2. BRITANNIA 4th Century
COASTAL DEVONSHIRE
T OWERING red sandstone cliffs rose majestically above the shoreline surrounding the quaint coastal village in Devonshire.
Dramatic sea views unfolded from the rugged crags and jagged outcrops that dotted the landscape, revealing a vast expanse of azure waters crashing rhythmically against the coarse, pebbled beach below.
The interplay of bright sunlight and vibrant cliffs created a breathtaking panorama that captivated all the residents who took the time to gaze upon it.
After a long day of fishing, the hardworking, hungry, and thirsty men gathered at the heart of their village: Gian’s Tavern.
The warm glow of flickering lanterns created an inviting ambiance, drawing in locals and travellers alike, though strangers were few and far between.
Inside, the place buzzed with laughter and the clinking of mugs, a typical atmosphere.
At the center of it all stood Gian, the tavern’s owner.
A tall, dark-haired, and robust man, he perpetually had a broad, welcoming smile upon his bearded face and a cheerful demeanour; he made it his mission to ensure that every patron felt at home in his tavern, greeting each guest with a hearty clap on the back and an enthusiastic cheer, whether he knew them or not.
With his gentle disposition and soft-spoken nature, eighteen-year-old Rufus stood by Gian’s side, helping him manage their establishment.
Orphaned as a youth, Rufus had found himself near the banks of a winding river, alone, frail, scarcely clothed, and on the brink of death when serendipity intervened and led Gian, a stranger to the Shires of Britannia, to discover him during his travels.
The burly yet compassionate man took the red-headed boy under his wing.
He provided his essential needs but also nurtured him with care and affection.
Together, they formed a unique bond and created a makeshift family.
In Gian’s eyes, Rufus was nothing less than his son.
Eventually, however, they grew tired of their nomadic lifestyle and sought a place to settle, at least for a while.
Two years prior, they stumbled upon this charming village while exploring the sun-drenched hills of Southern Britannia.
The peaceful beauty of the coastal landscape, the warmth and kindness of the Devonshire locals, and the refreshing absence of Roman rule deepened their affection for the region.
The decision to make the village their new home had been swift; to this day, neither of them had any plans to leave.
However, the enigmatic Wheel of Destiny often changed the course of events in ways one could hardly imagine, as it did for Rufus one stormy night.
On this tempestuous evening, a lone figure appeared in the peaceful village as thunder rumbled ominously above his head.
He was a comely, dark-haired stranger, weary from incessant travel, an arduous journey that had begun three years earlier in a country much farther to the south across the Sea of the Britons.
He had arrived in this foreign village seeking refuge from the relentless downpour that lashed the land.
His modest brown tunic, crafted from sturdy linen and reinforced with leather, bore the marks of someone accustomed to living in tune with nature, designed for the rigours of long journeys across rugged terrain and through thick, shadowy forests.
Despite its durability, the fabric clung heavily to his tan skin from the soaking it endured. His leather sandals, now waterlogged and weighed down, squelched softly with each strained step, for winds of uncanny strength continuously hammered him, trying to force him backward.
When the young man saw the welcoming glow of the tavern lights, he quickly made his way to the establishment and entered.
Several heads turned to see who had come in. The traveller, accustomed to unfriendliness in his travels and mistrust of others, whispered a protection spell. An invisible energy surrounded his body; it would repel any fist or blade that sought to harm him.
But the traveller should not have worried. All the eyes that fell upon him were accompanied by smiles and well wishes to enter further and remove his dripping cloak.
“Well, you are a sorry sight,” Gian laughed heartily.
“By Gaia, get in here and take a seat by my fire, man. You, Tully, your large bottom has sat there long enough! Get up and give the poor traveller that seat. He needs warmth. And Rufus, get the man an ale on the house and some linens to dry himself with. My name is Gian, stranger, and welcome to my tavern.”
Taking no notice of Rufus, who busied himself fetching the ale, his head down the entire time, the traveller accepted the now vacated seat, thanking the affable, portly man for his kindness in surrendering it.
As he settled in, the traveller turned his head to nod and silently expressed his gratitude to the tavern owner.
