Love's Battle (True Blue Trilogy)
Read Love's Battle (True Blue Trilogy) Online
Authors: Angela Hayes
Tags: #Time Travel, #Paranormal, #Fantasy
Life 7: 1484-1561 Italy/Portugal; 77 years
“And when life’s sweet fable ends;
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Love’s Battle
by
Angela Hayes
True Blue Trilogy, Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Love’s Battle
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Angela Lynn Hayes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Tamra Westberry
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-304-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-305-6
True Blue Trilogy, Book One
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my mom.
At a time when I need words the most,
they fail me.
I love you.
~*~
To my husband.
For your love, support, and encouragement.
True Blue Trilogy Lifeline
Life 1: 840-887 Scotland; 45 years
F- Creideamah (Ean) H- Dochas (Lachlan)
L- Gra (Kenneth)
Black hair with white forelocks, purple eyes
****
Life 2: 921- 963 Norway; 42 years
F- Nakia (Erik) H- Anali (Viggo) L- Caresse (Dyre)
Blonde hair, brown eyes
****
Life 3: 1036-1090 Hungary/Scotland; 54 years
F- Caismhne (Jedrek) H- Ailsa (Fiachra)
L-Vevina (Riordan)
Brown hair, blue eyes
****
Life 4: 1100-1152 Belgium; 52 years
F- Sabeen (Valin) H- Taraji (Bazyli)
L- Zofia (Stanislaw)
Blonde hair with blue eyes
****
Life 5: 1182-1242 France/ England; 60 years
F- Gaea (William) H- Kyra (Benjamin)
L- Thalia (Marcell)
Black hair with green eyes
****
Life 6: 1290-1358 Russia; 68 years
F- Vera (Basil) H- Nadezha (Grigory)
L- Liubov (Ruslan)
Blonde hair, hazel eyes
****
Life 7: 1484-1561 Italy/Portugal; 77 years
F- Euphrosyne (Kalei Ruzgar) H- Veda (Malik Ruzgar) L- Cerys (Aslan Niamon)
Red hair, gray eyes
****
Life 8: 1674-1692- Ipswich, Massachusetts (Essex County); 18 years
F- Olthea (Liam Farris) H- Karis (Elijah Hardy)
L- Darla (?)
Brown hair with brown eyes
****
Life 9: 1704-1783 - Poland/Spain; 79 years
F- Inaya (Marcelino) H- Aglaea
L- Adabella (Rodolfo Chavez)
Black hair, purple eyes.
****
Life 10: 1861-1945- Cincinnati, Ohio/Washington D.C.; 83 years
F- Leala (Jeremy Ryland) H- Calla (Quentin Roosevelt) L- Minna (Boyd Turpin)
Red hair with green eyes
****
Life 11: 1987- 2077- Annapolis, MD; 90 years
Current Life
~~~
List of Quotes
Pg. 2- Source unknown
Pg. 95- Muhammed Ali
Pg. 98- Howard Cosell
Pg. 112, 117, 119, 123, 125 - Lyrics from
“Matchmaker”
Fiddler On The Roof
Prelude
Pilgrimage
It calls to us twice each life; this vast and enchanted land of our birth.
With its hills of rolling green carpet, towering scaly crags, and deep crystalline lochs, we feel an undeniable and unerring pull. Like the sweet arms of a lover drawing us into his comforting embrace following the end of a long awaited absence the rich and eerie tones of the bagpipe echo throughout the Highlands.
Around us, tombstones, age worn by the passing of years, wiped clean by the uncaring hands of wind and rain stand guard; faceless witnesses to our reunion. As the stars rise high the night breeze picks up, carrying with it the ghostly whispers of salutations from friends and family jubilant at our return.
The fog, tangible wisps of pearl colored breath creeps in. Enveloping our private gathering it shields us from any prying eyes that would bear witness to the nights’ events.
In the dim glow of the lantern’s light we work in silence. No words need to be spoken, we’ve done this before. Three parts of one whole, our young muscles fluid with power and grace, we work in tandem; one rendering echoed again and again.
With gloved grips we hold tight to our shovels, our warm breath visible in the frosty night air as the pungent smell of disturbed Earth fills our nostrils. Full bodied and pure in flavor, the scent intensifies with every measure of Scottish soil that we remove from the growing hole at our feet.
This is the first pilgrimage of our newest life. It’s December twenty-first, two thousand and five. Our birthday. We are eighteen and in the eyes of the modern world we are now adults.
In every life we make this journey. A family tradition of sorts, we make it as much for guidance sake in the unknown future that stretches before us, as for the bitter sweet memories the past holds in its fragile and finicky grip.
It has been nearly twelve hundred years since our original conception and birth. During this time our bodies and names have changed with each life that we’ve been given. Our souls and the purpose behind our existence have not. They are eternal and without end.
