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I really wanted to post it FREE on Kindle, but the option wasn't available!!!

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Dear Love: Diary of a Man's Desire

Dear Love: Diary of a Man's Desire ebook release.

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http://www.amazon.com/Dear-Love-Diary-Mans-Desire-ebook/dp/B00G3BJM2M/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1382453349&sr=8-2&keywords=Dear+Love%3A+Diary+of+a+Man%27s+Desire

Romantic Musings: The Romantic (pt 1)

At the start of our lives, all we know is love. By the end, it will be inevitable that despite a lifetime of memories, we cling to our sweetest obsession.

Hadriel Alighieri bartered with death. Not for fear of facing his mortality, for he had long ago already died. He haggled with the angel of death only to fulfill a promise. A vow he once made to the girl who stole his heart. Yet, despite her quandary over love she never gave it back.

He stared at the fountain through the window. The steady stream reminded him of waterfalls. The ripples on the surface of the pond rushed to the shore. Ushered by the cool, autumn morning breeze. Clouds hung low in the overcast sky. Perhaps heaven hopes to shorten my journey, he thought.

“Better a long trip up than a short trip down.” Azrael said.

“True enough.” Hadriel shrugged. He turned to the mirror. Streaks of white peppered his unruly grey hair. His attendants had preserved his mustache just as they’d promised. He adjusted his coat. Felt for his flask in the inner pocket and nodded.

They arrived at an abandoned church. A pillar of the earth—for the non-believers—that towered over the countryside, a vast expanse of green fields and scattered trees, a haven for the weary, the lost and the dead. They lingered among the dancing shadows. The orange glow of candles swayed with the breeze of God’s breath.

There were no demons here, but once a soul strayed in the night and had never been seen again. They strolled down the aisle. Pews of petrified wood flanked them on each side. Faint light fell through the faded glass of the high-arched windows. A thin blanket of dust covered the ground and the steps that led to the altar.

I remember this place.

Hadriel glanced up at the cross that was suspended above them. The Christ stared back. A thunderous silence echoed between them. Hadriel reminded himself that He was just a man and this was just a relic: the customs of borrowed myth permeated the soul and arrested the imagination.

A cool breeze ushered the church door open. The Others turned away from the grey light, and glided behind stone pillars and into shadowed corners.

“Why are we here?” Hadriel wondered.

“The corridors of the mind are filled with the memories of the heart.” Azrael said. “We are here because this is where you brought us.”

Hadriel turned to the brazier in the center of the altar. The glow within the coals reminded him of the dying embers of hapless love. He studied it for a moment. His heart ached for the affections that fueled his futile struggle against death.

He wanted to remember his greatest regret. He needed to relive it, and accept his fate, for a soul cannot rest if it did not love.

“I was a fool,” he said. He blinked away his tears. “I’ll have plenty of time to rue my decisions when I die, but that can wait.”

Although he had not seen Sophia Paula for several decades, and not for lack of desire, he had to find her now. He would catch her scent in the breeze and pursue her to the ends of the earth. And when he found her, he would confess to her the truth. The cruel suffering he endured to prove that her happiness mattered most to him in the world. He had asked the angel of death for a little more time, and Azrael agreed.

Hadriel Alighieri promised to do this one thing. A declaration that never escaped the torments of memory was the inevitable truth he would adduce to his unrequited love.

Romantic Musings: The Paradox of Passion

Nothing is inevitable, except love.

Some might contend that the only inevitabilities are death and taxes. To that, I say, not everyone pays their taxes, and those who truly live are the ones who never die.

What does it mean to truly live?

We often ask ourselves: “What is the meaning of life?”

What is it?

What is it, not?

Although there are goals to accomplish, dreams to fulfill: artists who wish to create & change the world, ambitious individuals who wish to accumulate mass amounts of wealth, performers who long to stand center stage before adoring fans, etc; the meaning of life is deeper than that.

Dare I say that the meaning of life is to live for someone else?

Not “for” as “in place of,” but “for” as in “we complete each other.”

What is a moon without the stars?

What is a kiss without meaning?

What is a life without love?

It is nothing. And yet, nothing is inevitable, except love.

Love.

Love in its myriad of forms and stages, like a rose.

Love… that sweet obsession of a spark that flares and illuminates your heart like a match, and dwindles away as it struggles to breathe.

Love… that torch you light and carry for the one you will place on a pedestal, to kindle your memories, and guide you through the loneliness of your dreams.

