Bleeding Light: Prophecy of Hope

By Sarah Kennedy

An empty throne, fallen crown, and broken scepter are all that remains of the great Empire of Light. From Nudhug to Armahad, the marked bones of the Caladrius kings have been stripped of their promise and crumbled into dust. But one remains. The despotic heir, Liacin Caladrius, has given himself wholly to Sgarrwrath and the rising void for promises of power beyond that of any man before. Yet prophecy points to another heir; when the Markless Son bears the Golden Brand, all know the Promised King has come. Liacin and Sgarrwrath seek to claim the Promised—an infant conceived when Living Flame fell from the sky. Now Sgarrwrath’s ancient plot forces him to face his highest desire and his greatest fear veiled within that mysterious child. The question is, has he risen far enough for all his emptiness to take all that promised life for his own? Or will another rise?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669856443

Sarah Kennedy

Secretly wishing for her own wings to fly, the author of the award-winning Prophecy of Hope Saga, Sarah Kennedy, instead spills her heart upon the page. Writing stories for nearly as long as she can remember, each word is a beat of her heart. She has taken courses with the Institute of Children’s Literature and Long Ridge Writers Group (now known as the Institute for Writers). She lives firmly planted to earth in a small town in Pennsylvania with her family, including a fabulous clowder of cats, while giving wings to the imaginary friends in her head. So let the dragons fly and let the saga continue!

Book preview

Contents

A Note on Chronology

The Prophecy of Hope

TIDES OF FIRE

Part One

Burning Yet Brighter

In the Shadow of God

The Last Strands of Hope

Breathing Hallelujah

Cascade of Fear

Given to Life

Cold Blood

For the Child I Will Sing

A Soul Darker Than Night

THOUGH HELL SHOULD BAR THE WAY

Part Two

A War of Shadows

When the Void Screams Back

Hallowed

Phantoms of the Heart

We the Fallen

THE BREATH BETWEEN US

Part Three

Return of the Soul

The Path of Thorns

Shed Like Snake’s Skin

The Other Side of Sanity

Silent Fires

Between Shadows and Lies

Cursed

The Flame Upon Us

Signs of the Wonderful

Cry from the Dark

Promise Unbroken

No Turning Back

Unfolding

Light

Dark

Bloodcast

Pestilence

The Harrowing of Heaven

Acknowledgments

Extras

This book is dedicated to:

To the Light of the World

And the ones who shine His light in dark places

And to the memory of Isaac J. Kennedy

Without whom Sgarrwrath would never have found his voice

And to Sean Mc Donaugh

Who thinks these books are awesome and whose enthusiasm

was a light to me in a dark place during the writing of this book.

A Note on Chronology

Hi, dear reader,

This is just a quick author’s note on the chronology of the series and also more specifically on this book. First of all, thank you so much for being interested enough in my work to pick up this book. It means a lot. Please be aware, however, that this book is not meant to stand alone. This book assumes you already know a lot of things about the characters and their stories and about the world it is set in. Additionally, I want to tell you that every book in the Prophecy of Hope Saga beginning with Sgarrwrath, Prequel to the Prophecy of Hope, builds on the greater story. All the books are connected! The story is growing and weaving multiple storylines together. To truly experience the series at its best, please consider reading the books in order. I have pictured them in order below.

Now specifically regarding the chronology of this book. Bleeding Light, Prophecy of Hope Book 3 begins at the exact moment where Mhorag, Prophecy of Hope Book 2 ended. Bleeding Light is a tightly focused book and unfortunately will not resolve all the dangling threads from Mhorag (though that is coming, I promise). Bleeding Light and the next book (more on book 4 at the end of the novel) are essentially going to be happening within the same time period, each with some overlap to the ending of Mhorag, Prophecy of Hope Book 2. Bleeding Light would just have been too long if I tried to make just one book. This is a beautifully complex series. I hope you enjoy the read, but a word of warning: there are some scenes in this book that may be triggering to some people in light of recent events.

