War Against Love and Fate II
Once Eric left Eleanor turned to Seraphina with expectant look.
"Are you truly certain about this so-called way out?" Eleanor asked, her voice low and dangerous, betraying both her doubt and desperation.
Seraphina leaned closer, her gaze sly, her lips curving with the kind of certainty that wasn't born from wisdom but from reckless conviction. "I am not entirely sure, mom, but a friend once told me of a man. He is no ordinary man_ he is deep into fetish, feared and respected. They say he wields powers that can twist fate itself. If anyone can break whatever spell that woman has on Damien, it is him. We need to act quickly, before it's too late."
Eleanor stiffened, her fingers tightening against the armrest of her chair. "Fetish?" she repeated with a scowl, as though the very word left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had always carried herself above such things, relying on influence, wealth, and sheer will. But in that moment, doubt coiled around her like smoke.
"Yes, mom," Seraphina pressed, her tone dripping with urgency. "It is the only explanation! Can't you see? That girl has bewitched him. Damien is not himself anymore, he practically worships the ground she walks on. He clings to her, breathes her, bends to her whims. Have you watched him? He has changed for her. He eats noodles, noodles, as though it were some royal delicacy, do you even recognize your son anymore? He has become soft, gentle... pliant. This isn't Damien Lopez. This is a man enslaved."
Eleanor's face faltered. She wanted to deny it, but her silence was answer enough.
Seraphina's voice sharpened like a blade. "And it won't stop there. All she has to do is ask, and he will hand her the world, your legacy, his empire, everything. She stole from him once, and what did he do? He brushed it aside, offering excuses like some blind fool. He refuses to learn from the past. He refuses to see that love, for him, is not a gift but a curse. A curse that will ruin him, and drag you down with him.
If you don't act now, aunty, she will take everything. And this time, Damien may not survive it! The ball is in your court."
Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. For the first time in years, fear, not anger, crossed her face.
Out of fear and desperation, Eleanor was left with little choice but to follow Seraphina. As the car wound deeper into the outskirts of the city, doubt gnawed at her chest. She couldn't believe she had agreed to something so outrageous, witchcraft, fetish, or whatever Seraphina called it. But the thought of losing Damien was unbearable. Love for her son had clouded every trace of logic.
When they arrived, Eleanor's breath caught. The so-called shrine looked nothing like a place of worship, it was eerie, suffocating, and unsettling. The walls were draped in dark, tattered cloths, stained with what looked like old blood. Skulls of animals, goats, birds, even serpents, hung on ropes above their heads, swaying gently as though stirred by an invisible wind. Feathers littered the ground like abandoned offerings, and the air was thick with the pungent mix of incense, ash, and something rotten.
Strange symbols, painted in thick red dye, coiled across the floor and altar like a living curse. Eleanor's knees trembled, her heart hammering so violently she nearly turned to flee.
Then he appeared, the priest. An Indu man, tall and bony, clad in saffron robes that seemed to flicker with the light of the fire. His forehead bore a sharp red tilak, but it was his eyes that froze Eleanor, dark, unblinking, like two pits pulling her in. He moved with an unsettling grace, his long fingers trailing over relics and charms as if each one whispered secrets only he could hear.
Eleanor gasped softly and took an instinctive step back, but Seraphina's grip tightened on her arm, her voice hissing low: "You can't leave now Anty. This is the only way."
Once they were seated on low wooden stools before the altar, the priest turned his hollow gaze toward Eleanor. His voice, low and strange, seemed to reverberate in the room rather than come from his lips.
"What brings you to my shrine?"
The sound sliced through her like a blade, and Eleanor almost toppled from her seat. Her throat went dry, words refusing to form, until Seraphina's nails dug into her arm, forcing her to speak.
"I, I want my son to leave a woman. She is doomed to ruin him," Eleanor stammered, her voice trembling, more like a plea than a command.
The priest's lips curled into a faint smile that didn't touch his eyes. He closed them, muttering in a tongue Eleanor could not comprehend. His voice rose and fell, guttural, ancient, almost serpentine. Then, he stood, circling the fire, sprinkling white powder that hissed as it touched the flames. Sparks shot up, casting distorted shadows that made Eleanor's blood run cold. He rang a small bell, then smashed it against the ground, the sharp sound echoing like a cry from another world.
