6. SPAIN 19th Century #4
Upon reaching the outside, the Romani witch stood before the dilapidated, forsaken church, the false front for the Black School beneath, and began to hum. He had one last surprise to enact.
Only as he cast his spell, sharp pains suddenly surged through him; his cheek and forearm felt as if they had been savagely torn, breaking his concentration. To his shock, streams of crimson poured from the gashes, glistening in the moonlight like a shower of rubies. He had been wounded!
The black wizards had launched a sinister assault from deep underground, their magical attacks materializing outside their lair through the use of scrying pools and mystic portals.
Damn fool! You should have expected this!
“Laminae repellunt, magia deficit, nihil sinuntur perrumpere ad testam meam mortalem!” [“The blades repel, the magic fails, let nothing break through to my mortal shell!”]
Invisible energy immediately enveloped the Romani witch’s body, making the air as dense as diamond yet still breathable.
This was a defensive spell he had employed for millennia, one refined over centuries to protect against not only metal and fists but also magic.
He cursed himself for not having cast it immediately upon exiting the Black School.
Continuing his humming—a concentration technique—the Romani witch extended his magic downward through dirt and rock to connect with the fake grimoire underground, where it lay idle on the conjured stone table.
Then, with the power of his will, he combined the Spell of Connection with his portal magic, relinking the two books.
He intended to do more than merely channel an aura this time; he wanted to bring through the fire and lava within Vesuvius itself.
“Egredere!” [“Come forth!”]
The fiery elements surged forth, responding obediently to the Romani witch’s magic.
They poured through a newly appeared portal that connected the bowels of Vesuvius to the Black School, created by the two now open texts, their pages flaring like the wings of a phoenix.
The grimoires served as the anchors for the devastating spell.
The lava quickly filled the room and then flowed through the corridors of the Black School, destroying everything in its path and burning alive every Black Monk it encountered.
Many wizards desperately attempted to halt its maddening advance with ice and earth magic, but the dark power of Baba Yaga’s grimoire was unstoppable.
Some of the Black Monks attempted to create new portals to redirect the lava outside, but the Romani witch had anticipated this move.
He had embedded a hex within his spell that turned the wizards’ portals back on themselves, redirecting the lava to various locations within the Black School, accelerating the destruction of the institute.
Keeping the spell active, along with his protective field, began to take a toll on the Romani witch.
Blood began to flow from his nostrils, his eyes, and even his ears, but he would not cease his assault, not until the Black School was destroyed and every evil soul within it punished for corrupting Aeneas.
He also felt he deserved the pain; the damage to his body reminded him that he was just as guilty.
Although the Romani witch half-expected the founder of the wicked place to appear to protect their asset, nobody and nothing showed up. No dark god, no daemon, no army of Unseelie fairies.
When he saw the ground rumble and split, lava flooding the deconsecrated church, the Romani witch ended the spell, severing the connection between the two grimoires and closing the portal to Vesuvius.
Using the power of his mind, he tried to connect with any thoughts originating from deep beneath his feet, but all he could hear was silence.
The Black School had been destroyed, and every Black Monk who had dwelled within it was now dead.
I’m sure another wicked institution will rise to fill the void left by this one’s demise, but that’s not my concern to worry about, at least not today.
Exhausted and in pain, with his mana nearly depleted, the Romani witch turned his stiff neck toward the black carriage that sat idle across the street.
Inside, he could see the man who was Aeneas, whose name he did not yet know, sitting rigidly as he desperately struggled against the spell that bound him.
Even from a distance, the Romani witch could feel the rage and hatred emanating from the still man; it tore his heart asunder.
“I’ll bring you back to me, my love,” he said, wiping the blood from his eyes and mouth. “I will. I promise.”
On May 2, 1808, a wave of public outrage surged through the streets of Madrid.
The population’s violent reaction to the French military’s attempt to remove the remaining members of the Spanish royal family from power triggered what became known as the Dos de Mayo Uprising .