Sincerely,

Sarah Kennedy

The Prophecy of Hope Saga

The Prophecy of Hope

(as it is currently known)

Behold the signs here set forth by which all shall know the meaning of the two faces of the Guardian Moon, but lest despair take hold upon your souls, here are foretold They whom our hope shall restore.

In the beginning, Sanctus brought forth from the void of His creation Nine Grains of power, hence planted in the Light and the Stone of Existence plucked from His crown to give unbelievable might.

Father and Mother set on high, the diadems of Day and Night. Grains of Power there remain, but sacred stone concealed away. No Guardian shall harness their hidden might till Bynthroenine again has a king. Before that time is come, the mighty Guardians shall cling in unity to the Chosen One from a Colorless sprung.

The heavens will bleed. The Chosen One veiled in weakness shall be taken when the Heart of Evil is revealed. Darkness secretes through all that lies within its reach. Song of Guardians, fire and blood, Dark gift of power, Shadow and Darkness now combined seek power of a greater kind.

A curse upon the Forbidden Kiss and the bestower’s race.

The greed of Men will cause alliances to end. Sea of Sorrows, the portals shall be sealed. From ancient gift by Guardians given, song of haunting beauty takes flight, giving Evil might. The day of its creation shall be cursed when the secret of the Gemshorn is unleashed on the earth.

Hope divided as the Flame before, between two sons of a human king possessed of equal right, one marked for promise and the other for woe. From hence these tears, the Darkness of Souls shall succeed.

Kingdoms fall beneath a single human throne crushed under the Dark One’s fist. An evil time when all flesh comes to grief and Guardian vision fails. Yet well-fueled fires cannot hold back the wellspring of joy drawing nigh.

Prince of Guardians, help the Empyrean true. All Hope upon his soul does rest. In the heavens, his Light will first appear when all seems well and right, but embrace no peace; Evil walks among Men.

His coming shall be seen above. Father crumbles before his revealing. Mother bleeds with his unnatural birthing. The Stars must all go black before his Light. When Those Too Pure to Live step upon infected earth, the void will falter. The portals shall break open for He marked by Right and Worth. His agonies just begun, their mysteries unveiled each in their time, for His path may no other lead; and if He refuse the way, all Hope will come to an end.

When these signs begin, the deepest foundations seek for Power and Cure descend from on high.

Mortal and Immortal forces, prepare the way before the Source of all Flame! Two bloodlines of Men met in the Markless Son, and when he bears the Golden Brand, the True Caladrius has come. A beating crystal heart divides the Promised King in twain. Darkness deepening in his wake, Light leaves all naked to the Dark, and hearts enflamed with Hope again harbor the Living Flame from Illusion’s eye. Yet as in the heavens, so in the earth. These tears shall not end nor Light prevail till the Promised Is, Was, and Is again.

Crowned Head among the race of Men, who does not know his worth, within resides the hidden power that mortals ne’er possess. A battle rages for your unproven soul. Bitter, sorrowful, and in touch with Death, you must reach the end, where dwells the One naught of Humankind hath seen and bring Hope to the races once again. In the Guardian’s seed, no weakness shall prevail, but heed your mortal father’s fate; traitors lie within your gate. This test you must endure in the frailty of Human form, but when it is past, your crown will last and you will be weak no more.

Great Guardians of this beware; danger lurks beyond your lair and will seek to bring great harm.

A journey into stone awaits this One held dearest to your hearts. It shall be when Darkness covers all the earth, but do not fear for Mhorag shall appear and silence the Gemshorn with his mighty roar.

A babe rests unknown in the womb of stone. Mhorag’s seed none shall behold till the stronghold of Death is shattered from above. The One and her sleeping Guardians at once awake. Throughout all distance, the Guardians’ voices shall be raised in answer to Mhorag’s call, and all shall fear the Guardians’ might. Summoning stones shall be reforged as all creation for the Guardians’ call.