Love… that brazier that warms your soul in the autumn of your days, and the winter of your life.

Love is the force capable of transporting us back to when we knew no heartbreak. A portal of inter-dimensional space and time through which we may journey, consciously or not, to the moments we lived and those we wished we had.

Love changes us, or more accurately reveals what lies beneath the surface. Akin to nourishing the seed within the soil, love is water for the soul.

It is liquid courage for the heart, for alcohol reveals the truth in an analogous way. A wine of the gods, a special vintage that gets better with time, even after it has been sipped. Perhaps it is the one true elixir of youth.

Various blends that we sample with inexperienced palettes as we frolic among the frivolities of innocent enchantments, until we find the flavor that we hope to relish forever.

Forever, though, is such a long time. It is infinite, even if the universe is not.

Yet, when we fall in love, when we fall truly, madly, and deeply in love, we hope that it will never end. Hope is, after-all, the air of our existence.

We inhale, and hold our breath.

We exhale when our hope is realized.

Realized when we fall in love. Be it at first sight, or over time.

We meet love as we meet a friend. Strangers at first glance, acquaintances along the journey of life, and partners with destiny entwined, eternally.

The connection is unparalleled, the bond is unbreakable, and the realm knows no boundaries, for when kindred spirits merge their horizons expand.

Galaxies collide.

Their energy, fervent desire, fuses as two souls become one. From the merger, an event horizon, luminous, and inescapable draws you deeper into love, and moves you forward in time.

Forever.

Bursting through the portal of passion, perhaps creating a universe all it’s own.

The cycle of creation, perpetuating the purpose of life.

Love.

Created by that collision, we wander through the universe like a comet on a trajectory determined by destiny. We search the darkness for the star that will lure us in. Circumnavigating the heart that burst into existence to complete our lives.

Living to love another unconditionally is to live for the truest purpose of all. To do that, one must know everything about the other: deepest fears, darkest secrets, and the idiosyncrasies that makes each person who they are. The legacy of that love lives on for generations. In that regard, one truly never dies.

Death is so final, whereas love is inevitable.

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” ~Mark Twain.

(Dedicated to Kath Bergin, my high school American Studies teacher, and her husband for their recent 49th wedding anniversary). 

Romantic Musings: Fires of Friendship and Love

Friendship is to love what the wick is to the candle.

Once passion is sparked it will dance, and breathe, and illuminate even the darkest corners of your heart.

Desire will liquefy beneath it, like wax. Shedding slow meaningful tears that will solidify over time.

Like a statue that has immortalized an image of beauty, your memory will capture the image of that candle we refer to as first love.

Friendship is to love what wood is to the fireplace.

It will flicker to life with laughter. Moving along the bark tentatively as it gauges a new level of trust.

You will prod it with romantic expressions, moving the wood to encourage the flame. Gradually, your earnest intentions will ignite a fire in the hearth of your heart.

The heat will radiate across the darkness of your tomorrow. Reach you, caress you, and comfort you as it casts dancing shadows against your soul.

You will add more wood as you fall in love. You will long for autumn evenings to revel in the luminous glow of your predilection for inner peace.

In the cold, loneliness of long winter nights you will snuggle with your partner and see your future in the frenzy of flames.

Friendship is to love what coals are to the fire.

From the shadows of your heart’s desire, will emerge the fate of unrequited love.

It could be a love you never finished or a love that never started.

But it will burn.

A kiss you never shared or a touch you never felt. It will haunt you. It will echo in the deepest valleys of your heart and follow the breeze along the meadows of your memories.

Real or imagined, you will remember this love that never was.

It is the truest lie that writers will ever tell and lovers will never know.

A longing so intense you will shield yourself from its glow.

This love of which I speak will break your heart and cause your soul to shudder, for this love burns in the dark forest of your fantasies.

It will never have been intended, not that love ever is, but some fires are sparked with the intention of being extinguished and others will rage beyond control.

No circle of stones will contain it, and no measure of precaution will protect you from its will.

The desire will be fierce. The flames will flutter like the wings of a butterfly. It will be the secret you won’t know how to keep, for it will be your eyes that shall betray you, the windows into a tortured soul.

Perhaps it’s only logical that damnation is equated to an eternal inferno.

Paradise lost when you lose yourself to the throes of passions that cannot be, that must not be, lest we lose the desire to find it.

This is the curse of the writer.

Our first love is the poem. Short and sweet like a candle, its kiss and scent are meant to awaken our hearts.

