231,256 words

Pre-Arthurian Historical Fantasy / British Editing / Graphic

BLURB:

Serving as a Brittunculi Legionnaire in the very occupation he hates the most, Trystian has yet to labour through some of the hardest lessons of life.

Fourteen years of his youth have been conscripted by the deceitful Legatus Legionis Gallus through impossible choices forced upon him; that time is gone, but now, so are the Romans. Free after so long, Trystian’s only desire is to go home— to the family he fears has been destroyed, even after he’d remained dutifully under the regime, and to the one with whom he left his heart.

In a time when so few dare to pray to her any longer, he hopes his devotion to his Goddess is strong enough to wake her from the slumbers of abandonment, so that she may see him through his ultimate and most brutal path yet ahead. The one that will finally return him home. It is this journey, at the most dismal point in his life, which forces him to reconcile with his past, and make peace with the choices that had been made for him long ago.

It’d started when he’d been a young man, struggling with how to contain his discontent of the Roman occupation of Briton so as not to shame his father. Nevertheless, not even the receding Roman reign had come soon enough for Trystian. But back home in Penrith, Cumbria, the ominous Roman presence wasn’t the only thing that caused Trystian a troubled mind. As a young man coming of age, he found there were some things he didn’t have in common with other young men, and an encounter with a secret Welsh noble with exotic eastern features both terrified and excited Trystian. However, life for Trystian wasn’t just his own or simple enough for him to have the time he had wished for to explore. Such feelings, stirring within him— they remained untouched as he was tutored and conditioned to be something greater for their people and the family’s future.

After all the misfortune and misery of the past, Trystian now forges towards a future he never once imagined as his fate. For the Goddess never truly abandons her children born from the blessed rites of the Calan Mai.

For Trystian Pendragon isn’t just high born, he is Sliocht na Péiste— “born of the dragon”— and his future belongs to the Goddess and to the destiny of the royal Pendragon bloodline. Survive it all, and the Goddess Morrighan just might bless him with a reunified bond he’d once made within the Anáil Dhragain.

 

 

Stephan [pronounced: stef-fahn] is a relocated Nova Scotian who now lives in the sunshine states of the US where he spends most of his time writing out on the beach and tending to his accidental vegetable garden. He’s always been known to create vividly wild stores since he was a kid without any desires of publishing. Now, after retiring from the concert industry, his longtime affair of writing as a favorite pastime has now become a new profession.

Being a Native American Siksika of mix blood (mixed culture as well), it was inevitable that everything else in his design would turn out to be a mix bag of hosh-posh influences thrown into a life time of nerdy-love for the studies into ancient cultures and religions. From his Indian heritage and Mariners family history, to his own self-expressions of gothic punk and natural science, plus a little bit of everything he’s ever explored and sampled, always managing to avoid falling into any form of stereo type’s definition. It’s no wonder, when it comes to his writing, he’s a rule breaker. Even when it comes to his two favorite genres: Post-Apocalyptic Dark Fantasy and Historical Fantasy.

But in the end, oh the places we will go.

Trystian pulled his head back, not getting far when his head hit the post behind him. Unable to escape any further, he felt the first glance of Êrakas’s lips against his jaw. A fleeting touch that had the static of an early summer storm. Heat climbed up Trystian’s back with an overwhelming tingle. It had him ready to bolt, with or without his skin enjoying the contact. He grew panic struck, so he quickly brought up a conversation to avoid any further approach, “W-when you fought Illiam today, how is it you managed to avoid every one of his strikes?”

Their eyes met and for once, Trystian wasn’t dodging them. He was locked into them and rather than bolt, his body pined to give into the connection. The kiss. Still, it frightened him almost as much as the girls did, except this time he frightened himself because he wanted Êrakas in a way he’d never wanted the girls.

Êrakas shrugged, his fixated gaze never leaving him, even as he leaned back, always to look deeper into Trystian’s own eyes. “Your brother was right about Killian’s tactics, days ago. He was a lumbering mountain; the trick was just to wear him out. I discovered after the match that Killian and Illiam shared a tutor. Which meant the fencing style used was much the same for Illiam, only this time I was able to bait him to unbalance himself. It was his undoing, and he opened himself up for a kill point. He knew it in that instant and quickly yielded.”