The catalyst of war must be reclaimed, the Evil Heart to break. Grains of Power will revive to test the purity of all hearts once more, for soon Mhorag’s armies shall converge behind the Nine; but take this warning, Heed only the sign of the Guardian Moon set in the flesh by Sanctus formed for Darkness is closing in on you.

Nine thrones of Light and Gold, Mhorag’s seed and the Circle of Power that you need to find the Treasure of Darkness born.

He of black and tortured soul calls forth the wraiths by Darkness sown, and when through Mhorag’s fire he safely passes, Two Faces of the Moon unite. Then by the Stone of Existence unleash the power to bring Darkness into subjection to the Light and seal it by the might of Nine.

Tides of Fire

PART ONE

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;

those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death,

upon them a light has shined.

—Isaiah 9:2

But the stars that marked our starting fall away.

We must go deeper into greater pain, for it is not permitted that we stay.

—Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy (Inferno)

Burning Yet Brighter

Gold burns into the black, disturbing it from its place like little spiders scurrying across stars.

My heart hurts.

            I cannot catch my breath.

                    Everything changes so fast.

                            In less than a moment, I have become nothing . . .

Golden life . . . golden death surround me . . . such power . . . such abundance . . . burning yet brighter, setting fire to the sudden light, captivating even the soul that flees. My soul. Like a moth drawn to the devouring flame, I am Sgarrwrath, dark and ravenous, a black hole, formless, empty, threatening to consume. Born into torment, I am pain, wrath, ruin, and temptation . . . forever doomed to remember. Forever disrupted and cursed. Crushed. Eternally falling, always knowing that there will infinitely be one soul that conquers all of me and calls me to my ruin and, for the briefest moment of temptation, when we two meet, my own desire almost makes falling into awful absence seem a dream. I am bent to it. The taste of gold, of power, of potency and life still burns inside me.

Burning across my soul.

I remember what it is to burn . . . to burn and want more and not ever be consumed or satisfied. I am pulled, misshapen . . . flayed, and yet hungry for more.

More of the dream.

More of the burning.

More of the One . . . my everything . . . my torment . . . my treasure . . . Mhorag . . . my first taste of true life . . . and my last . . .

And here, now, I can taste that true life again, all life a mere echo of his. His life I have hungered for all these long ages, and suddenly I am drowning, choking on that life. I could taste the divine as if my mouth was still clenched upon him.

Mhorag . . . always and only . . .

Light pierced darkness, penetrating my shadows, slicing into bone, filling me with whispers of horror and desire, and memory. For the second time in history, the Kingdom touches earth in all the unified glory of the Everliving.

Memories wriggle for space inside me, twisting deeper, hunting for my heart.

The ground shook, jerking the world in all directions. Thousands of birds rushed upward away from darkened earth, their noise filling the blazing sky. The earth groaned. A gentle pulse, golden-white brilliance, beckoned, even into darkness . . . the heart of promise . . . life . . . power . . . everything . . . Desire creeps higher though the memories of my prize are like quicksand, dragging me down. I want to scream—wild, raging, incoherent screams even as desire swells beyond any sane, secret place still inside me. I raised my head, my whole being a grotesque mockery of that life, so near, so present but still unseen. The action echoed across millennia. My hand lifted, darkness pulling with disturbing otherness from the flesh and bones slowly rotting inside, my fingers yearning to reach through the veil and touch. Just one caress, one quick streak of my finger on the treasure of the universe, the quest a delusion, the heartbeat of eternity driving me mad in the great stillness of the naked light. Everywhere I look, my eyes are drawn to Mhorag. His golden life enthralls even as I watch my hand wither to nothing. Yet I am more than my curse. And I have not risen so far, clawing all the way, whispering to hungry but lesser hearts only to fall to nothing, now, in my time of greatness! Every instinct screamed for me to hide, yet I held on.

