The first step on the road to addiction is desire…
Tighe is Summer’s prince, the second son of the Summer Queen. The blindness of his mortal father cursed him with eyes that see too much, and now he wanders the woods of immortal Summer alone. He is an outsider in his own country or at best a curiosity—never someone anyone truly wants.
Faelan is gancanagh, one of dark Summer’s most treacherous beings. Beguiling as he is beautiful, he, like all of his kind, was made to incite lust and longing, even as he seeks true love. For anything mortal, anything unprepared, even to be in his presence is dangerous.
When the two meet by chance, Faelan can’t help but be curious about this half-mortal prince—and the prince is more interested in a companion than questioning what kind.
Tighe has never seen anything but the lie behind love. Faelan is love’s lie and knows it. Is the beginning and end of everything between them inevitable? Which is stronger, need—or nature?
Ask me what question I get asked most often, and I think I’d have to give you an answer shared with most other authors. Why do I write? Usually I throw off something about how I have to, or my brain will explode (believe or not it’s a pretty realistic TL;DR response) but on this occasion I decided to actually try and have a go at a real answer. Or at least, one that doesn’t include imaginary exploding body parts!
The first story I ever wrote was – God save the Queen – Star Wars fanfiction. I was eight or nine, and it was of course absolutely terrible, but at the same time it was also amazingly wonderful. I’d been telling stories for years – most children do, even if they don’t realize it. (After all, what’s a game of Let’s Pretend? Just a…call it a “long format” story with an impressionist type of plot!) That Star Wars horror was the first thing I ever wrote down, though, and that, as Robert Frost said “has made all the difference”.
In the intervening years I’ve moved away from plot holes big enough to swallow the Death Star, and Yoda no longer spontaneously appears in icy wastelands, but I still write fantasy and science fiction (and, since I grew up, romance and erotica).
My writing has improved tremendously since then, but the urge that got me started still remains. I wanted – and still do want – to fill up some of the silences in the world with words. To get things said that need to be said, and to tell the tales dragging around and around inside my brain like mad Roman chariots. In the end, it’s less a matter of why than it might seem, because when you ask why, there’s always the implication that there was some other choice.
So! Why do I write? Because the stories are out there, and the words are out there too, waiting to tell them. Why do I write? Because somewhere between character and conversation, setting and plot, the world comes more to life in fiction that it’s able to in real life! Because in the end, a bird must fly, a fish must swim…and a writer must write!
Tighe stared, his eyes fixed, with some confusion. He couldn’t see any of what he had expected to see, not even this close, not even as he went closer.
His eyes had brought him one curse after another, the way they saw to the hidden hearts of things—the secrets that people didn’t want to acknowledge themselves, never mind let him see. This gancanagh was different. In him, Tighe didn’t see a truth or an essence.
What he saw were only mirrors. Lust on glass. He saw not himself in reflection, but the mirrors as they were. Empty, turned on each other and outward, seeking. Seeking. Perhaps that seeking was the heart of him, the essence Tighe had missed? For the first time he couldn’t be sure. Certainly if he saw that, there was nothing else. Maybe there is only the lie and the mirror and no other truth besides. The lie and those mirrors, lust and beauty, is that all it is to be gancanagh?
Tighe froze at the cool touch of the lake water on his feet. What am I doing? The ripple of his steps spread, and the sound of the splash his steps had made. Before he could do more than think of withdrawing, the gancanagh had turned to study him. The touch of his eyes was a vivid caress.
This time the mirrors showed Tighe his own desires, his own broken heart, and he had to look away. That was just as dangerous, just as deadly. Every moment he heard another step, felt more ripples against his ankles, until it no longer mattered. The gancanagh was before him in the water, on one knee, peering at up at him.
Tighe felt the pull of his nature more strongly this time. The lie and its promise. “Love you the way you want to be loved.” Then the stranger was speaking and Tighe had to blink in order to focus on the words and not the low, humming music of his voice.
“I didn’t know you were here, prince. I’d not have disturbed you.”
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Belinda currently lives on the New England coast with her fiancée, their room mate and her cat. When she’s not writing, she’s working toward degrees in Philosophy and English, embroidering or reading.
Belinda writes in several genres, but a little lust and love always work their way into her stories.