2. BRITANNIA 4th Century #4
Quickly placing his hands on his thighs, the Romani witch whispered a prayer to his grandmother and then shouted, “Celeritas! Veloces haec crura facito!” [“Speed! Make these legs fast!”]
An immediate surge of strength coursed through his youthful body; he felt the robust growth and tightening of his stomach, thigh, and calf muscles, all without pain.
With a burst of energy, the Romani witch launched down the winding dirt path toward the village, running with incredible speed.
He was a blur, swift and graceful, sailing past Rufus like an arrow released from the taut string of a master bowman.
The wind whipped through his long, black hair, and the earthy scent of the path filled his lungs, fueling his stride as he raced toward the village.
On his way to aid his fellow townspeople, he barely had time to consider what lay ahead, knowing he would encounter danger at any moment. But ponder for a brief instant, he did.
Who is this enemy? The Hibernians? The Caledonians and Picts, or even the blasted Romans?! And with Gian away!
The Romani witch understood that without the mighty immortal to eliminate this looming threat, he was the only hope for his village’s salvation; these people were mostly farmers and fishermen, hardly warriors.
Neither was he, but he was a proud and powerful witch of the Roma.
Unlike his beloved Aeneas, he would use his arcane knowledge and uncanny gifts for violence if necessary.
For all time, he would do everything in his power to prevent what happened to his family from happening to others.
As he slowed his momentum upon entering the village center, calling back the magic empowering his spell, the Romani witch was unprepared for what his eyes now beheld.
The carnage was everywhere. Bloodied and beaten-to-death bodies lined the streets.
Some looked torn to shreds, as if an animal had viciously mauled them.
But there were no wolves about. And there was no army or raiding party before him either.
There was no group of men at all.
In fact, the Romani witch did not believe this solitary villain before him was even human.
His very presence exuded a vile, disquieting aura as if he were a creature born of dark sorcery.
His pallor is as pale as death, and his eyes are black as midnight, as ebon onyx!
Those eyes are like Gian’s when he wills them to be so.
The figure wore a regal dress, a tunic designed in the Grecian style, which appeared to be made of silk damask, although it was now horribly stained with blood and gore.
The man’s hair was as black as pitch, even darker than his eyes, which seemed impossible but was nonetheless true.
The hair also possessed a shimmering tint of blue, an unnatural colour that captivated and deeply disturbed the Romani witch.
He understood that this was an unnatural man .
Hecate, protect me! This is no mere man. This is an immortal!
“Everyone, run to the forest!” the Romani witch shouted at the top of his voice.
“Flee for your lives!” He knew he had to stop the fiend’s murderous rampage quickly, one that had no provocation!
These peaceful people here could not have done anything to anger this strange, foreign god.
You will not carry out your perverted pleasures here, monster!
Without another word or thought wasted, the Romani witch moved to action. Pointing at the immortal, he shouted, “Aer densatur — prohibere movere!” [“The air thickens—stop moving!”]
The terrifying being turned its black, soulless eyes in his direction; rivulets of blood were splashed across his pale, marble-like face. The Romani witch caught sight of sharp, glistening fangs jutting menacingly from the immortal’s sneering mouth.
A blood-drinker! Hecate, grant me strength! “Prohibere movere!” the Romani witch shouted again, pointing with intention. Sweat built upon his brow as he concentrated, focusing on the desired target of his spellwork.
Just as the immortal began to glide toward the magical threat with an air of malevolent intent, poised to strike and kill the spellcaster, he suddenly felt an overpowering inertia come over him as if ensnared in a thick cocoon of viscous honey.
Each movement, each stretch, was like wading through quicksand.
The Romani witch’s spell had finally immobilized his foe, rendering the immortal helpless, rooted to the spot.
“Beloved!” Rufus cried out amid the din and confusion. “Where are you?!” He worried that his voice would be drowned out by the scores of shouting men, screaming women, and crying children attempting to escape the massacre.
“Over here!” the Romani witch yelled, waving his hands in the air.
Entering the chaos, Rufus was stunned by the butchery and devastation that defiled his once-beautiful home.
The men he knew to be strong and virile all lay dead upon the ground, their hardly used iron weapons, whether sword, axe or spear, all broken and strewn around their corpses.