When the smoke thickened, he turned back to Eleanor, his gaze piercing through her like a dagger.
"You want to separate them?"
The priest's voice thundered low, vibrating through the dim shrine.
"Yes! That's what I want," Eleanor forced out, though her voice trembled.
"That is not a problem..."
He pulled out two tiny dolls made of straw and cloth, bound tightly together with a red thread. Without hesitation, he smashed them against the stone floor. The crack echoed sharply through the shrine, and feathers fluttered into the air like scattered spirits.
"It is done."
Eleanor blinked, stunned. She turned slowly to Seraphina, her brows knitting together. That was all? She had expected fire, smoke, a storm to rise, something grand and terrifying that would justify her fear of this place. But this? This felt insultingly simple. Almost, fake. Her lips tightened as anger began to crawl under her skin. She snatched her purse and rose, ready to storm out, but the priest's voice froze her in place.
"It would have been better," he murmured, his tone now colder, sharper, "if you had left them alone."
Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. She turned, and his eyes were glowing strangely in the flickering firelight.
"Three times," he intoned, "their paths have crossed. Three times, fate has woven them back together. And even if you cast them apart, even if they were born in another time, another world, they would find each other still. Your son and that girl, they are like swans, bound in eternal pairs. If he is reborn a thousand times, she will always be the woman waiting for him. No other can fill that place."
Eleanor's knees weakened. She clutched her purse tighter, as if the leather could anchor her to reality.
"All I have done today is grant your wish," the priest continued, his voice growing eerie, almost inhuman. "But mark my words: if the two of them fight fate itself, if they push against the heavens with their will, they will find each other again. Because no one can separate them. Not even me."
Then, as if the air itself turned heavy, he began to chant in a strange tongue, guttural and chilling. The flames in the brass lamps flickered wildly, shadows stretching long and grotesque across the shrine walls. Eleanor's breath came ragged now, and panic finally drove her to scramble toward the exit, her heels clicking desperately against the floor.
His words, however, chased her like whispers in the dark:
They've met three times. She is only meant for him. No one can separate them. Not even me.
Eleanor stumbled out, her heart in chaos, while Seraphina stood rooted for a moment, fury burning beneath her fear. Her nails dug into her palm.
"What nonsense..." she muttered under her breath, teeth clenched. "What utter nonsense."
But even as she followed Eleanor out, her chest felt heavy, her anger laced with something she dared not name.
When they returned home, Eleanor expected calm, but what she walked into sent a jolt of ice through her veins. For the first time in what felt like forever, the perfect, beautiful couple was at war.
Damien had just arrived from work, his face stone-cold, his steps heavy with rage. His eyes burned with a fire so violent it made the air in the house feel suffocating. Eleanor froze where she stood. She had never seen her son like this, never seen that terrifying storm that twisted his calm demeanor into something raw and unrecognizable.
Eva stumbled after him, her face pale, tears already spilling down her cheeks. She clutched his arm, desperation pouring from her trembling hands.
"Damien, please, I can explain," she sobbed, her voice cracking with fear and pain.
But Damien shook her off with such force that she nearly lost her balance. He stormed down the hall, every step echoing like thunder before slamming the bedroom door behind him. Moments later, the house quaked with the sound of shouting, a clash of voices, his deep, furious roar against her choked cries. The argument swelled, raw and vicious, until it sounded less like a quarrel and more like a battlefield.
Eleanor stood frozen, her heart pounding in disbelief. The memory of the priest's words gnawed at her mind. She had thought him a charlatan, his warning nothing but superstition. But watching this eruption, she felt the ground beneath her certainty crumble.
She had underestimated him. Worse, she had underestimated the force binding Damien and that woman together.
And what she did not yet realize was that the fire she had lit, the storm she had invited, would not simply burn Eva. No. It was circling back, fierce, merciless, and soon it would strike her, delivering a blow so cruel she would wish she had never gotten involved with anything that has to do with them in the first place.