Star Crossed Lovers

💗Thorny Thursday for January 23, 2025🌹

Star Crossed Lovers and Windswept Wanderers, welcome to 🌹Thorny Thursday💗 for January 23, 2025. Kluv radio is back on the air, bringing you the latest stories of romance, lust, and love. So, settle back in your comfy chair, pull the blanket around you to ward off the cold, and enjoy the tales we present you.

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Tonight’s first story is part Four of SayBlood’s Children, written by S.E. Reid.

In this chapter, the island rebels against Othniel’s decision and leaves him lost, wondering if he made the right choice.

Thanks to the death of my mother, my hands were very well suited to the rites and skills. And I learned quickly how to defend myself, to bring death upon those who sought to slay me before Sumble willed it. I used my hands, yes, and blades sometimes. Twin blades, quick and nimble, forged for me as gifts from my father: Kysiel for my left, Vaziel for my right.

Dread Lady became more than a whisper, but a shout: all knew me. They knew me! I was known throughout the caverns. I was seen, and I was feared.

Death-dealer, they called me. Shadow-slider.

But my hands, while deft and agile at their crafts of death and wielding of blades according to the will and whims of Sumble, did not perform so well in the creation of music. And I craved music. I craved it more than food. I craved it more than breath.

There was a place blocks away from the towering house with the glittering spires where I lived as heiress to my father’s city; it was a ballroom far below the streets, down a flight of hidden stone steps. It was a throbbing, thrumming place. The doors would open and painted people, braided people, would saunter in, wearing masks and colors and tattoos on their gray skin. They would come to dance in the dark with its cold lights, the deep hum of infernal instruments striking deep into the chest. There were tinctures and drinkings there and everything of that nature, whatever you wanted to help you nestle further into Sumble’s navel, smell His breath. There were games and gambles and coins all over the floor, and sometimes things to eat. It was a sumptuous place. It was mine.

I would go there every night, escorted by my father’s tongueless guards, and I would sit on the stage enthroned on a red couch, red paint on my lips and a black dot drawn above each eyebrow where they knitted above my nose. I wore red, too, pooling about my bare feet like blood, and I would flick my fingers up and down to the music. And oh, the music! It was rapture itself, it was favor and fraught and fervor all in one. I would sway and curse and flick my fingers up and own, up and down. Circles and circles. Delicious.

The dancers disappeared, occasionally, into little secret corners and silent rooms in pairs and triples, where they did things that no one would explain to me. I never disappeared with anyone. I attribute it now to the red couch, the red-painted lips, the white hair tangled with gemstones, the crimson. I see now that I was untouchable. That I was protected, not just by my father’s tongueless guards but by my name. Sayblood, Dread Lady, Death-dealer. (To read the rest, click here.)

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In our next story, the bards continue in their song on the Sword of Myn, as penned by Therese Judnea.

Saturnia unwound the sword-shaped hairstick from her daughter’s hair, letting the coiled locks fall loose over Eya’s shoulders. The hush-hush of the bristles was soothing to hear as the brush moved rhythmically through the rose-gold tresses.

It had been a long day. The afternoon had stretched into the evening, with Bran, Mercir and King Solan tucked away in the King’s private study. Not a sound had escaped until Solan had come to fetch Saturnia, leaving Aphrodelle and Eya to pass another long hour with Aura.

That hour hadn’t been frightless. It had been Eya who had started, and realized that the face she had been gazing at was almost translucent, luminescent even. Aphrodelle, stirred from sleep, saw the same.

It really was the dismissal of hope, even though both girls pretended that surely, they were too tired to trust their eyes. Bran had come then, and his ashen face had told them they weren’t wrong. It was Star-Sickness.

Without a word he had picked up Aura and taken her outside. Fresh air would help a little, for the time being.

Saturnia, strong as ever, had given no sign that she was surprised, and had gone about doing whatever she could. There was no longer much that could be done, not that evening.

Bran had volunteered to remain with Aura during the night, and so the Queen departed to keep the routines she knew were so necessary in times of trial. She tucked the youngest ones into bed, comforted Aphrodelle, and then came to Eya, as she always did.

She always gave Eya a little extra time. Maybe the princess needed it; her mother knew only too well how much more Eya had to wrestle with; or was it because of something else? In either case, Eya did need it.