I clung to the scraps of form as heaven and earth rippled with new life—life called from nothing by a mere drip of heaven’s fullness. The golden-white brand of His presence spread everywhere, filling the greater revelation of the Kingdom come. All my Darkness balked at the invasion, the curse pulling me down, but I held myself together with a feral growl.

At the same instant, Those Too Pure to Live peeled from the light, from time and space—the many, the one, stepping softly into the world.

My world, though who could tell it now?

The many—the one—glided silently forward, each footstep a flash of lightning, each misty form elegant and mysterious, scarcely discernible as Those Too Pure to Live circled around Mhorag’s heart within the great burning light of the Everliving coming to earth as one. The glassen chambers of that heart pulsing with golden life were suddenly and irrevocably the focus of every living thing. All that was, all that is, all that could be dissolved into its thrumming call.

Even I—

I screamed as I leaped, pulling scraps of life from the ruins. I was Dullahan, all desire, all hunger . . . there before the world began . . . one made to stand in the presence of such overflowing life!

*     *     *

Dullahan, his white-silver fur glossy and thick with the light, lay on Firinn’s tip before the Kingdom’s great throne. Thousands of times before, he had lain on this same spot, his head draped adoringly over his master’s feet; but right now, he was alone, the throne empty. The whole atmosphere of this moment was changed by that lack. His ears twitched against the dead silence, searching for a hint of the master’s voice, for some sign that life still existed. His intelligent ruby eyes flashed, trying to see everywhere at once, searching for his master. The absence was absolute, painful even. His soft whimpers pierced the blinding white, echoing in the silent, empty expanse and dripping down with that forever light into the vast, deep Hollows of Existence. How long had he been left alone? It felt unending, an eternity, waiting upon this pinnacle where only truth could be spoken, where he had whispered the deep secret of his heart to the one who had formed it. A petition made. Then a promise given. Now this silence . . . in which he watched his breath through the brilliance grow more and more subtly at odds with the forever light. Never before had a shadow breathed in this place where everything was light, reflecting light. Endless but for the subtle gray wisp of his breath that matched the unsettled whisper caged in his soul. Would this strange new thing overflow the light as it overflowed his peace? Dullahan saw beads of glory shorn from the greater light float in its wake. The delicate embers, their shine already beginning to fail, drifted away toward the bounds of the Kingdom and the long fall to the Hollows. Confused and uneasy, Dullahan moved. With a large luminous paw, he drew the embers to himself and into a single globe of pale light, the ball rolling between the brace of his paws as his muzzle urged it back and forth against the broken light beneath him. Why wouldn’t the scar of his breath fade from the Kingdom? Why wouldn’t the light heal?

Hope is a merciless tormentor.

Dullahan was frantic, but the more he tried to fix the light, the more light he broke away. The scar deepening, and the ball growing because he couldn’t let it fall, though with everything inside him, he wanted to hide this truth from his master’s eyes. That broken light mocked him, and the alien sensations inside grew colder and more ominous; time slipped by. He felt it for the first time in the lingering absence of his master. He was alone. He suddenly threw his head back and howled, the shrill lamentation the only fitting expression of the thing growing inside. Something fractured, something so deep he couldn’t deny or define it. He rose up, with an almost primal urge, carrying the reflection of light in tiny droplets hanging on his fur. The ball fell away from his grasp in the haste of his movement. For one instant, he thought to chase it as it tumbled away off Firinn’s tip, speeding down toward the Hollows; yet he held his ground, waiting. His large paws kissed Firinn’s heights with a lightness he did not feel, as he prowled its brink, hoping.

Waiting and hoping . . . but for what? Something was changing. Had changed. He could feel it. Was he really waiting, hoping, for that fallen light to end? Could it fade beyond sight and sound? It could certainly break. But could it end, could it pass beyond memory, beyond existence? Light had always been . . . everything . . . And now, suddenly, it was no longer the only thing . . . Obscene hope ghosted across his face as he shook himself from head to tail. Shadows whispered through his fur as the droplets of light flew off, and his mouth fell open in a deceptively sweet smile.

