TVD SEASON 6 – THE SOVEREIGNTY SAGA

The following chapters are a reimagining of Season 6 of The Vampire Diaries. All mythologies and canon elements established throughout Season 6 and beyond on television do not apply to this version of events. These events take place after the Season 5 finale.

"The kind of magic my mother practiced…it's unnatural. Witches don't even call it magic. We call it Expression. Channelling the power of human sacrifices calls on darkness that can't exist on this plane without swallowing it whole!" – Nandi LaMarche

PART 2

Love Immortal

Qetsiyah poured the pig's blood into the clay cup, mixing it together with the blood of a serpent, the blood of a young virgin, and the dust from a meteorite that fell from the sky that her people took as a piece of the eternal protogenoi Uranus, the Greek primordial deity of the heavens above. Murmuring an incantation in Aramaic under her breath, the cup slowly began to rise and levitate over the fire. Qetsiyah remained seated cross-legged as she closed her eyes while the blood mixed together along with the dust, coming to a boil as she murmured the incantation more intensely, beads of sweat cascading down her mocha-coloured skin.

Finally, she opened her eyes and stood up, grabbing the cup from out of the air. Despite the boiling of the blood, the cup itself was as cold as ice. Qetsiyah raised the cup to her nose, smelling it to ensure that all the contents had been mixed together successfully.

"Is it ready?" asked a young man, dressed in a dark green toga, as he burst into her tent. "The High Cleric is becoming impatient."

"And I am becoming impatient with his impatience…that old fool can wait!" Qetsiyah snapped as Silas approached. Her long, wavy raven black hair cascaded over her face and reached her shoulders, hiding the straps of the white frock that she wore. The curtain of hair also helped to hide the irritation that was painted all over her face.

Silas stood in front of her and parted her hair away. He placed his finger under her chin and gently lifted her head so that she was looking at him, staring into her large, dark brown eyes. "Listen, we're in this together, remember? My life rests on this as well as yours. Once you do this, we can be together forever!"

She marvelled at how utterly calming looking into her beloved's face was, with his flawless almond-milk coloured skin, masculine square jaw and thick eyebrows that would help to accentuate his emotions towards her. The irritation melted away as Qetsiyah stared back into Silas' greenish-blue eyes. She ran her hand through his lush brown, slightly curly hair.

"I'm sorry, my love," she replied, exhaling. "I'm so tired. This is the third time we've been tasked with this spell, and I don't see how it's going to be different this time around."

Silas grabbed the cup and stared into it, swirling the thick blood mixture around. "I don't get why it's not working. The gods themselves guided us with this spell."

Qetsiyah turned away in disgust. "Humph! The gods! If they were so powerful, they would cast the spell themselves and be done with it. Or have the High Cleric do it."

"Be careful, beloved," Silas warned. "They are already displeased with you for your journey to the East to see that Nazarene prophet."

She raised an eyebrow as she looked away. "I had to see what all the fuss was about. The stories that were told of him—the magic he wielded—the rumour that he expelled one of our own gods out of a devoted follower? So many of our friends left the coven to join his cult. He piqued my curiosity. If such a man exists, then he should be greater than the gods!" She shook her head as she recalled her journey to Jerusalem. "I arrived just in time to see him be arrested and then put to death. How remarkable of a man could he be if the Roman governor could easily order his execution to appease the locals?"

"I don't know," Silas answered. "What I do know is that your trip almost cost both of us our lives. The High Cleric thought you a defector like the others. He was softened only by my mentioning of our spell for immortality. Otherwise, we might have been the next ones on the sacrificial altar. And we still might be if we don't get this spell right."

Qetsiyah shook her head at him. "I can't believe you told him. You wanted me to do this spell for us!"

"You know how he is," Silas replied. "I did it to protect you!"

Qetsiyah sighed as she walked over to Silas. She hugged him while burying her head in his shoulder. "Oh, Silas! I can't wait until this is all over. When we are married, we will finally—"

"Be happy and together. How quaint!" said a deep but hoarse voice.