“How do your scars feel, dear?” Saturnia’s voice mingled with the soft swishing sound.

“Alright. They hurt a little this morning, that’s all.” (To Continue, click here.)

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As you can no doubt tell, I have a love of serials. That being said, our next story is part three of A River Trembles, which is part two of the Mordreigau chronicles, written by Leanne Shawler.

Previously, Eidothea hints that another member of the Chosen Court may have been found. There is political wheeling-dealing. Ondine, a healer, finds that Eidothea’s recovery is slower than most dreigiau môr. Llyr comes up with a way for Eidothea to meet with Maeve sooner, and confesses that he is the prophet. That it is not Eidothea’s role to play. Was she meant to be the Grealseeker and nothing else? There are unexpected consequences to Llyr’s plan.

I woke, nestled in Llyr’s arms. My limbs felt heavy, the ice-cold fire that had ravaged them now gone, leaving only the horrible memory. I lay still, listening to Llyr’s heartbeat. Neither of us had died drinking from the Greal.

His parting words rang in my ears. Would he permit such intimacy if he knew who I had loved instead of him? Whatever spell he had cast, it had not rid me of my guilt.

He stirred and sat up. For the first time I noticed a new bandage on his upper arm.

:Who hurt you?: Propping myself up on one arm, I reached for his bandaged arm.

He jerked it out of my reach. :A minor scratch,: he declared. I knew he lied.

:Llyr!: I said, exasperated.

I saw him react to my exasperation: a small smile, and then I felt it. The twinge of pain, the shadow of heartbreak, his deep, deep love for me, his longing to tell me — A blank space appeared in my mind like a boulder, from behind which came wisps of longing. Whatever secret he held lay hidden behind that blankness.

His emotions became mine. :Llyr…: I grasped at my head, dizzy, overwhelmed. I was rudderless in a swirling maelstrom of Llyr’s feelings. This was how I knew he had just lied. I felt his guilt like it was mine.

He hauled me into his arms, holding me in a fresh desperation. I admit I did the same.

:I did not … imagine … it would be like this.: Llyr managed that coherent thought. :Hold on to me.:

My stomach revolted, not at his touch but at the incessant deluge of his feelings. I sensed his queasiness rise also in response to mine. I clamped my lips shut. I refused be sick.

Losing all sense of time and place, I completely inhabited Llyr’s interior and he mine. There seemed no escaping the maze, except perhaps unconsciousness.

Llyr latched onto the idea. :Sleep,: he thought to Ondine. I sent my own begging thought to her before Llyr’s heartbreak rose and reclaimed me.

He knew everything now. He felt my shame and my betrayal. I knew for those emotions came flooding back to me. His pain burned both of us.

Sobbing, I clung to him, his body shuddering with grief, both mine and his. Holding him was not enough. I had to find some way to spare him my sorrows. (To continue, click here.)

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Our next writer sent us chapter 10 of her story “On Blackstone Mountain,” but I think that to do it justice, we need to start over with chapter one. It’s the only way to do Samantha Burn’s story justice.

Sweat dripped off the tip of Josie Greene’s nose, falling into the rich soil below as she worked the hoe down the length of the garden bed. It was a hot day for mid-May and Josie was covered in a sheen of sweat and grime. Planting potatoes was especially intensive labor because of all the trenching and hilling required, but Josie loved to dig in the dirt and she didn’t mind the work.

Gramp had never used machinery on the farm and neither did she.

“It disconnects you from the community.” He would say.

And to Gramp, that community included the soil, water, fauna and flora, as well as the people.

Besides, their operation wasn’t so big that they needed to use machines to do the work, and Gramp had always been a staunch advocate for “the Old Ways”. Just as he’d made it his life’s mission to advocate for wildlife. Josie wanted to honor the legacy her grandfather had left to her.

Slowly but steadily, Josie shuffled down the path between beds, keeping a rhythmic motion with the hoe. Exhale on the downward swing, pull the soil with an inhale to create a trench. This was bed number three and the muscles in Josie’s shoulders and arms burned, her back protested and her mid-section ached. Ignoring the complaints of her body, she reached the far end and paused to lean against the long tool handle to catch her breath.