Darkness. Desire.

Dullahan watched the ball of light plummet, its dim rays fracturing around Firinn’s pinnacle. In that slow fall of luminescence, Firinn’s hidden and incomprehensible mass burst before his eyes. Stone blossomed against the great unformed in shades of gray, its branches scattering far and wide into the formless and unmade. Vast and unmovable in every direction, the footstool of a god. Firinn alone could make one feel small. Better for its greatness to be hidden. Dullahan’s head cocked to the side as he waited. He gave one impatient bark, his body inching forward till he could see to the Hollows below where Firinn was rooted deep and wide. His claws clicked audibly as he braced himself upon the edge of Firinn. Another step and he too would fall. Strange how this waiting tormented the mind, how it pained him to hope, how hope made the torment worse, how its shadow swelled inside him taking existence one uneasy moment after another.

And then impact.

The ball of light struck the roots of Firinn, scattering into embers. At the same instant, the master called his name.

Dullahan.

His head lifted, turning toward the sound of that long-anticipated voice. His breath caught in his chest. He was suddenly too conscious of the whispers roiling inside his mind. Whispers that drove him to cower back rather than run instantly to his master’s side. He didn’t know what to call this feeling, but the master would read it in his eyes. He turned away, closing his eyes to the truth within them, or else Firinn, the pinnacle of truth, would surely reveal them! The weight of that secret thing seared through him, lines of agony radiating through his head, down to his heart, burrowing in flesh and organs and bones. It breathed into mind and soul, growing hungrier with every firing of nerve and synapse while the quiet crunch of the master’s footsteps drew deliberately nearer.

His master’s hand ruffled through the long fur of his back. Dullahan nearly flinched away from the gentle touch, the familiar hand almost scorching against his sudden cold. He braced himself against the temptation as his master glided silently past him. If the master sensed anything amiss, he said nothing before stepping off Firinn.

Dullahan’s eyes opened in time to see his master set foot upon the Hollows as if the distance—he had beheld with his own eyes—was nothing. There was no telling now what had become of the fallen light. The whole of the Hollows was filled with his master’s glorious flame.

All was radiant, filled with forever.

Dullahan, come, his master beckoned.

Desire. Despair.

Dullahan froze, exhaling a low, hungry growl from his open mouth as he caught his own reflection upon the swollen Hollows, bathed in the pure golden puddle of glory flowing around his master. His glowing red eyes stared back at him, piercing and wary. Never before had such a thing happened. Never before had there been a breach of the master’s forever light. Everything drowned into that glory . . . dissolved in the greatness . . . at one . . . whole.

Dullahan hesitated only an instant. He huffed out a sound, defiant of the truth glaring up at him, and stalked down toward his master. Flittering light and shadow played in his thick fur as he headed into the Living Flame. He prowled forward, the strength in the hulking muscles of his shoulders and haunches rippling visibly with every flowing step. His head lowered, his eyes fixed on his master’s shining feet.

If his master knew any of these horrors, he said nothing though the flames roared and Dullahan could almost feel their heat. Power, life . . . everything . . . The closer he came, the more he knew how all was suddenly at odds with him.

The whispering shadows swirled in his brain.

His wholeness . . . his greatness . . . stolen.

Under his long snout, fangs glimmered. His lips hiked up over his gums, quivering as he snarled.

With one mighty bound and then another, Dullahan ran from that shade of truth and leaped. His large paws slammed into his master, knocking him back and down, pinning him to the Hollows.

His master smiled up at him. Dullahan, what’s wrong?

