Two Hearts beat as one

🌹Thorny Thursday💗 for February 6th, 2025

Welcome to another 💗Thorny Thursday,🌹 the newsletter for Romantics.

Let’s hop right into our stories. They are getting good.

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Settle in, and let’s start with Part Six of Sayblood’s Children by S.E. Reid.

Previously, Othniel learned what forces he is up against by keeping Sayblood on the island.

I remember returning from the ballroom to the palace of my sleepless father.

Shrike and I had spent hours talking; I had watched his lips as he spoke under that magical mask, told me tales, uttered his strange Above words like spells over me. I was caught, captivated, snared. Troubled.

The halls of the pewter-spired palace were hushed and shadowed as I passed through them. Soon, I stood in the doorway of my father’s dark library. I did not wait for him to look at me. I knew he knew I was there.

“What is the Shrike?” I asked him.

He looked up from his studies, then. “A rare talent,” he replied, his breath stirring motes of dust from the pages of his book.

“I have taken an interest in him. What shall I do?”

One Prince smiled, and I knew he was pleased with me. “The poet is worthy of your interest. He is good practice. You will learn much from him.”

“What shall I do?” I asked, again.

My sleepless father bent back to his book, cowled in crimson.

“Practice,” he said. “Practice survival. Practice on the poet. You will know. Let interest lead to lessons.”

My father spoke in riddles. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that I wished I had a mother to ask. But her absence was the strength of my hands, and I knew it was an evil to wish for her.

I took my troubled thoughts to bed with me but I could not sleep. Instead I went walking in the garden of One Prince as I did often throughout my youth, stone trails snaking through a vast field of thornbushes, brown and brittle and bristling with long and wicked thorns. I did not know then that such bushes—plants, living things—are meant to be green and alive, their spines softened with leaves and flowers. That there are other plants, some small and some very large, that grow and tower and creep and perfume the air.

But the garden of One Prince was never green. It never bloomed, and never grew.

The lanterns along the path dripped with cold light that heaved and receded with Sumble’s eternal breath and the stained bushes hung with bones and flesh: this is what remained of One Prince’s enemies, criminals, and trespassers. Thieves and the weak we punished on the thorns, and their blood fed the dust.

From childhood I had learned to find it beautiful, but as I walked it then, Shrike’s words about Above had turned the graveyard garden limp and lifeless to me. I longed for the things he told me about, the strange words he used, the places he described.

I was desperate to meet the Moon, to find the Sun, to taste the Sea.

I wanted to touch the softness of Rose, to feel the air stirred by the wing of creatures called Birds whose names delighted me: Robin, Finch, Sparrow, Wren. Wren, most of all. (To continue, click here)

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The lovely Therese Judnea continues her great story, The Sword of Myn. In Chapter Five, we pick up where we left off last week.

A stray beam of sunlight extricated itself from the thin curtains, and slipped through the shadows, bringing brief light and warmth to each, before wandering away and encasing a drowsy Earthiana inside its light.

Earthiana stirred, visions of revolving suns and velvet-mantled queens still locked behind her lids. It had been a nice dream, a good one, a break from -

The nightmare! She bolted upright, surprised to find herself still in the convent bedroom, dreams or visions nearly forgotten in an instant. The nightmare was real. Here she lay in the room meant for her kidnapped sister, her parents and Bran still very much missing.

Mercir would be coming. He would have news, she prayed; perhaps a ransom was being asked for. That thought was a surprising source of hope. She slipped out of bed and hastened to the chapel, where she knew Mercir would find her easily, perhaps even to join her before Mass started.

Chants were already being sung by the religious as she knelt, but they seemed sad and plaintive, though they were sung no differently from before. Eya leaned her head on her hands as her stomach felt ice-cold. She wasn’t sure she could make it up for Communion. She stayed in her pew, waiting and wishing for Mercir’s hand to find hers.

Even after the religious had all slipped out and headed to the dining hall to share the morning meal with their guests, Earthiana remained.

Yet, when she heard footsteps come her way and halt beside her seat, it wasn’t her brother. It was the Abbot.

“Princess,” he whispered soberly. He took her hands in his. For a moment, his lips parted to speak, but hesitated to move. Earthiana’s heart tightened.

“Dearheart. . . I believe. . . that you ought to include your entire family in your prayer.”