The short story is our second love. Deeper and stronger like a fireplace, but it is never meant to last.

The novel is our true love. The coals of creativity burn, and long to reveal our dreams and our nightmares. We struggle with revealing the secret, agonizing over every word, every scene…the beginning, and the end. The characters that we remember, and the people we never met…the lovers we never loved.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

This holds true for the writer that chooses to pursue passion along the path blazed by broken heart. Each rejection, each revision is a reminder of our imperfections. We will long to tell the story as eloquently as we can. We will long to love without conditions, and live the tale that will always be remembered as one of the greatest love stories, ever.

The friendship is reading. The writing is love.

“Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.” ~Bruce Lee

Romantic Musings: For the Love of Gods

Once upon a time, the gods fell in love.

Secret poets who wandered the world disguised as humans, pursued their passions, and indulged in the innocence of intimate encounters. Maddened by the scent of human sensuality, they fled from their realm for the most unforgettable experience of all. Love.

Perhaps it is only fitting that the daughters of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, are the Muses who inspire poets to recount the romances veiled by the shadows of time.

What then will become of us?

Will our romances be remembered?

Will the poets of tomorrow be inspired by our passions?

Will the Muses reveal the secrets of how deeply we loved?

I daresay the answers lie within our hearts. The symptoms of love pumped through our veins after an arrow dipped in the poison of passion infects us as it did Apollo.

Enter the writer.

Stage left.

Who comprehends love better than the poet?

Who clings to the innocence of the untainted heart as fervently as a hopeless romantic?

The writer.

It is no coincidence then that the cultural symbol for Apollo and other poets is the wreath he crafted in memory of his unrequited love, Daphne.

The writer is, in essence, the historian of the heart. Despite the confusions of love caused by the chaos of sweet obsessions and inexperience, we possess an innate understanding of the idiom of emotions.

We interpret the impressions left on our souls—sentimental verses akin to Enochian script—that lead us to deduce that a lover is an angel, and falling in love is a heavenly experience.

We are defined by our heartbreak and destroyed by our heartbeat.

When the potion of love is emptied from our goblet of fire, we drink the tiny droplets of tears that die on our lips.

The name of our love trapped in a whisper. Taken with the wind to the land of shadows where the dead linger and the gods search for the ones they once loved.

As mortals we are blessed with the unlimited capacity to love in a limited amount of time. That’s what makes our existence unique, for it is in these brief instances—like in the moment of creation—that desire burns hottest.

The gods envied us for that.

They needed us in order to experience true love, because it is love that should last forever. The memory of it should echo across time.

It is our destiny as writers to recount our experiences lest the purpose of poetry be forgotten, and countless others suffer the loss of the legends of love.

The few who remembered had begun to forget, because time is the sister of Death. She has no patience and cares nothing for the gods who once fell in love.

“The hottest love has the coldest end.” ~Socrates

Romantic Musings: The Morning After Heartbreak

It is never difficult to persuade a romantic to fall in love.

Grant him passage into your heart and he will wander into the corridors of your complexities with the hope of discovery.

He will surrender his memories of heartache. He will recapture his innocence. He will embark on a journey into your secret garden, stopping to study each flower and inhale the scent of your essence until he fills his lungs with your soul.

He will sit on a hidden bench under a tree writing verses and love letters declaring his love. He will idolize you, and bestow upon you qualities and sentiments that will make you the heroine of his heart. You, the impossible maiden, will inspire his prose.

You will be his muse.

Whether you chose him, or he chose you, or the gods chose you for each other, it will not matter, for the heart has about as much control over who it loves as a raindrop has over where it falls.

And he will fall.

Hard.

Under the weight of his secret affections he will endure the purest of pain. He will deliberate for a long time before confessing his affections. He will feel uncertain how to proceed.

It will all be new to him.

Again.

The sweetness and vulnerability of falling in love akin to a sunrise that provides refuge from a lonely night.

He will find you in a crowd of unfamiliar faces. He will search your eyes for salvation from his desires. And your name will rest on his lips; waiting for the tear he will shed when you break his heart.

The chaos and confusion caused by rejection and jealousy will complicate love. You will attempt to dissuade him in an effort to gauge the depth of his emotions. And though he will find it impossible to imagine his world without you, he will adhere to the damnation of his heart.

He will go to hell at your command and struggle with the demons of his desires.

It will never be difficult to persuade a romantic to fall in love. Inextricably, it will never be difficult for him to love you the morning after heartbreak.