As Gian smiled back, his eyes became pools of darkness, a transformation no one else in the tavern seemed to notice. Suddenly, the traveller heard a voice speaking to him—inside his head!
“ Fear not, witch of the Roma, for no one here means you harm. This tavern, this village, is a safe place for all, strangers included. I make it so. While your intricate spellwork is impressive, it is unnecessary. And though I have no desire for conflict or violence, do not mistake my amiable demeanour for softness. I will kill you without hesitation should you attempt to use your witchcraft or any form of magic to harm anyone under my protection. Understand—you cannot match my power.”
Startled by the mental intrusion and threat, the Romani witch instinctively opened his mind to connect with the still-smiling tavern owner, linking their thoughts to extract any information that could give him an advantage over his brawny host. This ability was not spellwork; this was mind-walking , an innate power he had always possessed, inherited from his grandmother, along with his ability to move objects through sheer will and intention.
But try as he might, he could not penetrate Gian’s mind, the man’s mental defences like forged iron. As a secondary attempt to gather information, he read Gian’s aura, which immediately told him that this was no ordinary tavern owner, let alone a man! And he was no witch or druid, either.
The Romani witch realized Gian was an immortal, perhaps even a god from ancient times. He had never experienced power like this or seen such vibrant colours in an aura, except when he was once in the presence of the goddess Hecate, though her aura had felt far more potent.
“I mean no one harm or ill-will, immortal,” the Romani witch whispered trepidatiously, his lips scarcely parting as he spoke.
He was acutely aware that a god—if that was what Gian was—could easily catch his hushed words.
“I am on a quest driven by love, a mission of the heart.
For three long years, I have searched tirelessly for my beloved, and I will not rest until I find him.
“I cannot properly explain how my intuition functions, for it is a power drawn from my very blood, but I felt an inexplicable pull toward this region. And here, on this foul-tempered night, I find your village. If he is not here, I will discover that soon enough. Then, I shall savour a warm meal, enjoy the pleasure of some fine ale, and continue on my journey. Time is both my ally and my enemy.”
“ I sense no treachery in your words, traveller. Please, stay as long as you like. And though I doubt you need it, child of Hecate, you are under my protection here. I hope you find what you are looking for. I know what it is to have your great love be absent from your life. It is a terrible, soul-crushing thing.”
With that final, soundless statement, the pitch-black darkness surrounding Gian’s eyes receded, quickly restoring the orbs to their previous radiant copper hue.
The Romani witch immediately noticed that those deep, rich eyes were now accompanied by a few escaped tears, reflecting the palpable sadness emanating from the immortal’s heart. By Hecate! They are tears of blood!
Unaware—or unconcerned by his notice, which the Romani witch believed was the more probable action—the immortal moved with inhuman swiftness, brushing away the shimmering scarlet tears from his cheeks.
In seconds, their glistening trails vanished beneath his touch.
As the last remnants of sorrow evaporated, he seamlessly transformed back into the charming, amiable figure everyone knew and loved.
As the ale flowed and the conversations in the room remained lively, the Romani witch noted that no one appeared to have caught the tavern owner’s uncanny speed or his tears made of blood.
It was evident to him that the immortal had skillfully crafted this disguise of mortality to blend in, using his abilities to aid him in the endeavour.
Sensing that his intense scrutiny of Gian could draw unwanted attention, the Romani witch turned back to the warmth of the fire, where he could dry his clothes and retreat to his private thoughts.
Where are you, beloved?
“Your ale, sir,” Rufus announced cheerfully as he set the libation on the side table.
He did not recall the stranger giving out his name.
“On the house, as father said, and I hope you enjoy it.” Rufus was almost hovering over his guest, eager to provide excellent service.
He set down a stack of clean, dry linens beside the wooden flagon.
“I am sure it will be fine,” the Romani witch said, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.
As he turned to thank the young man directly, the Romani witch locked eyes with him.
A rush of excitement surged through his body, causing his heart to race.
In that exhilarating moment, which felt as if it would last forever, he realized that his long and tireless search had finally come to an end.