Silas and Qetsiyah startled as an old man entered the tent. He was tall and lanky, standing about a foot taller than Silas. With a clean shaven face and thinning white hair that was slicked back, he approached them dressed in a black cloak with the hood pulled back, with peculiar writings sewn all along the hem. Aside from his imposing height was his white skin that was incredibly pale; not so pale as though there was no life to it, but as though he was sick, stricken with some kind of disease that robbed him of the colour of vitality. It helped to accentuate the age spots that were prevalent over his hands and face that made him look all the more elderly. However, the appearance was highly deceiving as he was incredibly agile and robust for a man of his advanced age.

"My lord!" Qetsiyah blurted as both she and Silas went to one knee as the High Cleric approached them.

"Rise," commanded the High Cleric.

Qetsiyah and Silas rose up. She took the cup from Silas and respectfully offered it to the High Cleric.

"So, will it work this time?" the High Cleric asked as he took the cup.

"I am confident we—"

"We are losing confidence in your confidence, Qetsiyah!" the High Cleric interjected.

Qetsiyah bit her lip and clenched her hands as she looked down from having her own phrasing volleyed back to her. She hated when he did that, when he would infer about things as though he had knowledge about them but would never directly admit that he did. It kept her on edge, not knowing if he somehow knew her clandestine plans, if he could read her thoughts, if he could hear her faintest whispers that she had said under her breath when she thought she was alone. It frustrated her that she did not know because he was so inconsistent with such revelations. It seemed at times as though he did know, and at other times, he did not. Though he was a powerful warlock in his own right and both she and Silas had learned much under his tutelage, there were still secrets to his power that she did not understand.

She looked up and locked eyes with him, but only for a brief moment as she felt forced to turn her gaze away as she would if she were trying to look directly at the sun. She hated his eyes. On the surface, there was nothing extraordinary about them. They were dark brown, almost black, sunken deeper within the eye socket so that he almost looked like a skull with eyes. They were framed with the paleness of his skin, interrupted by dark patches under the eye, typical of someone that looked like they didn't get enough sleep.

But when she stared deeper into his eyes, she couldn't help but get a sense of nothing being there. It was like looking into the eyes of a statue, knowing that nothing was behind them but cold rock. His eyes conveyed the same sensation, as though there was nothing to signify a human being was looking back at her—no joy, no pain, no love, no concern, no apathy and no humanity. There was nothing but a seeming emptiness—a void. Having looked into the eyes of her beloved just moments before, the contrast was jarring.

"We have a volunteer waiting to be reborn as an immortal. Come!" the High Cleric ordered, turning swiftly on his heel and out the tent. Silas and Qetsiyah looked at each other, held the other's hand while they both breathed in deeply and followed.

The night sky was clear, the air crisp yet warm, the almost full moon and bright stars providing a supplementary light to the dark ceremony about to take place. The High Cleric led them to an open garden where more of their coven, some carrying torches, stood together in a circle. All of them kept a fair distance from a skinny, dishevelled young man who was kneeling at the center. He was dressed in rags that barely covered his body, with parts of his exposed white skin cracked and red. His thick, black hair was thinning and falling out, both on his head and his beard. He struggled to stay upright, quivering and coughing as he babbled a prayer under his breath, his right arm cradled against his chest, the hand deformed into a petrified claw. His left eye was bloated and red, blind and infected beyond healing. Lesions covered his face, arms and legs, the effects of leprosy having taken its toll on him.

"Acolytes, behold! This is the reward you have waited for," hollered the High Cleric to the crowd. "Your devotion, your sacrifices, your faith has come to this. Though the gods have bestowed upon you the gifts of magic and the power to control Nature itself, it was not enough, was it?! You wanted more! You dared ask for more! Ungrateful pieces of excrement!"