They were gone.

All of them.

“Oh, Father!”

Mercir had disappeared on his way back to the palace in the night, and the rest of the royal family had been missing from their chambers that morning.

Even the palace was no longer a safe-haven.

Indeed, perhaps it had become the most dangerous place to be.

The sun moved along the walls until finally, Earthiana's tears had stopped in that moment when one is too hurt to feel the pain. She looked to the abbot, who had remained with her, and now he tenderly touched her cheek.

“If you feel up to it. . .someone is here to see you, little daughter. It may help, a little.”

The abbot gave Eya his hand and walked her out into the garden. A woman stood among the flowering shrubs and herbs, the last person Earthiana would have expected to see there. Eya didn’t say her name because her throat still hurt from weeping, but she ran into the priestess’ open arms. (To continue, Click Here)

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In our next Story, the StoryWeaver Leanne Shawler weaves a worthy piece on Part five of A River Trembles.

Edited transcript of interview with Llyr ap Peredur, Prophet for the Dreigiau Môr Chosen Court. Interview conducted on 11th August, 1825 by Miss Juliana Davies and transcribed a day later.

Mr. Llyr, thank you for taking the time to meet with me to discuss details not revealed in the Monarch’s diary. Let’s start with what occurred after you bonded with Eidothea. Would you share how it felt in that moment to learn Eidothea loved someone else?

She loves another.

Another. Not me. The woman I adored. Adore still, though it hurts me to my core. Eidothea, my salve.

I used to run when I was hurt, swam as fast and as far as I could. To flee the nightmares I went to her. Just glimpsing her on the beach eased my soul. How could I not love her?

I can’t flee to her now. She’s the one who has hurt me, deceived me, shamed me. I whispered the spell, giving it strength, wanting to block her utterly. Her presence became a distant ache.

I thought, given time, she would love me too. On her first visit to Caer Morgana, she clung to me, relied on me. Her frightened gaze turned to me for consolation or answers.

When I disrobed before her in the spring house, I didn’t need to be bound to her to know she was scandalised and aroused. I knew she desired me. I wish I had acted then instead of giving her the time and space she needed to adjust to her new world. As her only friend and ally, how could I unsettle her?

Instead of running from her, I swim ahead, pushing through the ocean, trying to shake off the leaden weights of her revelations that will sink me into the deeps. Not matter how I twist, the fact remains.

She loves another. One who hurt her, who broke her heart. She cannot still love him. But yet she does.

I flip onto my back and survey the sea’s ceiling, far above. She didn’t want to tell me, to hurt me. Surely, I still had a chance. She cared for me a little. She knew how I felt, how I still feel.

I glanced behind me to see her trailing me, drooping. None of my pain should reach her. I will not hurt her like he did.

I may be a fool but there can be no other for me.

I don’t know what to do. We have slept in the same bed, been inseparable, and yet now I cannot bear to be near her, to know…

I execute a full body roll, hoping in vain to shake off my despairing sadness. I need time to absorb this blow but I fear our cause will not allow it. It will give her time too, to put her heartbreak behind her.

And then I’ll win her back.. (To continue, Click here)

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On Blackstone Mountain, written by Samantha Burns, is about a young woman who inherits her Uncle’s farm and tries to make a go of it. Today, she gives us Chapter Three.

Josie would have given anything to stay hidden away on the mountain. Never leaving. Never having to face the critical and accusing gazes of the townspeople. Especially now that Gramp was gone.

Yet, the events of the week had brought the world to her door. Josie had hardly been able to eat or sleep since her Uncle's visit, and she could no longer deny the gravity of her situation. Selling the farm was out of the question, but neither had she the faintest idea how she was going to save it.

When she wasn't stressing about the farm, she found herself thinking about Ben. What a shock it had been to see him out of the blue like that! He'd looked exactly as she'd remembered him, only harder somehow. Leaner. His features more angular. Even still, she'd recognized him in an instant.

And so had her heart.

Hoping to assuage some of the negative and anxious energy, Josie did what she’d always done. She threw herself into her work—of which the farm offered a neverending supply. These last 3 days she’d pushed herself hard, working from sun-up to sun-down, mending fences, alternately planting and weeding in the garden, cleaning in the barn, and then taking the first harvest of the season.