Gazing around at Blackstone Farm her heart swelled with joy and pride to see the place coming to life again after the long winter. The grass on the meadow was just beginning to grow, the trees were unfurling pristine new leaves and this year’s crop of lambs bounced and played in the barnyard. Soon she would move the flock out onto the lush pasture.

It had been foolhardy of Josie to drive the Bronco up the mountain last November. She was fortunate to have survived the winter with little more inconvenience than having run out of a few provisions. Flour, sugar and coffee had been the most painful to go without, but if anything had happened to her or to any of the livestock, there was no way of getting help. Idyllic as the farm was, modern conveniences like electricity and telephone lines had not yet made it this far into the wilderness. (To continue, Click Here.)

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Next up, we continue with the gripping tale of “The Jarl’s Son,” by D.S. Brandt. In Chapter 12-1, we learned that the Wolfmother was missing and that Martin wanted to look for her. Jarl Ostock didn’t want his son to go looking for her, and a partial argument ensued. Martin hit upon the idea of talking to Fox Rennar but hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

Marten and the Jarl parted ways soon after. The city’s council had been left waiting for some time, and there was still a goodly amount which Jarl Ostock needed to discuss with them before he could make time to spend with young Erik. Dire though the circumstances were, Marten’s unexpected return home would prove a small blessing for his father at this moment. As he stepped out, the Jarl asked Marten to spend time with his younger brother, at least until his meeting with the council was finished.

Naturally, Marten agreed. It would make for an easy opportunity to speak with Erik about Gaiur’s vulpine companion. Before he could, though, he’d first need to bring Varro back into the training yard. The greatwolf had been surprisingly calm with Marten in the wake of his master’s disappearance. He might even say the beast behaved amenably toward him, given his willingness to follow Marten and actually listen to the commands he gave.

He hadn’t given much thought about that over the last couple days, but now he found himself wondering why that was. Varro wasn’t some simple dog, domestic and teachable. He was a predator and a wild beast, and a massive one at that. Even if he were trainable, which he supposed must be possible considering he was Gaiur’s traveling companion, Marten hadn’t spent enough time with Varro for any sort of training or trust to naturally set in. Instead, it seemed that Varro’s attitude toward him was positive from the outset. At the very least it was placid.

Varro was out front, lying on the wooden porch. He rested his head over crossed forepaws, perking and sitting upright once Marten emerged. “Come along, boy,” he said softly, waving his hand to beckon the greatwolf to follow. (to continue, click here.)

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In chapter three of K.M. Carroll’s “Heart and Crown,” Sylvia's alien kitten is growing at an alarming rate, but that's the least of Mark's worries.

The next few days passed in a haze of work. Mark had regular patients to attend to, as well as checkups on the recovering battle mages every six hours. Efrain Bretmer had become his own special charge, and Mark felt a particular responsibility for him. The mage had regained feeling in his limbs and was able to hobble about with the aid of a walker. Mark encouraged him and inspected the damage in his back, which was mending nicely.

“Once I finish therapy, I hope they send me out again,” Efrain said. "You're a mage, right? Have you ever had battle training?"

Mark smiled ruefully. "Well, battle training sends magic to the upper chakras. The throat, mind, and crown. My magic never wanted to go that far. It stops at the heart. They said I'd be wasted in combat, but I'd make a great healer."

"Oh, that's a shame," said Efrain. "You can't believe the rush you get. You speak and rocks shatter! You think and fire falls! It's like being God, himself! To stand on two feet and summon magic at will? You can't even imagine it, not when you've been sitting on Aurium your whole life."

This did sound tempting, but Mark had a quiet horror of having those wings screwed into his spine. He knew what it entailed, probably better than any battle mage did. He smiled and changed the subject, but the worry lurked at the back of his mind that one day they'd call him in.

When he was off duty, he spent his time painting and studying technique. Often he'd go out to the community gardens and play soccer with his friends, or whoever happened to be there. His long legs made him a swift runner, and it felt good to get outside, under the sun and Algol, and use his muscles instead of his mind.

