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e
Gift
of the Blood God – The Seduction of Rogan f
‘Faelings Doom – Interlude One’
There
was one thing Rogan had desired for most of his life. Not status or rank, or the esteem of his
peers. Not wealth or privilege, such
things were afforded him as acolyte to The
People’s priestess. No, the thing he
wanted above anything else was a woman - a special and intriguing
creature. His closest and dearest
friend; she was beautiful, an enigma, power-filled – and his elder by at least
a score of years. Not that it
mattered. Age was relative when one was
of The People, of the descendants of
the Ancients. Sometimes it felt their
lives went on for ever; forlorn and desolate, without the possibility of
fulfilment… He wanted Dana, the Weaver.
The wife of another. And not only
that, but the wife of his brother.
The
infamous events of her youth had marked Dana - wounds that ran deep and
painful. She knew her error. Foolishness dogged her every step and not
least that she had bonded herself to the wrong brother. But soon it would be over, the consequences
of a lapse of judgement. Five days, that
was all and she would be free. Hope
soared. No longer would she be shackled
to the man who had left home and village the very day after their bonding
ceremony, not to be seen again for nigh on seven years. And once free, then what? Could she do it? Risk all again, risk her greatest friendship
for something that promised everything and yet had the potential to leave her
with nothing.
***
Set
in the world of Abod le A’nor, this erotic fantasy interlude to the ‘Gift of
the Blood God’ series explores the effects of a restrictive and oppressive
culture on long-time friends who are trying to come to terms with the depth of
love and the physical desire they have for each other.
Meet
Rogan Farsight, a reluctant adherent to the teachings of the first
disciple. Forced to give up his beloved
craft – an artisan of wood – to submit to the townships incumbent priestess and
become her acolyte because more than any other his gift of the Mavishan farsight
is already greater.
Revisit
Dana, now known as the Weaver, an accomplished woman. She is the barer of many gifts and talents
revered by the Mavishan people – not least the ability to cast illusion by the
mere facility of ‘weaving’ the vision together with her mind, and her perfect
memory. Her youthful indiscretion still
haunts her, her foolish mistakes leading her astray and into continued infamy
in her home village.
How
will they fare when the annulment of her infamous marriage draws nigh – when
she is free and the possibility for their friendship can blossom into something
far deeper…?
[Warning:-
This book contains swearing and sexual content and adult themes – suitable for
persons over the age of 18yrs.]
“Rogan?”
His
head snapped up, his hands stilled in the mixing of the liquid honey and
tobacco with the soft call of his name.
Dana! What did she here? Few would dear to interrupt work they thought
part of their Holy Rites. Sans Thyne, Rogan’s body still hardened at
the sight of her, yet he rose from his chair in greeting sure the leather apron
across his lap offered sufficient decency.
Dana’s skin was soft beneath his lips as he kissed her cheek and
surreptitiously inhaled her sweet lavender scent.
“Is
aught wrong?”
“Nay,”
she smiled, her grey eyes sparkling as she lifted a cloth covered basket. “Naught but that your dam does think you eat
improperly, or not at all, and I did volunteer to bring her offering to you.”
“And
you came here?”
“Yes. I was curious. Never have I been past the sanctuary. Tis little imposing.” Glancing around the room critically, she sank
to the chair opposite and pushed the basket toward him. “Though what I
expected, I know not. Tis just a
kitchen. Somehow I expected… well,
more.”
“Such
opulence is saved for the public areas,” Rogan snorted and pushing the
preparation equipment aside flipped the cloth back on the basket to reveal a
number of fresh golden buns. The waft of
just baked bread tantalised his taste buds making his mouth water and reminding
him again of his failed intentions to eat.
Silently he thanked his mother.
Without
asking permission Dana dived into the basket before he had chance and snagged
one, “I do so love your dam’s cooking.
Ah, look, see always the surprise, has she not filled it with shred pork
and apple. Naught is better than the
delicious savoury and the sweet.”
They
ate for a moment in companionable silence, Rogan’s gaze never leaving her face,
hers never leaving his. Her eyes were
the most beautiful, expressive, volatile grey he had ever seen, the colour was
as storm clouds roiling and thunderous, changing hue with her mood, darkening
and lightening. Now they sparkled and
glowed with contentment as he reached boldly out to flick a piece of meat and
juice from the side of her lip into her mouth.
The tip of her tongue inadvertently touched him. Shards of awareness coursed through his body.
“What
do you here?” she asked offering him a cup of water to wash the sticky residue
down when they had finished. “Gods, is
that what I think?”
“What
do you think?”
“Be
that Thyne?” She picked up the bowl of crushed leaf and
fine shavings and sniffed curiously. “It
has little scent.” She frowned. “Did I
think somehow it would be more potent.”
Rogan’s
heart nearly stopped. “Leave it be!” he
scolded, fear, yearning nearly swamping him for the thought of what it would do
should she inhale it as it burned. Heat,
anticipation flushed from his groin to his head. “Tis but the basics of the preparation. Once mixed with these others here, and
breathed through water, fire and the pipe, will it do its work and not before.”
For
a moment an awkward silence filled the room.
Dana sat across the table her eyes alight, intent; lips pursing as if
she were undecided and on the verge of asking something. Raising his brows in question, Rogan tilted
his head. She took that as permission to
speak. “Have you… ever partaken?”
“How
can I?”
“Know
I that it is forbidden to you as unclaimed, but…” She reached out and gripped his wrist, “but
you are there, at the Ritual. You have
seen its effect, smelt its allure… surely…”
“Dana…?”
For
a moment confusion swirled as a grey whirlpool in her eyes, longing and
sadness. “I have seen… I would…
Never… Never once…”
His
breath hitched. Did she want this? Did she long for unfettered coupling, to have
passion run through her veins as fire?
This confession seemed on the verge of her tongue. His tension mounted. She would confess this to him! On life she did not need Thyne, and he would tell her so.
She had fervent desire in abundance.
He had borne it witness. Hers was
pure, unadulterated need spinning from her heart, her head, her body…
Her
eyes veiled suddenly beneath long dark-blond lashes as her gaze fell to her
hand on his arm. Awkwardly she lifted
it, offering him a quick pat. “Pay me no
mind. I do but ramble, and now beg
forgiveness. Tis not a subject
appropriate…”
At
a loss, Rogan could only stare but she did not immediately meet his gaze until
he said, “naught is there to forgive, Dana.”
Her
smile was watery. His heart bled.
“You
are the best of men, know you that, Rogan.”
Soft fingers caressed him and instinctively he turned palm upward,
capturing her hand.
“I
miss you.” She continued. “That you come
no more to the Collective. I did love to
smell the ghost of lacquer, the scent of fresh turned wood, and hint of ash
upon your hands…”
He
swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Tis
still there.”
As
if this were an invitation, she pressed the tips of his fingers to her face,
and eyes closed, she breathed him in.
“Tis true. Faint. But there be a definite hint.”
“Dana…” He felt the soft brush of her lips as a
whisper across his pads, the flush and fullness of her cheek as she laid it
momentarily in his palm. The desire to
lean across the table and kiss her was overwhelming. To speak, to tell her his greatest secret
fired in his blood but the words would not come for within seconds as if she
remembered herself, her place, propriety, she released him with a faint
embarrassed smile.
“Buba came to me this day.” She changed the subject, quietly.
His heart sank.
*****
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