“Love?" he smirked "It kills your heart, it steals your soul” ~Obengbia Leyony

Romantic Musings: What Is A Love Letter?

I like to believe that it is a short story between two hearts.

They could be two hearts that beat as one, but where is the fun in that?

Let’s throw in a bit of conflict.

After all, love is like a sword. A blade forged in a fierce flame. A sword, like Excalibur, that may only be held by those with the purest heart. The markings engraved by passion. Stained with the blood of a broke heart.

Broken by what? A long lost love? Unrequited love?

Must we first know what it truly means to love before we can write about it?

Yes and no.

Some would postulate that fiction writing is predicated on creativity, and others would contend that you must write what you know.

Even if most of us merely have an idea about what love is without truly understanding what love means, we all know how heartbreak feels. Don’t we?

Now. You might ask, how can we know heartbreak if we truly don’t understand love.

Well, we all know sadness without knowing heaven, don’t we?

I daresay that most of us have merely caught a glimpse of love. Have savored tiny droplets of devotion in a desert of loneliness that barely quenches our thirst, and imbues our desire for another taste.

We look to the sky, and pray for rain during the dry seasons of our souls.

It is in those valleys of our journey that we reflect on the romances of our lives. When only the moon accompanies us on our voyage, we remember what only the moon witnessed when we loved.

You know what I am referring to, don’t you?

The memory that lingers in the hidden corners of your heart like a ghost that clings to its bond to the living, haunting your dreams in the day, and swimming through your thoughts at night like a silent shadow when you sleep.

How would your love letter read?

What would your story say?

Love is a long story, but it is a story worth telling. It has its pain and joy, its sunny days and storms; and moments like these when you are gone; I don’t know how long the storm will last.

It’s scary to think I might never hold you again, and even though you have departed, I haven’t let you go. I cling to what is left, and willingly relinquish the rest.

I lost myself in you, and to lose you is to lose everything, but the only regret I could ever have in losing it all is to not lose it for love.

In the aftermath of what has occurred, I will wander into the darkness of heartache, and roam through the empty corridors of unrequited love. I shall search for the memory of you that mends my broken heart. I will follow the ghost of your presence that haunts me along an invisible path; where you remain in the shadows, and long for me to find you.

I don’t care if I am left exhausted or incomplete; left with the impression that you took away everything with imperious greed, because you revealed to me the nature of love: an allurement of happiness that I detest and desire, but from which an escape is impervious.

And if all that remains is the memory of you, then that shall suffice, because I will have at least retained possession of the most precious gift of all. Love.

“The frankest and freest and privatest product of the human mind and heart is a love letter...” ~Mark Twain

The Purpose of Death is Life

The dead don't wait for the living. Their journey has already begun.

Have you embarked on your journey?

Are you willing to share it with the world?

For the writer, the answer should be a resounding, "yes!"

When Natalie Goldberg said, "writers live twice," she was correct.

Beyond our experiences, and our moments of reflection, however, are the lives we live within the stories we read and the stories we write.

Through the prism of our perspective, we share our observations with the world. Our stories will be our legacy. Our prose, the fingerprints of our souls, will remain long after we have gone.

People will read our memories and glimpse our philosophies. They will read our romances, and wonder who we truly loved.

We write, because we possess an innate need to share our private thoughts.

We will assume various identities, and reveal our secrets by way of concealed messages. We will divulge our fears, and reach for the stars, and we will often wonder: How will I be remembered?

Our greatest fear is that our story will perish with us.

Perhaps I can only speak for myself, but even George Orwell once postulated that "all writers are vain."

We indulge in our own vanity, as much as we indulge in the vanity of other writers.

What I mean to say is that writers are readers. At least we should be.

Each novel we read is a world where we escape into and lose ourselves. We live that life with the characters created by someone else, exist in that alternate universe of suspended belief, and emerge with a new perspective (or not) as writers.

I have devoted most of this year to reading and revising. And revising. And revising. And revising.

And reading. And reading. And reading. And reading some more.

I love it.

The challenge has been to balance my commitment to my craft with my devotion to my children.

When I have my children for visitation, I dedicate my time to them. I read with them or I read to them. And as much as I would like to read one of the numerous novels I am currently reading, to them, I set those stories aside and journey with my kiddies into the world of Junie B. Jones or Alice in Wonderland.

I work six days in a row with hours that fluctuate from seven in the morning to eleven at night as a police dispatcher. I meet my fiscal responsibilities as I was raised to, and I sacrifice wherever I must to make ends meet.