This is our eleventh life.
In the unending years that our souls have roamed this Earth there has never been, nor will there ever be, a power stronger than that of true love. Lasting through the centuries it grows stronger with every day we live, with every hour that passes, with every breath that we take. Able to encompass everything a person is, shaping the future of all those around them, blessing the lives of everyone they touch with untold joy. This is why we are here once again. It is the very reason we were born.
Hearing the telltale muffled clank of metal kissing metal we set aside our shovels to pull the tarp covered trunk from its long dormant grave.
Housed inside the tarnished coffer, buried deep and undisturbed for the last sixty years are the antediluvian images of everything we are and everyone we’ve been.
Brushing dirt and grim from the ornately worked padlock we pull back the rusted lid, the hinges screeching their protest from the many years of disuse, to reveal three smaller chests nestled safely inside.
Waiting within each are what remains of the moments that time has all but forgotten. Personal relics, written accounts, and cherished keepsakes. The very presence of which honor the memories of the lives that we’ve lived, the husbands that we’ve loved and the children that we’ve raised. They are sentimental tokens that we can’t see embarking on the next stage of our lives without.
For though the Bible quotes a thousand years as being a yesterday in God’s eyes, we feel all too real the passing of time.
Our memories are long and exact, the recall of our earlier lifetimes perfect and unblemished. And still we find untold comfort in the existence of these tokens. They serve as reminders of where we have been and advisors as to where we will go. They are the permanent parts of our lives.
As always the unveiling of the ancient container has once again brought forth the strongest of memories that will never fade…the remembrance of our creation. Where in the warmth and light of a fire that fought against the cold darkness of night our mother made a promise to our father. A promise that would endure for all eternity.
It was eight hundred and forty-two AD, a time when those in power would stake their primordial claims and from their efforts kingdoms would rise up and take shape. It was a time when magic played its part many times over in the destiny of those who dared to love.
In telling you our story, I must first tell you that of our parents. A love story for the generations, theirs is a true love that knows no time. A pure love that knows no end…they are forever and everlasting…they are Cinaed and Riona.
Revelation
The day was done and there was nothing left for Grandmother to do but twiddle her aging thumbs.
She did so as she warmed herself by the fire and when her thumbs grew tired she was content to imagining scenes in the dancing flames. It was a rather boring way to pass the time as she waited for her granddaughter to come home.
When the lass finally did it was with little fanfare.
Not one to sneak around, she walked in just a bold as you please hanging her cloak in its place among the row of pegs as if naught was amiss.
“An’ where have ya been, lass?” Grandmother asked from her seat at the table where she nursed a cup of warm mulled wine. It had become her chosen place to wait out the night after the dancing flames had become too confusing.
“Out. My chores were done. My time my own.”
The old maid nodded, reading between the lines. Taking a gulp of cooling ale she wiped her mouth with the back of hand. The night wind that blew in with her granddaughter brought with it winters weakening bite and set her old bones to aching, making her cranky. “’Twas time you spent with him wasn‘t it ! Och, dinna bother to deny it lass. I can see with my own eyes that you have.”
In the dim light Grandmother’s rheumy eyes sharpened and lit where it mattered most. The girls’ lips were swollen, bright pink no doubt from a bout of kissing. And there was no mistaking the stain of lusts’ blush upon her heated cheeks or the leaves and straw that peppered her beautiful flaxen hair. And her eyes, the ones that dared to match her stare for stare, were a unique lavender. The same shade as Scottish heather.
Silently the old woman sent a prayer of thanks heavenward that the pleats in the girls’ plaid were not mussed and had not been rearranged. Bless the Christ, things had yet to go too far. But time, Grandmother feared, was doomed to repeat itself.
Pride pricked at such an inventory, the girls’ chin came up in defiance. Her back straight as a lance, her eyes shooting daggers of rebelliousness.
This woman-child born from her own blood had long been both a source of pride and sorrow for Grandmother. Though she would rather have her tongue cut out that admit it, Riona was special.
Unlike the other girls a fabled lie would not fall from her golden tongue. Nor would she use her feminine wiles to get her way as many her age did when they discovered the way in which men lusted after their curved bodies as they blossomed into womanhood. Neither did Riona use weak tears to her advantage, choosing instead to stand her ground dry eyed and strong. Going toe to toe she was not afraid to battle will to will if need be. And if that wasn’t enough to turn the tide in her favor, Riona was hard headed enough to wait out her adversary until they caved, done in, by sheer boredom.
Unashamed by what she felt growing inside her heart, Riona’s voice was strong when she answered, “Aye.” causing the ale in the old crone’s stomach to curdle.
“Foolish girl! Cinaed mac Alpin will do naught but cause ya heartache.”