All this helped take his mind off Sylvia Kelcaster. Whenever he sat down with his painting, or a book, or otherwise had a quiet moment, the thought of her plight came leaking into his thoughts. Grief came with it: heavy, hopeless, awful sadness. It was worse than if she had died. Had she died, he could have mourned her properly, but he would have also had the comfort of knowing that God had taken her home, and that he would see her again someday. But this–knowing that she would be sent away to wed a warmongering prince as an attempt to placate him? It was like seeing her thrown to a hungry Aepygryphus in an attempt to save a flock of sheep. (to continue, click here.)

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While we wait for more stories to come in, I’ll entertain you with the next scene from “Law and Order,” titled “Prelude to a Dance.”

“Hey,” He protested amiably, “I wasn’t through with that drink.”

“Did you hit your head or something?” Amelia asked as she tugged on his right arm. Her flame-red hair waved behind her. “You haven’t seen us in six months and are more worried about a drink?” She looked upset, and if the blush crawling up her neck was any indication, she was feeling aroused.

“Brandyn does make a good meadhon,” Balgair replied with a grin.

“I’ll meadhon you,” the red-haired ciad-ghin grumbed as she gave another tug on his sleeve. She wasn’t paying attention to Balgair; hence, she was surprised when he tensed his right arm. To his left, the brunette’s eyes widened as she felt his muscles tense, and she released him, trying to get out of his range.

“Ame,” Nell said, trying to get the redhead's attention, but she was too late and could only watch as her maighstir grabbed the ciad-ghin and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Hey, what gives?” The redhead cried as she found herself thrown over his right shoulder, with her head looking down at his back. Her protestations were cut short when he brought up his left hand and spanked her on the right buttock. “Balgair, you are a beast.”

The Sheriff growled low in his throat, a sound that Amelia could feel reverberating through her body. The slow blush deepened, painting her skin a rosy red. A satisfied smile crossed her lips as he carried her up the stairs.

With her eyes on her maighstir, Nell obediently followed behind, her arousal evident in the way she walked. As strange as it seemed, both women loved it when Balgair took control and treated them like the bannaichean they were.

The third of the trio peeked around Nell just in time to see Amelia wink at her, and Heather could feel the satisfaction through the bond. The blonde was still trying to get used to the other two women, having met them less than an hour earlier. She tilted her head to the left as she felt something from Balgair and looked at him. It was her turn to blush as she caught snippets of his thoughts. He was thinking about her dance a few days earlier. He seemed to want the three to dance tonight and wouldn’t take no for an answer. (to continue, click here.)

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For your reading pleasure, Amanda V. Shane sends us Chapter Two of “Snow Maiden.”

Sounds drifted in from beyond the tree line, loud enough to wake her. Nika stirred, amazed to find she hadn’t frozen in the night. After her feet had carried her far enough away from her cottage for the villagers’ yells to fade out, she’d hunched herself into a ball against a tree trunk. By some miracle, no hungry bear or wolf had come upon her while she’d slept. Fighting the chill in her bones, she cracked open her eyes and shivered. Winter was imminent, now, each night grew colder than the last. The smell of snow hung heavy in the air. Fine time to be sleeping out alone in the woods, Nika thought to herself. Squinting against the morning sun, she uncurled her sore body and tried to rub some warmth back into her extremities.

Again, voices drifted through the trees from nearby, the same sounds that had roused her. Standing with care, she followed them across the stream. When she emerged from the forest, the sight of a fair setting up met her eyes. The delicious aroma of newly baked bread and other fare filled her nose. Her empty stomach clenched. She had nothing, no coin. Perhaps, she could work for it. Cleaning or sewing, maybe. (To continue, Click Here)

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Love doesn’t always come in grand books. Sometimes it comes in drabbles. MaKenna Grace proves it in a Gnome’s Place.

Penny raised her head at Gerard’s huff.

“Papa, whatever is the matter?”

His face squelched together, his eyes narrowing. “That good for nothin’-“ he grumbled.

He grasped his pointed hat, wringing it between his fingers, and stomped with a heavy step out of the garden and down the cobbled road, stopping at the fence line of the Percival house.

“Not again.” Penny ran to catch up, nearly ripping her skirts on the thorns of a rose bush.

“Jaxon Percival! I’ve about had enough of you,” Gerard yelled. “Come out here right now!”

A small little gnome, smaller than most, peeked his head around the corner of the hedge, his own cerulean hat shaking with the fright he felt.