These are the dealings of fate.

This is a writer's life.

I try to squeeze in as much reading and writing as I can into tiny droplets of time and I do it with great pleasure despite enduring the purest of pain.

I, nor any other writer, can know which day will be the last day we will ever write again. So it is incumbent upon us to embrace the grind. Multi-task and manage our daily obstacles as we embark on our journey to fulfill our dreams.

We must not procrastinate, as we are prone to do, and we must not save our best for another book.

If we are to share our journey with the world, we must do so with unparalleled passion. Regardless of age, vocation, or status, we must do it now and not be discouraged by the drumming of the disenchanted.

Fear not that it is too late...after all, that is why the gods invented death.

Embark on your journey now, and meet the end without regret.

Every book you read, every story your write, every moment you devote to your craft is a step in the right direction.

Don't wait for destiny to find you, because there is only one destiny that awaits us all, and since tomorrow is promised to no one, today is the day that you must live your life.

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so as long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.” – Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

...and I'm back!

Forgive my absenteeism as of late. After having distanced myself from my manuscript for Magical Universe: The Amulet of Alamin, I returned to it with a fresh pair of eyes donning an editor’s cap.

Again.

I sat aside my other projects to commit the past two and a half months to revisions.

Again.

I often ponder my journey. I first completed the manuscript in September of 2009, and after years of rejections and revisions I remain undeterred.

I’ve read, I’ve written and I have committed to my craft.

This has helped me understand what I am doing, what I must do and what I will continue to do as I establish my career.

Stephen King once said: "If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that." 

That’s precisely what I have done. I confess that this has helped me find the flaws in my writing, and address them accordingly.

I shall resume my other projects, and keep an open mind when feedback is provided for Magical Universe: The Amulet of Alamin.

I’m back! I’m still moving forward. Hope you will continue to accompany me along my “yellow-brick road.”

“Those who write are writers. Those who wait are waiters.”

~ A. Lee Martinez

An Actual Review!!!

We interrupt our regularly scheduled postings to bring you this announcement:

I am COMPLETELY BLOWN AWAY!!!!

I have JUST received these links of a review of my latest book, Dear Love: Diary of a Man's Desire!!!

RAWSISTAZ Literary Group specializes in spotlighting African-American authors/literature, but it would appear that I have transcended the ethnic boundaries to be graced with a positive review....given a 4 out of 5 possible stars!!!

The review:

RAW Rating: 4.0 (out of 5)

Alejandro set the stage with this potent suggestion 'Imagine if you will, feeling with such intensity, a passionate love that cannot be contained in a single heart; each beat fracturing the hull, sinking this titanic of emotions deeper into the oceans of amour.'

Each poem is a poetic journey through the heart of a very expressive, very sensitive man.  Alejandro emphatically speaks of a love so passionate and so overpowering that even if his love bids him goodbye, he would still love her with all the pieces of his broken heart. 

DEAR LOVE: Diary of a Man's Desire is a collection of love letters written to inspire, incite, and stir the emotions of the mind, body, and soul.  But, what makes his poems so touching, and somewhat empathetic is the fact that Alejandro seemingly speaks of a love he has yet to fully embrace.  A love that exits in the corridors of his dreams, or at best a love that was just beyond his grasp.  I can say it was almost surreal sharing something so verbally intimate from the opposite sex, but it is here, written in black and white. I urge you to take this journey, it will warm you inside!

http://www.therawreviewers.com/artman/publish/DearDiaryChavez.shtml

http://www.therawreviewers.com/artman/publish/printer_DearDiaryChavez.shtml

Love in the Age of Heroes: Ubiquitous Legends of Unrequited Love (7th Installment)

Part 7: Avenging Aesacus

Slowly the golden light faded into darkness, and evening followed cool and clear. The caravan had arrived at the river Granicus. A wind blew from the east, and one by one the stars emerged from behind the dark veil of night.

      “From here, the river will lead us to Propontis, my lady. When we arrive at Abydos, we may attempt to find passage across the straight to Sestos.” Said Coroebus.

      “Will it be possible to remain undetected?” Said Cassandra.

      “That may prove difficult, because it is a busy port.” Said Coroebus.

      “Then let us take a different path.” Said Arisbe. “We cannot risk detection, otherwise we will be captured and taken back to Troy.”

      “She is right, Coroebus.” Said Cassandra.

