6. SPAIN 19th Century #9
Just as he was on the brink of vanishing completely from view, the immortal was pulled through the portal by an invisible force. Then, without a sound, the doorway closed, sealing off the passage between the two realms.
Alone in the middle of the deserted cobblestone street on the outskirts of northern Madrid, the Romani witch dropped to his knees and cried.
He cried not because he had failed to destroy the immortal but because his soul had been saved.
He understood this as soon as the wisdom of The Fates touched his heart.
He understood beyond a shadow of a doubt that had he performed that diabolical magic, eradicating an immortal soul, his own would have been utterly corrupted—possibly irrevocably.
That corruption would have cost him eternity with Aeneas in whatever state of being they were destined, or cursed, to share.
Collecting his thoughts, the Romani witch realized he must have dropped his enchanted parchment earlier in the shock of seeing the immortal.
He reasoned it had either blown away or been incinerated by fire.
Without any other amulets, talismans, or elixirs at his disposal, there was no magical way to locate Gian or Alejandro.
Every other spell he had for tracking required one or more of those items.
Still reeling from the tension and excitement of the ordeal, an unanticipated trial by fire for his immortal soul, the Romani witch began walking back toward the only route out of the dead-end street he was on.
He saw that the fires in this northern part of Madrid had gotten out of control and were soon to be upon him.
Shouts of men calling for aid, to bring water to douse the flames and blankets to smother the fires seemed almost on top of him.
The few people he encountered ran past him, ignoring his presence; they all had far more critical things to worry about than focusing on a man in a hooded cloak who seemed out of sorts, unpredictable, and possibly even mad.
As he turned a corner, lost in thought and not really paying attention, he tripped over a body on the street, causing him to nearly topple over.
After catching himself, he turned back to glare at the corpse as if it was their fault for being dead in the middle of the street and intentionally meant to trip him.
“No—” the Romani witch gasped, his voice cracking, the words catching in his throat. He wanted to fall down and die—right next to the lifeless body of Alejandro. The man had been shot several times through the chest and once in the head.
Bending down, the Romani witch picked up the corpse of the former Black Monk, the man who had housed the soul of his beautiful Aeneas, and cradled him close.
“What have they done to you, my love? What have I done to you? This is all my fault.”
As a wave of raw emotion poured over him, leading to gut-wrenching tears and deep moans of grief, the Romani witch attempted to heal Alejandro.
However, within seconds, he realized there was no point; the spirit had already departed.
Reviving a body without a soul was a magic only found within the Dark Arts, and he had experienced enough of that to last an eternity.
Only he had learned his lesson far too late, and the price was too steep; tragically, he was not the only one to pay it.
Looking up into the night sky, the Romani witch screamed out his pain, his suffering, his guilt.
He despised this lifetime more than any other filled with strife.
It was even worse than the time he had found Aeneas’ soul too late, and the vessel was dead.
This existence was infinitely more damning because he knew that man had died a hero in Greece, while this one had descended into villainy and black-heartedness.
The Romani witch took full blame for inadvertently corrupting Aeneas as Alejandro and ultimately causing his death. He had stripped the wizard of his power, robbing him of the only chance he had to defend himself.
As he felt the heat of the fires approaching, the Romani witch kissed Alejandro softly on the lips and hugged him tightly. In that moment, he became aware of the dagger’s remaining presence. As there was no pain, he had completely forgotten it was still embedded in his chest.
The Romani witch shifted the weight of Alejandro’s lifeless body to one arm and pulled the dagger out with his free hand.
The instant the blade was removed, the flesh closed up as if the wound had never existed.
Pressing a kiss to the hilt, he activated a charm etched into the weapon, causing it to vanish, returning to its secret hiding place somewhere in Tuscany, known only to him.
As he ran his fingers through Alejandro’s hair, the Romani witch gazed out at the streets filled with death, destruction, and looming fires. In that moment, he realized there was no place for him in this life anymore. He desired nothing more from it, and it had nothing to offer him.
Bending down, he pressed his lips gently against Alejandro’s; they were cold and still. A tremor of fathomless sorrow shook through him as he pulled away, his heart too heavy with grief. In a barely audible whisper, he murmured, “Beloved, please forgive me.”
Then, with an air of resolute acceptance, he embraced the encroaching flames that roared toward them.