This event marked the beginning of widespread resistance against Napoléon Bonaparte’s forces and the start of the Peninsular War.
The proud Spanish people, fueled by deep-seated resentment towards the occupying French troops, clashed violently with Napoléon’s forces.
Now, upon the dawn of December that same year, it became clear to most of Europe that Madrid was likely to fall to the French military, whose superior tactics had suppressed nearly all the rebellions. Despite this, violent skirmishes continued in the streets.
Six months had passed since the destruction of the Black School, which took place only days before the uprising.
The Romani witch had found it impossible to leave the country safely during this time of strife, especially with a hostile companion who opposed him at every turn.
Instead, during the months of conflict between France and Spain, he sought refuge in Madrid, hoping to distance himself from the painful memories of Salamanca.
The capital of the Kingdom of Spain was the furthest he could reach before the incessant fighting made it too complicated to continue moving freely.
Although the innkeepers of the dwelling they were staying in were welcoming and accommodating, mistakenly believing them to be Spanish nationalists, the Romani witch longed to return to his villa in Tuscany with his beloved by his side.
He eventually came to discover that the name of the former Black Monk who held Aeneas’ soul was Alejandro Trevino.
This information was not acquired easily, as the highly uncooperative man refused every request to share it.
Consequently, it had been forcibly extracted from his mind, though the process was painless.
Fortunately for the Romani witch, Alejandro’s natural mental defences were practically nonexistent.
The Spaniard’s access to magic was blocked by powerful sigils painted throughout the room, much to his vexation.
Each sigil, from those on the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling, pulsed with mystical energy as if aware of Alejandro’s presence and consciously obstructing his access to the magical forces he so desperately sought to call upon.
Every spell he uttered to free himself or attack his captor and every otherworldly creature and deity he invoked for aid ended up being nothing more than weak words fluttering in the air like ashes from a long-extinguished fire.
The Blood Puppet spell, useful while travelling, was naturally unsuitable for facilitating genuine free thought and mutual communication; it had been withdrawn.
However, since Alejandro could not be trusted to act rationally or nonviolently, the Romani witch was forced to utilize the sigils and then conjure invisible chains to keep the handsome Spaniard physically immobilized.
He was either restrained in a chair or in bed, but only during sleeping hours for the latter; Alejandro was granted control over his body from the neck up only.
“Are you hungry?” the Romani witch asked sympathetically as he tried to block out the grim sounds of gunfire and shouting outside the window. “Do you need to use the privy?”
“Go to hell, you bastard!”
The Romani witch sighed deeply as he slumped back down in the chair across from Alejandro, feeling defeated and tired. Six months and nothing I’ve attempted has changed anything. He’s still as spiteful and aggressive as when I first took him from the Black School.
The enmity in Alejandro’s voice displayed his intense hatred for both his situation and the person responsible for it; it tore at the Romani witch’s heart.
Over the past six months, he had cast the Spell of Recollection upon Alejandro many times, uttering the ancient words to help the man’s mind and heart reconnect with Aeneas’ soul and recall a piece of his past lives.
And, most importantly, his true self: the half-Egyptian, half-Roman witch who had been cut down in his prime for courageously living his truth.
Nothing had come of any of it.
“Are you going to cry again?” Alejandro snickered, staring menacingly at his captor.
The Romani witch rose in a non-threatening manner from his chair, an aura of calm confidence enveloping him as he strode toward his captive.
With each measured step, the air thickened with an uneasy tension.
When he was mere breaths away, he raised a hand and gently caressed Alejandro’s cheek, his touch warm and sensual.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Forever.”
Then, with a sudden and decisive grip, the Romani witch seized the red-haired man’s chin, held his neck in place, and crashed his lips against Alejandro’s in a fervent kiss.
Alejandro’s resolve hardened; he refused to respond, his muscles coiling tightly in defiance. He did not return the kiss, and if the Romani witch tried to slip his tongue into his mouth, he would fight against it with all his strength, even attempting to bite the invading appendage off.