The High Cleric became animated as he scanned the crowd, his face twisting into a mask of animosity and disgust. "The gods granted you power over those who followed other gods, and all they asked was a pittance of a sacrifice to show your appreciation and loyalty. This sacrifice apparently proved too much for some of you. Some of the unfaithful have left, believing in the rumours and stories of a man of the East who heals the sick and promises eternal life. I ask you—where is this man? What has become of him?"

He spun around and pointed towards Qetsiyah.

"DEATH!"

Qetsiyah recoiled, unsure as to why he was pointing at her or what he was implying.

The High Cleric turned his attention back to the multitude. "Death consumed him! She saw it herself. She is a witness to his demise. All those who left us to follow him will now see death too. But you? Your faith will be rewarded. You have asked the gods for more, and in their mercy, they saw it fit to bestow more upon you, though you are hardly worthy! The Rings of Ambrosia were but a small demonstration of the power that they seek to grant upon you all. Here…now…witness the gift of immortality. Witness the gift of supreme health. Witness the gift of Akhkharu!"

The High Cleric approached the leper. He grabbed him by the hair to tilt his head back. Silas squirmed in his place as he watched the High Cleric physically touch the diseased man, amazed at his complete lack of fear. However, it was not the first time he had witnessed the High Cleric do such a thing and wondered how he could touch those infected with the disease and not be afraid to become infected himself, as so many others had done before him.

The man with leprosy quivered as he looked up at the High Cleric. "I am—*cough*—ready. Save me from this death."

The High Cleric smirked as he poured the blood mixture into the man's mouth. The man began to choke and coughed up some of the blood.

"Maggot…DRINK!" commanded the High Cleric, gritting his teeth and widening his eyes.

The man forced himself to drink the rest of the mixture. When it was all gone, the man remained kneeling, wiping the blood off his mouth while trying to catch his breath.

The High Cleric took out a small dagger from under his cloak and held it up high. "To defy the god of death, one must see him first and defy him to his face!"

He put the blade to the leper's neck and sliced deep. The leper's eyes bulged out as he warbled and hacked, grasping at his throat as blood flowed from the cut like a waterfall. He gasped a final breath and keeled over face first onto the ground, his blood pooling and expanding beneath him, his body lifeless and still.

The onlookers whispered in shock amongst themselves, pointing to the man as the High Cleric wiped the blade with a cloth while he circled the fresh corpse. As he continued to circle, with his head facing down at the leper, his eyes looked up and glared at Qetsiyah. She steeled herself and nodded in affirmation, indicating that the spell indeed was going to work this time.

After the High Cleric completed a third orbit, the lifeless man's hand started to twitch. It then began flexing, grasping at the earth. Soon the other hand that had been crippled and deformed by leprosy reached out with full function. The devout followers gasped and murmured in astonishment as the man pushed himself off the ground.

The lesions were gone. Both his eyes were normal and healthy. His hair became lush and full again. The cut on his throat had completely healed. The new akhkharu appeared revitalized and potent.

"How do you feel?" the High Cleric asked him.

He looked down at his hands as he clenched them. "I feel…strong! Powerful!"

He lifted his eyes and began looking around at all the bystanders. "I—I can hear…everything! I can hear your hearts beating."

He looked up into the night sky. "I can hear the night—the beasts and the fowl and the heart of Gaia herself!"

The akhkharu closed his eyes and breathed in deep through his nose. His eyes shuttered open as his face contorted to an expression of repugnance. "I can smell your filth. I can smell your sweat. I can smell—"

His face smoothed over and his brows relaxed as he slowly turned his attention to a woman in the crowd. He started breathing heavily as his eyes half closed and his hands twitched, his senses becoming enraptured in the new, intoxicating scent that he had picked up. The whites of his eyes became red-shot while the outside of his eyes became framed by a black and veiny mask.