Trystian swallowed nervously. His mind reeled with thoughts he wasn’t comfortable with, sensations in his body that strangled his mind, and utterly pinned in place because he also didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want Êrakas to leave either. Talking was his only stall. “Have you ever been struck? Ever lose a match?”

A wry grin came over Êrakas’s face, and he was suddenly loosened his blue kilt and pushed the waist hem down.

Trystian gulped even harder this time and forced his eyes away. However, they soon acted on a will of their own and floated down to see the soft skin of Êrakas’s now bare loins.

“There was this one time, a year back. I was sparring with your brother, Arthwys. I’ll never forget it because he was wearing a mask that covered his face.”

Trystian swallowed again.

“I thought I had him; he was on the ground, and I came up to pose my kill point over his head when he rolled under my feet. His sword was swiftly right there.” Êrakas then took Trystian’s hand, pulling him to touch the scar that had been left from the challenge. “He nearly took off my manhood.”

Trystian found it difficult to breathe. It was like static, crackling at his fingertips, tracing over the finger-long raised scar and the soft gullet of flesh where it was nestled. His breath left his chest and he fought to get another as Êrakas led his hand farther over— to the manhood, as proof is was truly still connected and in full working order.

Êrakas dropped his lips to brush against Trystian’s ear then murmured, “Only, it wasn’t Arthwys who cut me, was it?” Lips moved down to his cheek, kissing him, breathing heavily in his ear. “It was you,” his words were heavy now. They rasped over Trystian’s spine and he closed his hand around the shaft that was eager for his touch. “I can’t bring myself to stay away. I want your touch so strongly. I need to know how you feel touching me.” Êrakas sucked in a deep breath, near hissing in Trystian’s ear. He leaned against him so they became pressed together, pinning Trystian against the support beam of the stables with Êrakas’s cock trapped between them. “Grip it like you do your sword. Let me feel your fingers wrapped around me.”

Êrakas started to move, and his shaft slid in and out of Trystian’s closed fist, as would his own in the dark when no one was watching. Those strong, skilful arms came up around Trystian to grip the column he leaned against. Then he used it as leverage while he rolled his hips forward then back like a wave, pumping his cock in Trystian’s hand. A warm breath continuously rasped in his ear, voicing the heightening sensation that became of them.

Trystian felt as though they were floating off on rough water in a storm. It was heady like he was drunk and turbulent. He felt the blood pool in his own member, causing it to pulse strangely, drawing his unspoken and untouched yearning to lie with another to surface. To lie underneath this man. Trystian just couldn’t determine if it was all because of Êrakas or because of the mix of brews he’d been fed before escaping the banquet.

Êrakas’s body suddenly clenched and shook. He hissed through gritted teeth, his body seizing against Trystian’s. Then Trystian felt the hot seed spill out over his hand.

“Ah, by the Goddess, I want you, Trystian.”

Along with the briny scent of Êrakas’s release filling the air around them, Trystian felt the flooding warmth spread out from his face and over his chest— shoulders— and everywhere else. He was entranced and was soon under the spell of Êrakas’s kiss. He fumbled, unsure how to kiss back, so when he felt the demanding tongue search beyond his lips, he just gave in and let Êrakas take what he wanted. Two hands now held Trystian’s head and turned him to Êrakas’s will as his tongue explored Trystian’s own, breaking only when it seemed breathing was necessary. They both gasped with foreheads pressed together. That deep stirring continued to grow, but this was more than just physical arousal taking place under his kilt. The warmth created by the strange spice wine in his belly reacted, plausibly summoned to respond. Some strange part of his insides wanted a taste of this man’s lips. Not a sickly sensation, but he felt it grow warmer inside him, spreading, reaching through his pores to touch the body still pressing against him. To bind them into one—

“TRYSTIAN! Trystian you down here?”

They heard Uther’s distinguished gruff voice calling for him from outside— the idea of getting caught was more than Trystian could bear and he bolted.

He crashed right into Uther in the threshold, hardly throwing his bulksome brother back a step, but enough so Trystian had space to squeeze past and run back for the castle without stopping.