2. BRITANNIA 4th Century #5
The immortal revelled in maniacal laughter, fully embracing the horror he had done.
His black eyes and the upturned smirk upon his face showed nothing but abject derision of mortal life.
He had enjoyed killing the Romani witch’s beloved.
He enjoyed killing. He pulled Rufus’ dead body off his arm and tossed it aside like the core of an eaten apple, like unwanted detritus.
He then pursued the stragglers: the elderly, the weak, and the children still trying to escape into the forest. He completely ignored the tormented Romani witch, even as he relished the man’s suffering.
He believed he had rendered the spellcaster impotent of further action, too crippled by despair; he intended to return for him later.
The fire continued to rage throughout the village; the air was heavy with cinders and soot.
As tears streamed down his ash-stained face, the Romani witch’s eyes became a haunting, spectral white. This was a sign that a witch had surrendered to the magic within, fully embracing the power of the emotional spectrum: sorrow, rage, and hate had consumed him.
The Romani witch let out another primal scream, but this time, the unrestrained howl was fueled purely by intense rage.
His Aeneas was dead once more, and he would make this monster pay.
He would make him burn!
The Romani witch stretched his arms out wide, making them as stiff as boards, and called out to the fire with his mind, heart and will. Tilting his head back, he chanted, “Ignis, veni ad me, ignis, veni ad me, ignis, veni ad me.” [“Fire, come to me.”]
With deft precision, he performed complex movements with his hands and fingers, weaving an elaborate series of arcane gestures. Each frenetic motion was imbued with passion and knowledge as he traced unseen sigils in the air, an intricate pattern of power waiting to be unleashed.
This was another of his grandmother’s powerful spells to control the elements, taught to him as a youth for protection or to inflict devastation, depending on the situation.
Currently, it would be used for both, but mainly for the latter.
The Romani witch’s fingers verily danced, imbued with magical energy, each fingertip alive and eager to summon an ancient elemental force’s wild and destructive power to him.
In an astonishing spectacle, the fierce blaze consuming the village and ominously threatening to soon engulf the neighbouring forest suddenly converged upon the Romani witch.
As the flames left the buildings and bodies and surged forward, they coiled and flitted around him, shimmering in shades of orange and crimson.
Remarkably, the fire did not sear his skin; it was controlled by the spell, forcing it to obey an invisible boundary. With an air of mastery, the Romani witch commanded the flames to bend their intensity and movement to his will.
And when the Romani witch was at the threshold of his spell, having gathered every last strand of flame, he thrust his arms forward with a dramatic flourish. He launched the massive conflagration toward his adversary, now surrounded by nothing but bloodied corpses.
“Burn, you bastard!”
The roaring inferno hurtled toward the wicked immortal with unstoppable fury, a relentless tide of flames engulfing the air with crackling heat. It soon enveloped the nefarious immortal in a harsh embrace of heat and flame.
The Romani witch, overwhelmed with grief and driven by hatred, waited with bated breath for his enemy to turn to cinders and ash, though he felt it was still too lenient a punishment for the murderous transgressor.
But the immortal would not burn.
Instead, unfazed by the flickering flames surrounding him, he let a derisive laugh escape his lips; it echoed through the chaos as he boldly made his way toward the spellcaster, each long, powerful stride obstinate to the crackling fire.
“How can this be?” the Romani witch cried. “This is madness! Why will you not succumb?” He smacked his hands together, entwined his fingers and pointed at the immortal. “Eum ardete!” [“Burn him!”]
However, no magical configuration of his hands and fingers or sheer willpower could make the fire hot or ferocious enough to immolate his enemy.
“What manner of god are you to stand defiantly against the very elements themselves?!” The Romani witch was taken aback, unprepared for such an imposing adversary.
His bloodline’s witchcraft held a definite potency, imbued with spiritual power from the whispers of his ancestors and the might of Terra, Mother Earth, and Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft.
Yet, he realized with growing trepidation that his skill in and knowledge of The Craft were woefully insufficient to confront a being of such primordial strength, empowered by the blood of his countless victims!
Before the Romani witch could even contemplate changing tactics, unleashing a different kind of spell, or making a desperate escape, the black-eyed immortal closed in on him with a chilling swiftness.
With a grip like iron, he seized the mortal man by the back of his neck and hoisted him effortlessly off the ground.
The Romani witch’s feet dangled in the air, his eyes wide with shock, as he was lifted into the cold embrace of the immortal’s power.
“I am both cursed and protected by The Fates, impudent witch,” the immortal stated through a clenched jaw, “and your hedge magic bores me.
Now, I have more malevolence to create, and time is not on my side as the god you call Gian returns soon.
I cannot wait for him to see you, all of you , his beloved mortal pets, dead and gutted.
I will relish his pain, bathe in his torment, though I cannot be present to witness it.
“Now, little witch, the time has come for you to be out of my hair. I will send you into the final darkness, where shadows whisper secrets, and the air is dense with the weight of so many lost, tortured souls!”
The Romani witch hung in the air, suspended by the god’s firm grip upon his neck, offering no resistance; his defiance had vanished like the fire, leaving only smoke upon the wind.
It was true he was utterly exhausted, and his physical and magical strength was sapped, but that was not the root cause of his acceptance of defeat; without his Aeneas in this world, he had no desire to continue existing in this lifetime.
Staring into the black emptiness of the immortal monster’s eyes, the Romani witch sneered and spoke a final epitaph for himself.
“If you truly are an immortal, foul creature, know this is not over! We will meet again. I promise y—!”
But the Romani witch could not complete his ominous, prophetic threat because the immortal had ripped his still-beating heart from his chest.