In the span of a second, the akhkharu had run to the High Cleric and swiped the dagger from his hand and then appeared in front of the woman. She looked up at him in horror as he stood in front of her, gripping the dagger in his hand, his monster eyes wide and staring intently at her body, his tongue slurping in and out of his mouth like some rabid dog desperate for something to eat. She put her hands up defensively and backed away. She then turned to run but was grabbed by the akhkharu who pulled her back towards him.

Don't move. Please, don't move.

He thought the command. He was breathing so hard and the smell in his nostrils was so intense that it robbed him of his ability to say the words out loud. But nevertheless, he thought them. He projected them out towards his intended victim and to his amazement, she stopped moving. She remained in her place, looking at him with frightened eyes, unsure as to what he was going to do or why she felt compelled to remain motionless.

He looked over her frock-covered body, from her breasts to her navel to her waist to her loins. He realized that she was menstruating, and it was there that he had picked up the scent. His eyes roamed back up to her face and then to her neck. He picked up her heartbeat, beating at a tempo that rivaled the hooves of a galloping horse. He looked at her jugular vein, sensing the strong current of blood streaming through the soft, fleshy tube.

In an instant, the akhkharu ran the dagger in his hand through her neck. It was with such speed and force that the hilt rammed against her flesh, the tip of the blade suddenly appearing on the other side of her neck. The woman gulped and gurgled as she tried to scream but couldn't, as she tried to raise her hands up to defend herself but couldn't, as she tried to run away but couldn't.

The onlookers beside her gasped in horror as they stepped back, watching as the man pulled the blade out from the woman's neck, blood immediately squirting out like wine from a punctured wineskin. The akhkharu opened his mouth over the wound, sucking and drinking the blood that spurted out. He grasped the back of her head to stabilize it, while he dropped the knife and wrapped his arms around her waist. At a distance, it looked like a lover embracing his beloved, erotically nibbling on her neck. In reality, it was a newly-born, undead abomination dreadfully draining the life of his first victim, lapping and stabbing at the bloody gash with his tongue to increase the euphoric nourishment that had enraptured him while the woman's tear-filled eyes slowly closed, her lungs gasping a final breath, death quickly overtaking her.

The High Cleric smiled as Qetsiyah bowed her head, still unsure that the spell was the success that it appeared to be.

The akhkharu pulled his head away from the woman's neck and let go of her, allowing her dead body to drop to the ground. He wiped his mouth with his arm and licked the blood that was smeared there. He bent down to pick up the dagger and ran over to the High Cleric in the blink of an eye and stood in front of him.

"My lord," the akhkharu said, bowing his head while offering the handle of the blade to him.

The High Cleric took the blade in his one hand while he put his other hand on the akhkharu's shoulder and addressed the crowd of astonished and frightened onlookers.

"Do you see now, the power of your gods? To restore life and power to this once dead man? This is the glory that awaits you all. But understand that such a power comes with even more sacrifice. Your children's lives are not enough anymore. Now, you must—"

The High Cleric's oration was interrupted by the sudden choking and coughing coming from the akhkharu. He abruptly bent over, grasping at his stomach as he snorted out blood from his nostrils and spit out blood from his mouth.

"Wha—what is happ—en—ing—" the man cried out.

He stood erect again and started to convulse and shake as though electrical currents were running through him. Additional blood began streaming from his eyes and his ears. His body cramped up and stiffened, with his arms bent and his hands open but clutched. New lesions began to open over his body with blood and puss oozing out. He continued to hack and snort and warble up blood from his mouth and nose as he looked to the High Cleric with pleading eyes and then looked to the crowd for any kind of help. A final gurgling sound emanated from him as he finally stopped convulsing and stood perfectly still, eventually teetering over onto the ground like a falling tree in the forest. His entire body lay stiff like a fallen statue, with his arms still bent, his eyes and mouth still open. Blood continued to trickle out from every orifice on his face.

The High Cleric bent down and examined the man. He touched his skin and felt the familiar cold sensation of death. The High Cleric gritted his teeth as he stabbed the dagger into the side of the deceased akhkharu.

