3. ÉIRE 9th Century #6
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.
“Odunē!” [“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.”
The imperious tone lingered in the night air like a dense fog, yet the source remained elusive. It reverberated around the Romani witch, unsettling yet bewitching. Still, no form materialized—nothing he could perceive with his eyes or sense with his magic. The fine hairs on his arms bristled.
And no other witch upon the Curragh acted as if they heard anything. The Romani witch snickered willfully. So, this is to be a private affair, then. On with it!
“I see you have no taste for games this auspicious night. You clearly did not appreciate my gift—the vision. You did not find it erotic, dangerous or exciting? So be it. Turn your gaze to the right, outsider, interloper in my domain. Look to the forest.”
Though the Romani witch did as instructed, he did so not out of any sense of obedience but of defiance. He did not like being mocked or played with. If this were a witch of the Celtae, he would show the little fool the power of the Roma, a power he had cultivated over centuries.
And if it was someone or something else, he was still prepared to work his magic offensively.
Two piercing, crimson eyes glowed ominously from the dark depths of the forest, fixated on the Romani witch who stood resolute not too far from the bonfire and a dancing, oblivious Aodhán.
“Come to me, witch of the Roma. Come before the Horned God, for Cernunnos would have words with you.”
Though a sneer of vexation besmirched his handsome face, the Romani witch was only mildly startled by the fact that yet another deity, another immortal, sought to interfere with him through tricks, games, and bedevilment.
Aside from Hecate, Gian, and the ineffable Mother Earth, the Romani witch no longer trusted the motives of any god, let alone their sense of benevolence.
And he knew very little about the Horned God, whose motives were enigmatic at best and deadly at worst, like any immortal.
“What do you want from me, Cernunnos? Know this—you are not the first immortal I have contended with, so expect no fear from me. And why should I not seek Aodhán’s aid at this moment? He would be at my side in a heartbeat.”
The red eyes remained fixed in place, hovering in mid-air, bodiless. “You believe you know a great deal, yet you are oblivious to so much. Yes, I suppose there is no time for games now, little witch. I asked you to come to me once. Now I demand it.”
Without warning, an invisible power wrested the Romani witch from his spot and pulled him aggressively toward the tree line, toward the glowing eyes.
There was nothing he could do; it was all happening too fast. He practically flew across the plain as the mystic, imperceptible power forcefully brought him into the forest.
The Romani witch recognized that this power was greater than his, even beyond the demon that had killed him in Britannia.
Although it closely resembled Hecate’s divinity, he intuitively knew it was a living force inferior to her might.
Still, it was a power most impressive and intimidating, and it was wise to respect it.
So he did, biting his insolent tongue.
Upon reaching the edge of the forest, Cernunnos released his captive sole audience. As the Romani witch stood in silence before him, the Horned God manifested in his full glory upon the mortal plane, settling onto the forest floor and positioning himself in a cross-legged stance.
Cernunnos wore a sleeveless tunic that revealed his muscular arms and thick veins, which visibly pulsed with the magic flowing inside him, as much a part of his body as his godly blood.
Although he went barefoot, he wore trousers stained with the blood of animals and earthy detritus, symbolizing his dominion over hunting and gathering, both practices revered in their own right.
Around his neck hung a beaded necklace, a treasured gift from the Goddess.
Silent as shadows, a stag and a boar suddenly emerged from the forest. Each took a standing position on a different side of the Horned God.
Before the Romani witch’s eyes, Cernunnos suddenly held a warrior’s torc in one hand and a serpent in the other, each symbolizing his power over man and beast. What impressed the mortal mystic most was not the magic that created these wonders from thin air but the impressive pair of antlers protruding from the god’s head.
There was no opportunity for the Romani witch to ask the Horned God why he alone had been summoned on this fateful night.
It was a time of ancient significance for the deity’s devoted worshippers, far more so than for an outsider from the distant Southlands.
With an air of sovereignty, Cernunnos spoke first.
“You have brought misfortune to my most favourite disciple, child of Hecate. Because of your weakness, you have doomed my Aodhán.”
The Romani witch inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing with indignation at the double affront of both the implication of harm and the sheer hubris of claiming ownership over his beloved, a soul for whom he would gladly lay down his life. And had.