by lush, sweeping lashes that caught the light with every blink. His hair, a wild mane of black locks, shimmered in the sunlight. Despite his gentle beauty,Pietro bore a strong, distinctive chin inherited from his papa—an anchor of rugged masculinity that grounded his delicate features.
Though he toiled daily under the unrelenting sun, his skin bearing the full force of its heat as he worked his family’s land with skill and devotion, his youthful flesh remained smooth and supple. He never burned; his body seemed to welcome the beating sunlight, as if he gleaned strength and rejuvenation from the bright orb in the Heavens.
His hands, however, bore the calloused marks of a hard worker, one dedicated to ensuring the prosperity of his family. Pietro was exceptionally bright, capable of reading and writing, and always eager to learn new things; however, labour in the groves took precedence over formal education.
Kind and thoughtful, Pietro was a boy who never told a lie. He loved his family openly, and they loved him just as profoundly, none more so than his great-grandmother. After Pietro’s great-grandfather passed away from the plague, the elderly matriarch came to live with his family in their quaint home, a humble dwelling of wood, clay, and straw, built lovingly by his papa.
Pietro’s most cherished possession was not a toy, a book, or anything of tangible worth. It was something he carried deep within—a precious secret, a closely guarded truth about his great-grandmother. Neither his papa, nor his mamma, nor even a single sibling shared in this sacred knowledge. His paternal grandparents had passed, and his maternal ones lived far away in the Kingdom of Trinacria. Pietro had never even met them; they knew nothing.
He repeatedly assured his great-grandmother that no one in the nearby town or surrounding area would ever hear this secret escape from his lips, especially not anyone from the Church. The boy was perceptive and keenly aware of their prejudices. It made him sad to think that their perspectives were so limited. Pietro’sentire family would be in grave danger if those angry men in their long, ankle-length black cassocks, who preached Hellfire and Damnation towards anything they could not control, discovered this secret.
His great-grandmother was a witch.
Abriana Bianchi was a wise woman, a spellcaster, and a healer, someone well-versed in herbalism, potion-making, and even curses. She only used her witchcraft for good, never for evil. However, she would—and had—directed vengeful malediction toward anyone who threatened those she loved.
Abriana was well-liked among the farmers and townspeople, revered even, and everyone praised her healing prowess. Although none suspected her of having actual magical talents, they were wise enough to remain silent about the old woman’s knowledge, cleverness, and healing skills.
Even when something Abriana had done or said seemed completely benign, everyone in the region understood that the Church and its fervent followers did not appreciate women who dared to hold power or possess a strong voice, unless that voice was used solely to praise their “God.”
Abriana discreetly yet proudly worshipped Hecate, the ancient goddess of witchcraft.
Like Pietro, Abriana also harboured a secret, but one known only to her. She had discovered this astonishing secret when Pietro was five, through her natural-bornsecond sight. This power to see into the future was a gift she believed had been bestowed upon her at birth by Hecate.
Alas, on rare occasions, it sometimes felt more like a curse, as it had on the day Abriana discovered the truth about young Pietro.
Her great-grandson was not all he seemed to be. He was, in fact, two beings, two consciousnesses sharing one soul: areincarnated immortal spirit housed within the mortal body of Pietro Bianchi.
Abriana intuitively sensed that it was a soul destined to one daywake upand break free from its prison of unfamiliar flesh and blood, to reclaim its presence in the material world, effectively obliterating Pietro’s personality into nothingness, as if he had never existed.
The old witch did not know who or what had planned for another to be reincarnated as her beloved Pietro. The Fates or the Wheel of Destiny. Perhaps even Hecate demanded it be so. Abriana feared she might never learn the complete truth; no vision or dream had revealed it to date.
She feared it was only a matter of time before the essence of the ancient Romani witch she had seen in her predictive visions awoke from his slumber and took control of Pietro’s mind and body. The time and date of this brutal transference were also unknown factors.
Abriana’s visions always came true unless she intervened to alter someone’s fate, but this time, she felt powerless to stop this from happening. She knew of no spell or enchantment that could permanently suppress—or ideally, destroy—the hidden consciousness of the Romani witch, though she tried. Abriana believed that this time, a divine power far greater than she had set events in motion that could not be altered by a mortal witch.
Every morning, as the soft light of dawn filtered through the thin window curtains of the room she shared with her great-grandchildren, Abriana, always the first to wake in the household, would immediately look over at Pietro asleep in his small wooden bed, completely unaware of his destiny, wrapped in the woollen blanket she had lovingly knitted for him years ago.
And each morning, Abriana’s heart ached at the sight of him, his innocence, knowing that at any moment, when his eyes opened, a stranger could be staring back at her.
During the waking hours, every time Pietro enthusiastically embraced Abriana, expressing pure delight in telling her how much he loved her while gently coiling his fingers around her long silver hair, she felt a surge of joyful emotion. This infectious bliss momentarily dulled the bleak shadows looming over them, the unavoidable future of loss.
The bitter reality of Pietro’s fate was a dark storm cloud in her mind, and tears threatened to erupt from her old, tired eyes every time she held him close, desperately trying to cherish every fleeting moment they had left together.
