The Dryad's Passion

By Alana Church

Finian is an apprentice to his grandfather, High Druid of all Britain. Eilonwy is the daughter of the queen of the dryads. When the high druid died, their world was thrown into tumult. For generations the druids had merged their bloodlines with the spirits of stone, sea, and sky, the better to bridge the gaps between their worlds.

But now a new age is dawning. Rome, with its mighty military and its new gods, thinks little of the tribes of Britain. If Finian and Eilonwy are to weather the storm, they will have to learn to work together, despite their differences. And what role will Aurelia, half-blood daughter of the governor of Corinium, play in our tale? She has seen the future through the gift of her mother's people, but will she have the strength to embrace her fate?

Old foes become new allies, and desire erupts in the most unlikely of places. Because, despite all they can do, Eilonwy, Finian, and Aurelia are all caught in the web of...The Dryad's Passion.

~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~

“What,” she asked, “was that?”

Finian grinned up at her like a fool, his face full of a joy that echoed her own. “Humans call it an orgasm.”

“And human women...have these...orgasms...often?”

He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed, and sat back on his heels, the movement bringing more of his magnificent body into view. She eyed it with unabashed hunger. “I think they can. I don't know if they do. The woman who...who was my first lover...taught me how to please her. I am very happy that what works for women works for dryads as well, Eilonwy.”

She was suddenly consumed by a blazing fire of jealous fury. Another woman had dared to lie with her beloved? Had she taken his seed within her? Born his child?

She forced the anger away, another thought striking her. “Can...can men have this orgasm, as well?”

A lopsided smile pulled his mouth into an attractive curve. “Oh, yes. We can.”

“And how is it done?”

He made a cautious gesture towards his shaft, which was still rising proudly from its nest of pubic hair at his groin. “With your hands. Or your mouth.” She felt her eyes widen in surprise. That in her mouth? She fought back a giggle. Of course, a few moments ago, you would never have thought Finian would put his mouth where he did. And look how pleasantly that turned out.

“Or, if you allow it,” he continued, his face as red as his hair, “I could...we could...” he stuttered to a halt.

Suddenly realizing what he was trying to say, Eilonwy lay back in the grass, letting her legs sag apart lewdly. Her eyes were drawn to his groin like a flower following the sun across the sky. His male hardness bounced in time with his heartbeat. “Inside me?” she whispered. Despite everything, she felt a tiny stab of worry. How would he...gods, how would he fit?

“Yes.” Although quiet, his voice throbbed with need.

“Then come, my love,” she said, letting go of her fear and allowing her own desire fill her voice. She held out her hands to him. “Come to me.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boruma Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Mar 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370737215

Alana Church

Born and raised in Illinois, Alana attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, graduating with a degree in Education in 1994. She soon found out that the teaching life was not for her, and after a series of adventures has settled down in the Chicago suburbs, where she works for a telecommunications company.Alana lives alone, surrounded by books, pictures, a pile of story ideas, and a turtle named Pedro.

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The Dryad's Passion

G:\_Data\_Boruma Publishing\Alana Church\The Dryad's Passion\images\The Dryads Passion inner.jpg

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2017 Alana Church

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~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

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Boy, the old man rasped, help me up.

Grandfather? Finian mac Teague hurried over to the form lying on the stone floor of the cave. You should be resting. The herb-woman is coming from the village. Lie still and-

He was interrupted by a violent series of wracking coughs that doubled the skinny form on his bed of animal hides. When they finally stopped, bright red blood stained his white beard. Finian caught his breath, horrified. The fever was eating his grandfather alive from within.

Enough, he spat, breath whistling painfully into his laboring lungs. If my own potions don't help, do you think that daft old woman can? Do you think I don't know the hour of my death? I've watched the web being woven for all my life. The skein was cut long ago. He lifted a trembling hand, bright blue eyes burning with fiery intensity. Help me up.

And then what? Watch you fall right back over? Despite his harsh words, he extended a hand, gripping his grandfather’s wrist. Worn to bones by his illness, the old man weighed next to nothing. When he reached his feet, he leaned on him for a moment, his eyes closed, panting. Even through his rough clothes, Finian could feel the fever coursing in his flesh.

To the grove, Angus mac Finbar whispered. "I put this off for far too long. It's almost too late. I promised her. I promised her I would honor my vow.