"LEAVE! ALL OF YOU!" the High Cleric yelled, standing up to berate the crowd. "PREPARE MORE CHILDREN FOR THE SACRIFICE! YOUR GODS MUST BE APPEASED FOR YOUR PATHETIC LACK OF FAITH! THIS FAILURE IS ON YOUR HEADS!"

The crowd dispersed in a panic as the High Cleric looked down at the corpse. Silas and Qetsiyah looked nervously at each other as they prepared to leave as well.

"Phasmatos Motus Robix!" the High Cleric angrily spit out as he spun around and outstretched his right hand towards Qetsiyah.

Qetsiyah felt herself being lifted off the ground and telekinetically pulled towards the High Cleric. She flew rapidly through the air until her neck was in the High Cleric's clutch.

"I grow weary of your failures, my dear Qetsiyah!" he moaned in a low and bitter voice as he gnashed his teeth, his grip around Qetsiyah's throat slowly increasing in power.

"My—*ack*—lord—I—*ack*"

Silas watched from afar as Qetsiyah struggled against the High Cleric's grip, eventually falling to her knees. He contemplated for a moment about turning away and leaving her since to interfere meant potential death for him too. But he realized that he needed her. If she died, then it fell on him to complete the Akhkharu Spell. Despite his advanced abilities in magic, she was far more adept at spells than he was and he knew he could not complete the spell without her. He rushed over to Qetsiyah and the High Cleric and tried to temper his rage.

"My lord! Please! We will fix the spell. We can fix it!" Silas pleaded as he tried to reason with the High Cleric.

The High Cleric's face was expressionless, with no indication whatsoever that he was listening to anything Silas was saying. His eyes didn't blink and his breathing seemed to slow to a crawl.

Silas looked at Qetsiyah and saw her eyes roll back into her head. He realized her time was short and so he spontaneously grabbed at the High Cleric's forearm. It was practically bone and skin, with very little muscle or fat to hide the greenish blue veins circulating around the arm, so Silas assumed he could move it easily. But when he tried to pull the arm away from Qetsiyah's throat, it seemed to be as hard and as impossible to move as a slab of marble. Despite Silas being at least 70 years younger than the High Cleric, all his youthful strength and power could not make the High Cleric's arm budge in the slightest.

How is this possible? The spell he cast, it wouldn't make him this strong!

He grew desperate and thought of performing a spell of his own to break the High Cleric's hold. But he debated on which one he should use, since to use an attack spell would be regarded as that—an attack. To attack the High Cleric meant death, if not by the High Cleric himself, then by the other acolytes. Though a spell to kill him instantly would be sufficient, he and Qetsiyah would immediately become fugitives, which he did not want to become—at least not with Qetsiyah by his side.

Silas continued to struggle desperately with the High Cleric's grip. "Please! We need more time. The spell is incredibly difficult and we need a greater power source." His eyes darted from side to side as he tried to think of something to convince the High Cleric. "The darkening of the moon! It is coming in a few days. We can use that as a source of power. That should be sufficient to complete the spell. Please, my lord!"

The High Cleric slowly blinked as he loosened his grip. Qetsiyah slipped from his grasp and crumpled onto the ground, barely conscious, wheezing and coughing as she clutched at her throat.

Silas sighed in relief as the High Cleric turned to him.

"Thank you, my lord. As I said, we—"

"Do not take this act of mercy with ease, Silas!" the High Cleric scolded. "Since I have agreed to abide by certain…restrictions…in this matter, I have no choice but to leave this spell to you to complete. You and Qetsiyah are the most adept of the acolytes and you will be rewarded greatly for your success. But those restrictions do not include sparing your lives if your incompetence becomes intolerable. If you cannot complete it, then I will find others who can. And I will see to it that Qetsiyah suffers unimaginably before your eyes before I execute her and you as well!"

The High Cleric grabbed the hood of his cloak and lifted it over his head to where his entire face became hidden in shadow. He leaned in close to Silas' ear and began to whisper in a voice that suddenly wasn't his own. It was a voice that sounded as both male and female, young and old, as both serious and amused. It was unlike anything Silas had ever heard before.