Gerard loomed over him, widening an eye. “You’ve been at it again, haven’t you. I’ve told you once, I’ll tell ya a hundred times. Stay out of me garden!”

“I’m sorry, Gerard, I just-“

“You just what?”

“Well, you have the best carrots on Fluxington Street, and I do love carrots.”

After a tense moment, Gerard straightened up, twiddling the end of his white beard through his fingertips, glaring down the bridge of his nose. “The best, you say?”

“The very best, sir.”

Gerard sat back on his heels, sliding his thumbs under his suspenders and softening his tone. “Well now, I don’t mind sharin’ what I got. But I don’t like you sneakin’ round me garden at all hours of the night. If you be needin’ somethin’, you’ll do right to ask first.”

“Yes s-,” Jaxon cleared his throat, “Yes, sir.”

With an affirmative nod, Gerard replaced his hat snuggly and marched back to his garden.

Jaxon turned to Penny with a nervous chuckle. She shook her head, grinning. “That won’t work forever, you know.”

“I know.” He took her in his embrace, giving her a kiss. “But I’ll take what I can get.” Penny’s flushed cheeks raised with a smile.

“Penny!” Gerard’s boisterous voice echoed through every garden wall, causing the both of them to jump.

They each sighed in unison. “I better be off,” she said.

Reluctantly, they released and Penny strolled away, Jaxon’s gaze pining until she disappeared. (to read the whole page, click here)

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Kathrine Elaine is a great writer and never fails to send in something wonderful to read. Her offering is an old piece, from September, and it’s better the second time around. It’s just a “Promise of Spring.”

The first stars smiled among the tiny emerald-green leaves of spring. All the winds had stopped their ragged breaths, the night was calm, the silence filled with anticipation. Or was the night completely ordinary and the only source of unrest was her heart? Princess Jewel couldn’t tell, as she tiptoed through the giant garden of the castle to their secret meeting place. Will he come? She did leave her usual sign - a crimson silk ribbon richly perfumed with rose-oil, like she did every time before their date. The sign reassured him - “father is busy and will not show up for his evening stroll in the garden, therefore, it’s safe for you to come, my dearest!”

She had seen her secret love among the arriving soldiers just this morning. The soldiers of Avem flew with the warm spring breeze every year. They came as birds, a graceful flock of blackbirds landed lightly in the courtyard of the castle, only to become stately soldiers with their Birdling magic.

A sign of friendship between two kingdoms - Hebeny and Avem. Birdling soldiers came to train and share their wisdom with the soldiers of Hebeny, who, sadly, possessed no magic of the old.

Here in the garden, they first met. A blackbird and a golden-haired princess. She fell in love with his lonesome song. She left her ribbon for him to return it the next day. And so, it went on - each Autumn he flew away, only to return with the birds each spring. The king would never give his loveliest daughter to a simple soldier. But the years went on. A beauty of twenty-two summers, princess Jewel was to be wed soon. (To continue, click here.)

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Von writes what he calls Eutopian marriage fiction. He’s written “Contract Marriage,” “Article 17,” and “Island People.” This chapter comes from “Contract Marriage.”

She watched Gregory skim away and turned, relieved, back to the house. That had gone… about as well and about as badly as she had feared. She walked into the house and saw her shirt on the dresser in the great room and gratefully put it on.

Ska-drek-a was just then coming down the stairs and she gave her a funny look. “I thought your en-e-drek told you to keep your shirt off,” she said.

Jellia pulled the shirt back on, frantically. Curses! If Ska-drek had seen!

“How did it go?”

“Oh, wonderful. He was totally into me.”

Ska-drek-a laughed, “Anyone could see that! He never even greeted me or your ska-drek.”

“Which is permitted by code,” Ska-drek said, coming in from the kitchen. “Next time he will be required to be more polite, but a first-meet is supposed to have eyes only for his beloved. Did you speak, much? Or was your entire conversation kissing?”

“No, we spoke. Or he asked questions and I spoke. He asked me about my art and about my job at the Garden Party…”

Gregory was walking to his school, they were lucky enough to live close, when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Cxaustin jogging up to him. “Well?” he asked after they had clasped wrists ‘scholar to scholar’. It was officially called a ‘kiss’, but Gregory had always thought that was bizarre. “How was she?”