The red cloak, boy, he said, and for a moment the power which had made him the foremost of the druids of the isles rang through his weakened voice. And the silver torc. And the staff and my best knife. I will not go to my death dressed like a beggar who scrambles for crumbs the Romans let fall from their table.

The herb-woman-

Can do nothing for me. For an instant, his voice gentled. I've tended the ill and the dying for three-score years, grandson. None of her poultices or draughts can heal me. Or even delay what lies in wait. All I can do now is choose the fashion of my passing.

Finian's eyes pricked with sudden tears, but he hastened to obey his commands. He draped the crimson cloak, fastened with a bronze brooch, around the bent, skinny shoulders, and set the silver torc, thick with carvings, around his neck. With fumbling hands, he belted the leather sheath with the sacrificial knife around his waist. And with a bow of deepest respect, he set the oaken staff, inlaid with silver, gold, and bronze, in his hands.

There now. Angus lifted his head. Regal in his finery, he resembled a king from the old tales, his face set with grim nobility. The lines in his face were no longer painful reminders of his long illness, but marks of knowledge and wisdom. A few threads of rusty red, the same color as Finian's own, still lingered in the hair at his temples and in his close-cropped beard. The rest was a snowy white. "Lend me your arm, grandson.

It is time.

*****

Head raised high, Angus walked down the path to the sacred grove. He let his mind wander, as his feet knew the way without any guidance from his waking mind. And if his steps were slower than their normal pace, the young man at his back didn't comment.

Too few. We are too few, and not enough trained apprentices to replace us. How can we stand against that which comes? His lips thinned. The Romans had brought their own gods with them when they conquered the isles, but had been content to leave his people and their beliefs alone, as long as they did not disturb what they called the Pax Romana; the 'Peace of Rome.'

But more and more of them were abandoning the gods of their childhoods and converting to the new religion. He shuddered in revulsion. This new god, a scion of desert-dwelling nomads, was clearly insane, and bent on spreading his madness like a virulent disease. Angus had carefully questioned a few friendly legionaires, and been horrified by what he had discovered. The casual tolerance the Romans had displayed in his youth was disappearing. All was now fire and blood and pain, with belief compelled by force.

He snorted, then stifled a cough, spitting bloody phlegm into the weeds at the pathside. As if belief could be compelled! It emerged slowly, like a tree from an acorn, nurtured by the evidence of one's own eyes. What pathetic godling needed belief coerced at the point of a sword?

The trail leveled as they emerged from the cleft in the hillside, and he was brought out of his grim thoughts. Before him a ring of oak trees raised their shapely limbs into the spring sky. Their dark leaves danced in the early evening breeze, bringing a hint of their fragrance to him.

He sighed, his eyes misting with sudden tears. At least I will die when the seasons are renewed. I don't think I could have borne a winter's death. His lips twisted wryly. As if you would have had a choice, old man! The Mother of All takes us when she wills, not when we will it. Show a little respect. It's not too late to endanger your immortal soul, you know.

He stumped through the circle of trees, barely pausing to bow his respect to them, Finian performing a more elaborate bow at his back. He stopped at a rough-hewn slab of granite, set in the middle of the circle like a solitary sentinel. He leaned on it wearily, trying to hide the shaking in his legs. Some of it was exhaustion and illness. The rest, unfortunately, was fear.

Let those lunatics talk about their Christ coming back from the dead. Why couldn't he have told them something useful? Like what dying is like? Or what truly waits for us on the other side? If he had done that, I might actually have some time for him.

Enough. Peasant or prince, we all pass through this gate. At the last, a druid is no different than any other.

Finian? His voice quavered, but he hid his shame, his face settling into stony lines.

Grandfather?

He caught and held the blue eyes, so like his own, and infused his voice with every bit of authority he had left to him. What happens after this must be. Do not interfere. Do you understand?

The eyes blinked. Not really.

Well, he said, oddly pleased. At least you're honest. Swiftly, he divested himself of the marks of his authority. Cloak, torc, sheath, brooch and staff were all laid in an untidy pile on the ground. Soon, all that remained was an old man in worn trousers, clutching a flint knife.

He sat on the stone, his legs suddenly strengthless. He cast his memory back, to the night when his own mentor had led him here, when he had seen Clova for the first time, and smiled softly. If he had known it, the expression transformed his ravaged face, turning it, for a moment, into something lovely.

With a deep breath, he laid his left arm on the stone, and drew the knife across his wrist in one sure stroke. Blood welled from the deep cut, dripping onto the stone