Desperately in need of provisions for the homestead and feed for the livestock, and with the first harvest from the garden to sell, there was no putting it off any longer: Josie needed to go to town. The farm was her responsibility now and she could not disappoint her grandfather, even in death. It was high time she faced the music─and her Aunt Rosemary. (To Continue, Click here)

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K.M. Carroll is a very talented writer. My proof is “Heart and Crown,” and tonight, we bring you Chapter Five.

Sylvia returned to her laboratory and checked her plants, fed her fish, organized her latest specimens, and wrote up a report on Becky's growth and development. But always Mark was there in her thoughts: the sadness in his smile, the way his eyes had gone curiously gray, the feel of his arms around her in a polite hug, giving only what was expected of him and no more. He was a gentleman through and through, and it was a crime that he had no better title than esquire.

When a knock rang at the door, Sylvia took her time about answering. Hours spent in the sunlight and the magnetic field had opened her crown chakra, as it always did, leaving her able to feel the people in the fortress around her like lights and shadows. The woman at the door prickled with annoyance and impatience, so it was probably Rosalie, the queen's head maid. She was the one that Queen Joanna sent to oversee politics among the women, and Sylvia had never liked her much. If Rosalie was here, that meant it was time to talk about clothes, dancing, and etiquette. Sylvia took a little time to brace for that.

Composing herself and plastering a smile on her face, she opened the door. "Hello, Rosalie. May I help you?"

The maid was a middle-aged woman with a long, narrow face and a habit of anxiously twisting the hem of her blouse. She did not smile, only looked Sylvia up and down. "Goodness, child, you're filthy. What have you been doing?"

"I just got back from the menagerie," said Sylvia.

"Well! That explains it," said Rosalie. "I am to escort you to the royal tailor and take your measurements for a new dress. Your betrothal party is set for next week, and there's just time for a dress if we start now. You'd better shower, first. You smell."

Sylvia hurried to her rooms and did as she was told, carefully not thinking too deeply. No, if she thought too hard about the direction her life was headed, she would break down, and she couldn't do that. This marriage was to settle a dispute and end a war.

She absolutely did not think about Mark. (To continue, click here)

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Last week, Balgair’s women danced their desire, spending a delightful afternoon and evening in a suite at the Black Swan Inn. What happened next? Well, a goddess visits her follower, and Heather discovers feelings that leave her conflicted.

“Wake up, my daughter,” Heather heard a voice cutting through her sleep. She opened her eyes to find herself in the same columned room she had been in the last time she visited Ananke.

She smiled in adoration as she sank to her knees before Ananke. “Thank you, our Mistress of chains, for my new family.”

“It is as I promised, mo dèanamh-chàraid. You have what you wanted.” Ananke said as she reached down for Heather.

Accepting the hands, Heather rose to her feet and stood before her goddess. “Thank you, Mistress,” she cried, hugging Ananke tightly.

“What brings you here, little one?” The goddess asked as she gently broke the hug.

“It’s Balgair,” Heather whispered, looking at the floor.

The goddess froze for an instant. “What is wrong with him?” Her silver eyes were unfocused as she searched for Balgair and slipped into his dreams. “Oh, I see.” She turned her attention back to Heather. “How long has he been like this?” There was genuine care in her voice.

“Since we moved into the new place,” Heather explained. “He’s been so worried about Delilah and Aelwyn.” Even though she didn’t voice it, she thought about how unfair it was for Balgair to be so worried about the two.

As if hearing her thoughts, Ananke gazed into Heather’s eyes. “What is it you wish, my child?”

“Why must Maighstir Balgair have to bear so much? Why can’t he just be happy?” Heather asked as she took a half-step back. “I don’t think it’s fair to either Amelia or Nell that they should have to think about new bonds.” She drew a shallow breath. “Are there no other men that could bond with Delilah and Aelwyn?” Heather paled when the goddess didn’t answer and took another step backward. (To continue, click here.)

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Amanda V Shane is reworking the Ice Queen story, and now she’s on chapter 4.

“We have to go soon. We’ve searched nearly all day and haven’t found her, Vasilli.”

Ilya, served as King Vasilli’s right-hand man. He was also his best and most loyal friend. If he was growing restless, surely the others were as well.

