This is an excerpt from a Full Moon Series Prequel that is in the works entitled The Lady of the Woods, which centers around the ancient, gothic origin of Fress and Adrastos. Some savvy readers may recognize it as the teaser prologue at the beginning of Book 2! ;-) (This picks up after Adrastos, a young soldier, is impaled by a sword against a tree): The sun had returned to the clearing, illuminating the gently descending autumn leaves as though they had been dipped in gold. His labored breathing had begun to slow, and his pain had begun to diminish. The distant sounds of battle, the stomping of hooves, the shouting of men which had echoed over the hills, faded to null. He felt himself become detached from his humanity, his pain, his sense of self as he began to connect with the energy of the forest around him. The great forest, which sat still and unchanged amidst the calamity of war, unconcerned with the trifles of men, unburdened by the struggle for power and glory and dominion, was always at peace. The soft earth beneath him was also at peace; His weak fingers grasped a bit of it, and he was comforted by the notion that the still and peaceful earth would blanket him, and in death he would become one with it. If he knew he was dying, he no longer cared; He knew only peace. A solitary tear slipped down his cheek, but it was a tear of joy, awaiting his return to nature, his reunion with the God who surrounded him. He did not feel alone, but as through the arms of 1,000 ancestors supported him, comforted him. The ancient tree under which he sat let go of a large leaf, and he watched it as it descended, swathed in gold, until it landed in the still puddle of fresh water before him, sending the sunlight reflecting off of the waters surface in ripples. The grass became greener, a surreal shade of emerald green, and the golden sunlight seemed to grow brighter, somehow separating into prismatic color but now blending into white light. The picture before him began to fade into light, with only the outline of the trees becoming discernible. He could hear a faint ringing, as though a chord had escaped from heaven. A blinding silver light, like a crescent moon, began to move through the trees, growing brighter as it moved closer to him. My angel has arrived. Take me, my angel, he thought as he drew his final breath. Please, take me home...so i may rest. The light stood glistening before him, slowly taking the shape of a white gown. With his consciousness slipping away, he imagined he saw the face of the angel. Her hair was dark, but the expression of limitless compassion and concern on her face was unmistakable. Please, he croaked, the whispered words barely escaping his lips. Take me now. At that moment, as he lay enrapt by this angelic vision, the light that had stood in abeyance overtook his field of vision, and all shapes disappeared, all color disappeared. There was only white. And then there was nothing. The angel who stood before him was Fressenda, the Lady of the Woods, a lady in a long white gown with long, thick, dark hair that streamed loosely down her back in flowing waves, and a pale but beautiful face with soft lips that were the perfect shade of rose. Few had ever glimpsed her, but tales were told of her beautiful and haunting apparition, and hunters who ventured into the forest were always wary of what magic lay hidden behind the trees in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains. Lost hunters would often hear singing, light as a tinkling a bell, and the singing, if followed, would lead them safely out of the forest. She served as their protector. With a small motion of her hand, the jeweled sword which had impaled him was cast to one side. She kneeled beside the fallen warrior, knowing his time was growing short. She tenderly stroked his handsome, cold cheek, gazing into his unseeing pale blue-green eyes, and kissed him gently on the lips. She could taste his blood. His shirt was torn open from battle, exposing part of his well-defined chest just above his heart. She was overcome with love and compassion for the fallen man. Before she had even laid eyes on him, she had sensed his courage. Before her healing hands had touched his broken body, she had sensed his strength. Before she had become entirely aware of the beauty of his soft dark curls or the handsomeness of his chiseled face, she had begun to fall in love with him, as though her soul had reached for his. He was special; He was to be her own, if only for a time. If only for a time. The phrase echoed though her mind. She felt intuitively that it would not be a lasting love. It would not dissuade her. Her fangs sank tenderly into his breast, and she could feel the pulse of his weakly beating heart. It was beginning to grow stronger. She drank of his blood, and it was like a dark red wine. Subtle flavors danced on her tongue, and with it a parade of images and feelings, for to drink of someone was to know of their life. It was good, but careful not to take too much, she withdrew. She gently brushed her soft lips against his neck, desiring to taste him again. Her hand caressed his dark hair, which felt soft as feathers between her fingers. Her breath was heavy and warm against his skin, as she softly caressed him with her petal lips. Overcome with lust, her fangs pierced him again, but it was not an act of malice; She partook of him tenderly, lovingly, with all the compassion her ancient soul could muster. She allowed herself to drink, and then took him into her white arms, her pale gown moving with the air current which had begun to swirl around them. They disappeared into a fading mist, and she flew with him through the trees until she had him safely home. She dressed his wounds and let him sleep. She knew her wounded dove would awaken anew. -- J.C. Estall
Posted on: Sun, 06 Jul 2014 00:04:10 +0000
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