“Perfectly delightful and dramatically exo! She’s been here 270 days, so I guess a lot of it has worn off, but she kept starting to say things… her mouth would just open… and then she would change it in mid-stream. She still uses this exo word ‘mother’ for her ska-drek-a.” (To continue, click here.)

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Diana Admire chose to send this entry via note. I think it’s from her “Color me Kelly” story. So, here goes.

Later that night Jen looked at her closet or what was the beginning of it. With the two bottom rods from the rollaway hanger she had used, Kelly had made enough space for all her clothes. The top row she would put clothes she didn’t use very often. She wished she wasn’t so short, she could barely reach them. But this would work. The bottom rod held her bright colored shirts, jeans and daily wear. There was plenty of room for more pieces. Now she would be able to get some of the outfits she’d put off buying.

Kelly came in from outside from taking tools to the truck and stood there as if studying the situation. “Is that okay?”

“It’s wonderful,” Jen said. “I’m already planning a shopping excursion.” She giggled. “You said another rod here, right?” she pointed to a small area on the left.

“Yep, easy enough. Is next Sunday okay to come back and finish?”

“Yes, are you in a hurry to leave then?”

“I should if I’m going to get any sleep. Can I call you?”

“Of course, and we can go shopping Saturday.” She rubbed her hands together.

Kelly smiled at her. “I’ll text you later then.”

Dang she was cute when the dimples showed as she grinned.

“You better,” Jen said as she opened the door. “This week is going to drag till next weekend.” She reached up and kissed Kelly’s cheek again. As she came down from her toes. Kelly yanked her closer. Their mouths met for the first time. Jen felt butterflies and her entire body became aware of Kelly. Electricity was too soft of a word for her reaction, it felt more like fireworks on the fourth of July.

The parting as Kelly pulled away came too soon.

“Be sure to tell your mom I’m coming. And I’ll set up my tools in the back driveway. Can you park on the street?”

Jenn’s head was in a fog. Had she been asked a question? “Huh?” Jen asked. She heard a low chuckle.

“I asked if you can park on the street Sunday, while I’m working?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jen shook her head and watched as Kelly went toward the pickup. “Whatever you need.”

“I have more ideas if you’re up for them.”

Jenn had some ideas all right. She watched as Kelly opened the door, got in the truck, then rolled down her window as she began to back out. She stepped closer and raised her voice. “Hey, are we still talking about my closet?”

“Maybe,” Kelly yelled back. Jen could have sworn Kelly winked before she waved and drove away.

Jen stared down the street as the pickup disappeared in the distance. Back inside, after she closed the basement door, she gave a loud, “Yahoo!” She did a frantic little happy dance. She had two dates with a girl for next weekend. After plopping on the daybed she looked at the closet. Kelly did good work. Touching her lips, she inhaled and sent out a soft wolf-whistle. She wondered what else Kelly may be good at and couldn’t wait to find out.

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The Amazing Brothers Krynn tell you How to Achieve Success in Writing: Capturing The Most Beautiful Sort of Dialogue - Love Confessions. The title is a mouthful, that’s for sure, but it’s a must read for writers.

I’m writing about this topic though most might say that this sort of speech or dialogue doesn’t require much thought. I’d disagree, as all scenes, all dialogue in a story requires a great deal of thought and purpose put behind it.

In the case of love-confessions this is a complicated and difficult topic to write about. To be quite honest this is one where I feel that the average female writer might excel more at, and yet I’ve observed some male writers who’ve done a pretty good job.

First we have to pin down just how exactly what it is that we’re writing and good examples of how to do it.

So first off, a love confession is a scene wherein one character conveys his or her affection for another, usually it’s a male character who does this. The reason being that men have always been the ones responsible for chasing after those they desire, with this going as far back as the ancient Greek tales of Helen and Paris, and even those of the likes of Zeus and his paramour of the week.

Though in the latter’s case there was little in the way of love involved, so that it is an anomaly (perhaps a better example is Hades & Persephone). Its happened though that the act of chasing after the other in literature has evolved thanks in large part to the court-romance of French Romanze literature, and the latter day literature of Jane Austen amongst others.

One of the best examples of a love confession scene is that from Pride and Prejudice as Mr. Darcy confesses his affection to Elizabeth. (To continue, click here)

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