"And if Qetsiyah's suffering does not stir you, perhaps the suffering of a lovely, young handmaiden will!"

Silas faintly shivered at both the revelation the High Cleric had dropped on him and the way he had delivered it. He looked at the High Cleric, and though he could no longer see his face, he was sure he was smiling at him.

The High Cleric turned and walked away. Silas remained motionless and waited until he was a fair distance away before kneeling down and attending to Qetsiyah.

"Are you alright?" he softly asked her.

Murmuring a healing spell under her breath, Qetsiyah stood up with Silas' help. She breathed in deeply and with watery eyes, stared as the High Cleric walked completely out of sight.

"I'm done with this!" she exclaimed with her lip snarling, her eyebrows furrowed as she rubbed her neck.

She turned and began marching back to her tent. Silas quickly followed and caught up to her.

"Qetsiyah! I bought us some more time. We have until the moon's darkening to figure out what is wrong with this spell. If we don't, we're ruined!"

"I already know what is wrong with the spell! Ever since the first time we cast it, I've had my suspicions," Qetsiyah said, resolute and focused. "This last failure only confirmed it. Nature will not allow something so powerful and immortal to live in the flesh. The powers must be lessened. There must be a balance."

"So which powers do we lessen? There's so much that we can—"

"I've already figured that out and have a different spell ready to be cast."

Silas stopped walking and grabbed Qetsiyah by the arm, spinning her around and bringing her in close. "You what?"

Qetsiyah's determined attitude diminished into a soft plea.

"I'm sorry, my love," she replied, "I—"

"You have a spell that will work and you didn't tell me?"

"I wanted to," she beseeched, placing her hand on Silas' chest. "But the High Cleric seems to know every secret we keep that I couldn't risk him finding out."

"But why even keep it from him? It's what he has asked for. It would save both of our lives?"

Qetsiyah pushed Silas away in revulsion. "And let that withered old mule reap the benefits of our hard work, only for him to kill us afterwards?!"

She closed her eyes as she regained her composure. Her expression softened as she once again drew closer to Silas. "I did it for us like you had asked. WE will be the sole recipients of the Immortality Spell. WE will be the ones to live forever! Our love will never die!"

Silas looked away as he absorbed Qetsiyah's words. She looked at his pondering face and mistook it for anger. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulders, closing her eyes. "Forgive me, my love. I wanted it to be a surprise. A wedding gift! Once we become immortal, we won't have to worry about the High Cleric or the gods or anyone doing anything to us ever again. What can they do to those who cannot die?"

A young woman dressed in a simple, purple garb with a veil slightly covering her long, chestnut brown hair, approached them on the road carrying a torch. She bowed her head towards Qetsiyah, who had her back to her.

"I've completed my tasks for the evening, my lady. Is there anything more that you require?" she meekly asked.

Qetsiyah let out an annoyed sigh, with her eyes still closed and her head still on Silas' shoulder, before answering her handmaiden. "No, Amara. That is all for tonight. You may go now."

Amara kept her head bowed but looked up at Silas. He looked at her over Qetsiyah's head, locking his gaze to Amara's dark, brown eyes. They both coyly smiled at each other, exchanging an unspoken message of lust and love that no one else could hear. Their silent communication was interrupted by Qetsiyah's stirring. She opened her eyes and noticed that Amara had not left.

"I said leave, Amara!" Qetsiyah commanded.

"Yes, my lady. My apologies," Amara sheepishly replied, bowing her head. She looked at Silas a final time and flashed a grin before turning around and walking away.

"You shouldn't be so hard on her, beloved," Silas said as he watched Amara's torch disappear into the night while still embracing Qetsiyah. "After all, during those months that you were gone, she attended to all your affairs quite admirably."