Dullahan stood over his master, his head cocked to the side, considering while his rancid breath washed between them unheeded—by the master at least. His mouth lowered slowly, menacingly toward the throat of the one with whom he had always walked. Saliva dripped from his teeth into his master’s shining face, yet he did not immediately strike though his red eyes focused on the jugular, burning bright with untold life and power. He could already taste it, rising in Flame from the holy flesh. His nostrils flared, the familiar scent stopping him cold.

He shook himself, the whispers in his mind momentarily silenced in the thrum of the deep Living Flame. Quickly, his pink tongue lashed out of his mouth, across the master’s flesh, tasting him softly as he had so many times before. A sound rumbled in his chest as he abruptly backed off, the wonder of the Everliving momentarily overcoming the wildness of his soul. A moment of memory, of desire, of Flame . . . great heaves of burning swaying around him. Echoes of life . . . of power . . . Dullahan fled, only to rocket too fast back into the nightmare of his soul, shadows edging into his vision.

Darkness. Desire.

His body moved now by no power of his own. The quiet crunch of his footsteps moving deliberately amid the boisterous chatter of his mind caught his attention. The intentional quietness of the sound sent warnings shooting through his body, yet his body resisted him, all definition fleeing from his sight. There was only hunger and power . . . and his jaws closing upon forbidden desire. Gold and flame, life and power, filled his mouth—hot, moist, and oh, so tempting . . . His soul screamed for more.

The taste was like the sound of water to parched lips, holding up victory and satisfaction, all the while that promised everything pulled back, remaining out of reach, making agony out of mere pain—the pain of hope . . .

Dullahan whined softly, unable or unwilling to let go of the prize, his thoughts a muddle of blackness as the gold burned down his throat. It clung to him, tangling inside him, contorting his body. Gold overflowed his mouth and his senses, bubbling out of his nostrils. Its hold over him driving him down. Choking him. Burning. High, piercing yelps of sheer agony ripped up his throat as he crumbled. His eyes filled with gold . . . burning . . . beholding . . .

NO! I fled from Dullahan’s remembered form before its final fall. His ghost tore from its bones before the memory of their breaking could fill the dark while the thrum of Mhorag’s heart raged on just out of reach.

Power radiated from its chambers. I braced to burn, yet from the Kingdom’s light, no further move was made to cast my weakened shadows aside. Why? Does the Everliving want me to resist? Does the Highest wait to strike?

The robust sound of Mhorag’s heart filled everything, making all existence tremble. Those Too Pure to Live arched and curled around the sinew of life: fluctuating from breath to ember and back again. Every lighted breath mewled softly toward the highest heaven and the unseen Sanctus.

All around me, nature erupted from dead earth as the pull of that presence passed over. The air rippled with the Everliving’s restrained fires over mountains and through valleys, softly, slowly moving lower, as if melting off a ledge, anointing the broken and the beautiful and the dark and the dead.

The incense of Kingdom breath settled down through the abyss, in stark contrast to the stench of death and decay rising from the orifices of the world. Those Too Pure to Live rose and fell, life and ember, over and over again, around and through the uncovered chambers of that sacred heart, so near but still so far from reach. Their alicorns pierced the unyielding vapors of my dark and hellish fury: burning and dying and resurrecting to the adamantine organ that bore the seed of Kingdom life in every contraction and relaxation of its complex muscle, so essential for life—in all its forms.

Even mine . . . broken and undone as I am . . .

My Darkness stirred. My void scrambled from its fall into another form, leaping over the drop of golden blood that fell between one scrap of life and the next. I was Arawn, all power, all need, all want . . . one who was made to burn and not be undone by the Flame, one meant to wield the Flame . . . the Flame of life . . . the Flame of power, one whose very heart was Flame, linked irrevocably to the Source.

Suddenly, the flames were breathing with me. My heart pounded with preternatural strength, drawing flame and shadow together. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud . . .

*     *     *

Arawn’s eyes flashed open, their caged blue-white fire meeting the red glare of Dullahan. He saw the beast’s distorted face fade into nothing, leaving only those horrible eyes. He tore his gaze away, falling into a crouch. His whole body contorted downward till his hands clawed earth. The rich black soil covered his fingers. The smell of its fertile dampness filled his nostrils. Breaking that contact caused a very real physical pain to sear through him like lightning as he groped the naked pathway of time. Tidal waves of blue-white flame peeled reality, its bright fury heaping into a living wall on each side of an earthen path. A path he remembered. Its smells. Its sound: birds cawing in the treetops, wood creaking, wind whispering. He had lived and relived this moment before. And what of the next? His pulse raced. The secret fire warmed him with each mighty thud of his heart, yet he trembled, somehow knowing what awaited him in this place though his life was made of hundreds of millions of moments such as this.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the earth changed. The path seemed to breathe around him, cold; and countless nightmares streaked through the flames, falling like snow across his path. Their drifts cracked under his feet till the line between memory and horror blurred from sight, leaving just one shade flickering to existence before him, one shade his heart would always know. Always desire. Always fear. Arawn wanted to run, but there was no running from this. No lie could ever hide this truth. His heart clenched. Already his hand was lifted, his fingers yearning to touch. Just one touch and then he would deny himself forever. He had told himself this lie before, but oh, how he wanted to believe the lie! The passages of time bent to his reach, and death was lost to his empty scream as he dragged his gaze up and found a dark shadow waiting. Only in the full light of his blue flame eyes did the shadow stir.

Not a shadow at all.

Laphair came to him, his name on her lips. Arawn.

He heard the sorrow in her voice, the empty despair of one who had lost everything and the bitterness of one who lived on without knowing why.

Arawn, she whispered again.

Her frail voice resounded in the darkness of his mind.

Laphair, he heard himself speak her name, his voice ragged. It had been ages, yet a mere moment to his heart since he had seen her or breathed in her scent. Sweet pomegranate, bitter myrrh, masking the rot of time.

Arawn touched her hesitantly. His eyes drank her in as if seeing her for the first time. Smooth caramel flesh, long black hair, soft brown eyes. Laphair, he whispered again, uncertain.

Laphair came closer. She let out a soft murmuring sound as she leaned into him. Their bodies were drawn to each other as if pulled together by an invisible cord.

One of Arawn’s trembling hands slowly cupped her face. The fingers of his other hand trailed down her arm.

She shuddered and twisted to move closer to him.

He let her, feeling his warmth flood through the strange coldness of her body.

Her arms went around him and tighter, her hands grasping.

Arawn groaned.

He wanted this.

He dreaded this.

His fingers brushed softly against her ribs, another at the back of her neck sending a tremulous chill down her spine.

Laphair melted into his arms as if she belonged there. Arawn lowered his mouth to hers, his kiss careful, beyond gentle, yet she cried out against his mouth, enticing him, urging him on. The kiss shifted from something cautious and fragile, from slow to scorching. Helpless need. His hands slid down her body.

Loving. Hating.

The line between right and wrong was lost to him in the insanity of his heart.

She was the young human girl he had loved at first sight. A second later, she was withered, old, beyond her time, her eyes already dead in their sockets while the rest of her lived on. How could she be both at the same time?

Arawn shuddered. Suddenly, they were falling. And the world was red, coated it seemed with blood. He collapsed with her as she crumbled, and the smell of death and darkness seized him. His whole body was shaking with sobs and screams as he held her.

No no no NO. Please, you cannot do this to me. I am begging you. Who was he screaming at? The darkness? God? Himself? LAPHAIR! Do not take her from me!

His heart raced, starting and stopping. Lines of agony radiated from his burning heart, burrowing in his flesh, his organs, his bones, and worse, his soul—an unrelenting sensation of hurt while his sobs echoed unheeded through the pathway of time. Arawn shook his head; he bent over her, burying his face in her neck. His hand trembled as he caressed her lifeless face. No! He pulled her to him,