“And we haven’t found any game in all this time, either,” another voice grumbled.

Bors, the king’s advisor, looked about at the end of his tether. They all were, with this famine. They’d travelled far from their homeland to hunt because their own land had been barren of game for many years. All in the region knew their kingdom bore the weight of a terrible curse.

Vasilli didn’t know if he believed in the curse or if the sorry state of his lands was just a circumstance of geography. He did know that very powerful, dark magic surrounded his territory, the worst of which came from the evil mage, Lord Zrago, and his Eastern Army. He also knew that warring constantly made it harder to feed his people. They had to do something quickly or the Kingdom of Northland would soon be no more.

When he’d seen the young girl at the market earlier, his first inclination had been to get her out of the clutches of the angry villagers there and let her go. If she had stolen bread, she must have been hungry. They’d have given her something from their supplies, then sent her on her way with a stern warning. That should have been enough to send her back to the thieves’ forest supplies,a dire enough tale to keep her friends away from the fair for its duration.

But she’d run and her head covering had been torn away. What the grasp of tree branches revealed was fall after fall of white-gold hair. He’d ordered his men to give chase.

For many centuries, Northland had been barren of more than deer. No fair-haired children were born in Vasilli’s kingdom for many generations. All the people any of the Northlanders had ever seen were dark of feature. Dark-haired and sometimes light eyed like Vasilli himself, but no blondes had lived in Northland since a time beyond remembering. (to continue, click here.)

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When Kathrine Elaine sent in “Grey Pools,” she did so with the warning that it might not be thorny enough. Pshaw, I say, there’s no such thing as too thorny or not thorny enough.

Huge puddles stared at the sky with their grey eyes wide-open. The children of tears, grey pools mirrored their mourning mother. People walked around them, not to step into the mirrors of the sky. Not to disrupt their silent grief.

A girl of no significance stopped staring into one of these mirrors. The reflection painted her teary features grey. Nobody seemed to notice her or the reflection. The rain hid her tears well.

People hiding beneath their umbrellas, or in their phones. Or both. People hiding in themselves, from the celestial tears the sky cried over them. Most people never saw anything even if they looked, and some who did see, walked around the grey pools, not to disturb them. Not to get their feet wet and cold from the gruesome tales the grey pools told. Tales of indifference, tales of lives spent in vain, tales of arrogance. Cold tales. (To continue, click here.)

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The super-talented A.C. Cargill has graciously provided us with a few words of commercial spirit.

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Now that the commercial is over, the First-time writer Horace sends us a short little ditty aptly named “T’was a night in Georgia.”

The night is dark and the garden flow down to a stream of people concentrated around a the centerpiece of a monument. By the edge, near a river was a man and a woman dancing. The woman was a surgeon. She had anything she could ask for, looks, brain, and job. But the man — the poor man, alas, had nothing to his name. Worst still, his heart was stuck. Frozen, broken, no one knew including himself.

With a hand on her back and another embrace, they dance to and by two step. Then —

“Where are you from?” She ask.

“I suppose America.” He nodded and gave a smile.

“Where in America?” She lean in. “In Georgia? Since we are here, it may as well be your home.” “You are warm,” he said then went on “but I did not say which America. It could be Central America or South America.” Seeing her reaction, unsatisfied, he answered “Yes, it is Georgia. You were correct. This,” he wave a hand over the horizon “is my home. My family been here for many years and I cannot leave it.” Then his face grew mum and he stare in to her eyes.

“Would you stay and live within Georgia for all of your life?”

Her eyes widen and she pauses. Then he said “I am willing to part ways if you do not wish to live in Georgia but I am willing to stay if you do not know.” “That is rather inefficient.” She said, flatly.

“I know.” And he let go of her hand and began to walk away.

“Wait! If not me, then who is the woman you love?”

He cease and looking in her eyes, he answer “The last time I saw her was six years ago. And one day, her face showed up in the newspapers. She killed herself.” With that, his head lower and he walk away, becoming a shadowy figure and eventually faded away.

He had a broken heart. Unable to move on, unable to live, he could not live with another woman for the rest of his life. His heart was too broken to be mended and repaired, beyond even the capable surgeon. She felt a dwell of pity bubbling up in her and tears flew and shatter like stars of the night before the rise of the Sun. (to continue, click here.)

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