Qetsiyah pulled her head back from Silas' shoulder and stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing!" Silas said, smiling nervously. "It's just that she never neglected any of her duties despite your absence. That's something to be appreciated, no?"

Her eyes looked down and away, seemingly questioning the answer Silas had given her.

"Listen, let us not get distracted here. You have the spell ready? Then we will become immortal on our wedding day! This is a time to celebrate," Silas said, smiling excitedly while caressing Qetsiyah's face.

He leaned in to kiss her and her response was warm. She wrapped her arms around his neck, prolonging the kiss, savouring the taste and feel of his soft lips. He abruptly broke their tender connection and caressed her face once again.

"I have something else to show you," Qetsiyah said playfully with her eyes half closed, caressing Silas' chest with her fingers. "Come see!"

Silas quickly glanced in the direction that Amara had gone to before answering. "I can't, beloved. It's like you said—the High Cleric seems to be aware of certain things. If we're going to accomplish this, we must move fast. When you're ready, we'll undergo your Immortality Spell together after we take our vows. I'll go and make sure things are ready for our wedding. Everything has to be perfect!"

Silas proceeded to walk away but Qetsiyah held onto his hand. He squeezed it gently and gave her a reassuring smile before she let go and watched him disappear into the night.

She stood pondering for a moment. Ever since she had returned from Jerusalem, she had developed doubts as to Silas's feelings. She thought her absence would make his heart grow fonder, but wondered if her insistence on going on the trip alone had backfired on her. Perhaps Silas took it as Qetsiyah wanting to create distance between them, both literally and figuratively. She didn't, instead arguing that she went alone to protect Silas from the wrath of the High Cleric and the gods. And even though he seemingly accepted that rationale and was as loving and as tender as before upon her return to Greece, there was a feeling that something had changed that she couldn't quite shake off.

She began to wonder if perhaps Silas had lost trust in her, if not love. She couldn't blame him. After all, her creating the Immortality Spell wasn't the only secret she was keeping from him. She desperately wanted to tell him everything but was unsure as to what his reactions would be. She wanted to tell him about her son whose identity she had to keep a secret to ensure that he would not be another sacrifice to the gods as punishment from the High Cleric. She wanted to tell him of the souvenir that she had brought back with her from Jerusalem, a potential source of power that they could use for themselves. She wanted to show him the plans that she had for what would be her greatest magical masterpiece.

Qetsiyah entered her tent and rummaged through pieces of papyrus. She gathered specific sheets together that were the designs for the most powerful spell that she, or any witch, would potentially ever do. It would be a failsafe in the event that the Immortality Spell didn't work or if somehow a weakness for it were to be found and she and Silas were killed. The High Cleric had often warned her that death was not a release, but a gateway to true suffering. For beyond death, those of her coven who were worthy of punishment would find themselves in Tartarus. But they would not encounter the Titans of legends past, but rather would find the banished gods, who in their anger and misery would inflict such pain and torment upon their souls that any suffering endured in the living world could not compare. Whether it was a bluff on the High Cleric's part or it was the truth, Qetsiyah decided she was not going to take any chances. If death were to somehow overtake her and Silas, she would ensure that their souls were safe in a separate world outside of Tartarus.

As she looked over the spell, she realized that she still needed something to anchor this new ethereal world. She thought of the upcoming lunar eclipse, but the infrequent appearance of such a cosmic phenomenon made Qetsiyah doubt its suitability. Also, it was not a mystical object and she felt she needed something mystical as well eternal and indestructible to ensure that it would always be there to anchor her new world when she and Silas needed it.

Qetsiyah put the papyrus away, paranoia about the High Cleric getting the best of her. Her first priority was the Immortality Spell. She gathered the items together to create the elixir that she and Silas would drink on their wedding day to become immortal. She would worry about finding a solution to her ethereal world afterwards.

Thinking of both spells, she realized that she and Silas would truly be together forever, whether in life or in death. Neither the gods nor the High Cleric nor any power in the universe could stop it.

"True love prevails, universe be damned!"