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Authors: Lesa Fuchs-Carter
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When
Day Turns Night
By
Lesa Fuchs-Carter
This short story is fiction. All
names, characters, companies, incidents, and places are from the
author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any
similarities to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.
The
content of this eBook contains sexually explicit and graphic
situations and is intended for persons over the age of 18. All
characters portrayed in sexual acts are 18 years of age or older.
Copyright
© 2012 by Lesa Fuchs-Carter
All
rights reserved. Please do not reproduce, print, or otherwise
distribute without prior written permission of the author.
Edited
By Ember Rose.
Cover
designed by Lesa Fuchs-Carter. Photo used with permission.
Thank
you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For new releases,
comments, or to connect with the author, visit:
www.LesaFuchsCarter.com.
Ireland, 1117
My father, King
Dauid, was a brilliant man, kind, fair, and humble. A natural
leader, people followed him because he was good, not because he was
overbearing or strong. It was not for power that he rallied an army
together and took the throne, but to supplant the evil man who sat
upon it, starving his people. With his best friend, Artan, by his
side and flanked by Artan's wife, Muirenn, a powerful witch, they
lead an army nearly a thousand strong upon the castle Mac Raith.
When they won, Artan stood beside my father, pushing him to take the
crown when they had won.
Muirenn, whom was
delivering their first born son during that final epic battle, was
not privy to the impromptu crowning of my father, blessed by Artan
and the other leaders of the army. It is rumored that Muirenn had
plans for the throne and when she discovered the crown lay not on her
husband's brow, but my father's, she shrieked and cursed my family
and Artan, calling him a traitor to her power and love. But shortly
thereafter the witch declared herself loyal to the crown, and begged
the forgiveness of both the king and her husband for her outburst.
My father's
kindness and fairness was his fatal flaw.
Now that a true
king once again sat the throne people journeyed from throughout the
land, flocking to him for blessings for their harvest, their
children, their animals. My father declared he would grant no
blessing until he had granted one on Conchobor, Muirenn and Artan's
son.
The kingdom
rejoiced when the babe was brought forth, and my father offered his
first blessing as king.
“My people!”
it is written that he said, “This day a child has been brought
forth whom shall no doubt be great with power and friendship as his
parents, without whom our kingdom would still be under the reign of
Mac Raith. Tonight I make a declaration, none shall usurp him as
heir and future king save the son of my blood. Rejoice and welcome
the heir to the throne!”
Unfortunately, the
blessing was granted by the gods, and Muirenn twisted it to her own
design.
Early Fall, Ireland,
1139
“You look
lovely, Jesmaine,” My mother said, crossing the stone floor to
me. I had to agree the deep purple of my gown looked beautiful
against my pale complexion. She took up the comb beside me, gently
running it through my deep brown hair.
“Not half as
lovely as you mother,” I smiled. She was a mature woman, her
hips widened by the girth of delivering my sister and I, her brown
hair, always kissed with the golden suns rays, even in the deepest of
winters, had gray at her temples. The complicated braid that wove up
and around her head was weaved with the golden crown of her royal
station. She carried herself with the grace and beauty of a true
queen, though she, like my father was born and raised in humble
means.
I knew it saddened
her that she had never been gifted a boy, but her friendly love of
Artan lessened the blow, for surely he was raising his son well to be
king, and to be my husband. I had known since birth that I would
marry Conchobor, whether a brother was born or
Day Turns Night
By
Lesa Fuchs-Carter
This short story is fiction. All
names, characters, companies, incidents, and places are from the
author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any
similarities to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.
The
content of this eBook contains sexually explicit and graphic
situations and is intended for persons over the age of 18. All
characters portrayed in sexual acts are 18 years of age or older.
Copyright
© 2012 by Lesa Fuchs-Carter
All
rights reserved. Please do not reproduce, print, or otherwise
distribute without prior written permission of the author.
Edited
By Ember Rose.
Cover
designed by Lesa Fuchs-Carter. Photo used with permission.
Thank
you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For new releases,
comments, or to connect with the author, visit:
www.LesaFuchsCarter.com.
Ireland, 1117
My father, King
Dauid, was a brilliant man, kind, fair, and humble. A natural
leader, people followed him because he was good, not because he was
overbearing or strong. It was not for power that he rallied an army
together and took the throne, but to supplant the evil man who sat
upon it, starving his people. With his best friend, Artan, by his
side and flanked by Artan's wife, Muirenn, a powerful witch, they
lead an army nearly a thousand strong upon the castle Mac Raith.
When they won, Artan stood beside my father, pushing him to take the
crown when they had won.
Muirenn, whom was
delivering their first born son during that final epic battle, was
not privy to the impromptu crowning of my father, blessed by Artan
and the other leaders of the army. It is rumored that Muirenn had
plans for the throne and when she discovered the crown lay not on her
husband's brow, but my father's, she shrieked and cursed my family
and Artan, calling him a traitor to her power and love. But shortly
thereafter the witch declared herself loyal to the crown, and begged
the forgiveness of both the king and her husband for her outburst.
My father's
kindness and fairness was his fatal flaw.
Now that a true
king once again sat the throne people journeyed from throughout the
land, flocking to him for blessings for their harvest, their
children, their animals. My father declared he would grant no
blessing until he had granted one on Conchobor, Muirenn and Artan's
son.
The kingdom
rejoiced when the babe was brought forth, and my father offered his
first blessing as king.
“My people!”
it is written that he said, “This day a child has been brought
forth whom shall no doubt be great with power and friendship as his
parents, without whom our kingdom would still be under the reign of
Mac Raith. Tonight I make a declaration, none shall usurp him as
heir and future king save the son of my blood. Rejoice and welcome
the heir to the throne!”
Unfortunately, the
blessing was granted by the gods, and Muirenn twisted it to her own
design.
Early Fall, Ireland,
1139
“You look
lovely, Jesmaine,” My mother said, crossing the stone floor to
me. I had to agree the deep purple of my gown looked beautiful
against my pale complexion. She took up the comb beside me, gently
running it through my deep brown hair.
“Not half as
lovely as you mother,” I smiled. She was a mature woman, her
hips widened by the girth of delivering my sister and I, her brown
hair, always kissed with the golden suns rays, even in the deepest of
winters, had gray at her temples. The complicated braid that wove up
and around her head was weaved with the golden crown of her royal
station. She carried herself with the grace and beauty of a true
queen, though she, like my father was born and raised in humble
means.
I knew it saddened
her that she had never been gifted a boy, but her friendly love of
Artan lessened the blow, for surely he was raising his son well to be
king, and to be my husband. I had known since birth that I would
marry Conchobor, whether a brother was born or
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