Fires blazed everywhere, consuming buildings and leaving destruction in their wake.
Even his and Gian’s tavern was on the verge of collapse, engulfed by the relentless, unforgiving flames.
“Who could have done this?” Rufus gasped in horror and disbelief.
The Romani witch watched from across the village centre as his beloved stood frozen in place, weeping at the death and devastation all around him. This was his Aeneas, his soul shining through, a man with a gentle heart and a profound abhorrence of hatred and violence.
Suddenly, a horrid sound echoed into the night: a shrill, unearthly laughter.
The Romani witch turned his gaze in the direction of his prisoner.
“You think to bind me, heretic?!” the immortal raged. “I am beyond your understanding, exceeding the limitations of your witchcraft. I am more than flesh and blood!”
Before the Romani witch’s eyes, the immortal’s form began to lose its solidity, transforming into something diaphanous and ethereal.
Wisps of shadow and light mingled around him, giving the fiend a spectral quality.
Finally, like a whisper of smoke escaping into the night, the immortal soared beyond the confines of the spell, slipping away as if he were never there at all.
Just like an apparition.
But the Romani witch was a quick thinker. One of the first acts of magic his grandmother ever taught him was the summoning, binding, and removal of spirits.
Hurriedly reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a small, rustic-looking bundle of dried white sage, a sacred herb for his people. The Romani witch had recently harvested it, and he knew that leaves gathered from late summer through early autumn yielded the most potent results.
Holding the bundle outward toward the misty apparition, the Romani witch whispered the Latin word for fire, “Ignis,” and the sage ignited. The flame was diminutive, just enough to approximate the force he used to conjure it. However, it created smoke, which was the primary goal.
“Spiritus discedit!” [“The spirit departs!”] Upon stating those words boldly, the Romani witch blew the sage smoke with all his might toward the apparition.
“Begone, unnatural creature of shadow and fog!” He was uncertain if his spirit magic would affect an immortal, even in a ghostly form, but he needed to try.
After a few tense moments, the ethereal figure twisted its visage into a grotesque grimace, locking eyes with the spellcaster. Suddenly, with an intense shimmer, the apparition dissolved into thin air.
It worked! Praise to the ancestors. And to you, grandmother, for all your teachings.
However, the witch could already sense an ominous, dark force creeping close, the sinister aura of the immortal swelling and intensifying like a gathering storm.
Already returning to the physical realm? Stab your eyes, monster! How strong are you?
Turning his head to where he last saw Rufus, the Romani witch spotted him amid the smoke and confusion, frantically gathering the straggling, traumatized children who had lost their parents and were too frightened of the monster in their midst and the fire to flee into the forest.
It made the Romani witch’s heart swell with pride and adoration at how selfless, caring, and unafraid his beloved was. And it was all Rufus could do to help in the situation, anyway, for he had none of Aeneas’ mystic power. No matter how special he was to the Romani witch, he remained just a man.
“Rufus, get the children out of here,” the Romani witch commanded. “Take them and go now! I do not know how long I can hold back this — no, Rufus! Behind you! Behind you!”
But the warning came too late.
The ineffable, powerful fiend, having overpowered the Romani witch’s banishment spell, rematerialized behind Rufus with an eerie silence as if emerging from the very shadows of the grave itself.
But that was not all; in a diabolical prelude, the formless figure had elongated his spectral arm through the unsuspecting young man’s chest with an insidious agenda.
And as he resolidified before the stunned Romani witch’s eyes, the limb, like every part of the immortal’s body, became as solid as marble and nearly indestructible—and it tore Rufus’ torso apart, killing him instantly.
The event unfolded with a terrifying swiftness, leaving the Romani witch no time to act.
He could only watch in horror as the malevolent immortal’s wicked deed took away what he cherished most in all the world.
A feeling of infinite despair and ardent fury surged within him like a foul tempest as he conceded that his love had once again been ripped from his grasp by a monstrous, hateful, mocking foe, leaving his heart shattered and his spirit deeply wounded.
The Romani witch unleashed a haunting scream; it was a mournful cry filled with heartache and anguish that echoed throughout the dusky sky.