      “With all due respect, my lady. While I can appreciate the need to avoid detection, time is not our ally, and for the sake of expediency it is imperative that we cross from Abydos to Sestos.” Said Coroebus.

      “I agree.” Interjected Calchas. “We must make it across the Aegean as quickly as possible, or our efforts to make it this far will be all for naught.”

      “Why must you insist on this port?” Said Cassandra.

      “Because it is the narrowest point.” Said Coroebus.

      Cassandra considered his counsel as Calchas removed their equipment from the horses to erect the tents. Coroebus moved to assist him, and Arisbe gathered wood to build a fire.

      “Will it be possible to remain undetected?” Said Cassandra. “Will you give me your word?”

      “It is possible, my lady, but regardless of what happens, I give you my word that I will get you to Sestos.”

      “Very well.” Said Cassandra. “We leave in the morning.”

      After they had set up camp, Cassandra walked to the riverbank to retrieve a pail of water. The moon lingered higher into the sky, and swayed on the surface when she knelt and submerged the bucket. She heard the water splash. It rose and foamed at her feet. At that moment the water roared and rushed and an unseen force shoved Cassandra away. She fell onto dry land, but saw a light rise from the depths of the river. The waters fiercely rolled this way and that, and looked like white flames, as the light beneath the surface grew more intense.

      Cassandra’s companions approached and pulled her away as a mysterious figure rose from the waters, surrounded by angry foam and blinding light.

      “Who dares disturb the waters of my father?” Said the voice of a woman, clear and musical. She looked grave and beautiful; clad in white with long silver hair, but no sign of age was upon her save for in the depths of her eyes.

      The companions stared in awe at the lovely creature that illuminated the darkness. The waters subsided, and she glided toward the shore, but her luminescence maintained its brightness. Cassandra stood and stared at the stranger, but before she could utter a single word the newcomer reached out and caressed Cassandra’s red hair.

      “I have never seen such a lovely color in a woman’s hair.”

      “Who are you?” Demanded Cassandra. “What are you?”

      “Oh, but these eyes are familiar. I recognize their shade, and their sadness.” Said the stranger. “They are much like those of your brother.”

      “My broth—“ Said Cassandra, but her words trailed off.

      “You are a daughter of King Priam of Troy, are you not?”

      “How do you know who I am, and who are you?”

      “I am Alexirho, daughter of the river-god, Cebren.”

      “You are a nymph?” Said Arisbe.

      “Yes.”

      “How do you know my father?” Said Cassandra. “And to which of my brothers do you refer?”

      “I knew your father long ago, in his youth, before he met your mother. I knew him, and loved him when he wandered through this countryside as a prince while Hercules attacked Troy, and killed your grandfather, King Laomedon.”


      “Do not speak such blasphemies about my father!” Said Cassandra.

      “It is not my intention to upset you, dear child, but clearly there are things about your father that you do not know.” Said Alexirho.

      “What do you know about King Priam that compels you to say such things?” Said Coroebus.

      “No, I do not want to hear it!” Shouted Cassandra as Arisbe embraced her.

      “Oh, but you must, dear child. For you and I share a common enemy, and I am inclined to assist you on your endeavor.” Said Alexirho.

      Cassandra turned away from Arisbe’s shoulder and gazed upon the nymph with tears welling in her eyes. A thunderous silence echoed between them.

      “Speak.” Said Cassandra.

      At length Alexirho spoke again. “I met your father when he approached the dawn of adulthood. Not much older than Paris was when he returned to Troy from Mount Ida. And like Paris, your father fell in love with a nymph who bore him a son.”

      “What?” Said Cassandra.

      “Yes. Eenoni, who is also a daughter of the river-god Cebren, bore Paris a son. Whom he chose to abandon for the prize that Aphrodite has promised him.”

      “And who is this son of Priam that you speak of?” Said Coroebus.

      “Aesacus.” Said Alexirho.

      Cassandra caught her breath.

      “I don’t understand, my lady. What is the problem?” Said Coroebus.

      Cassandra sat and pondered the gravity of the revelation. She reminded Coroebus that Aesacus had been the one present at her birth, when she had been brought into the world with Paris. Aesacus had been the one who interpreted the dream of Queen Hecuba as a prophecy that Paris would be the one to bring about the fall of Troy.

      Coroebus’ eyes grew wide as realization dawned on his face.

      Alexirho proceeded to reveal that Priam raised Aesacus in Troy, but that Aesacus left for the countryside after Hecuba berated him for his prophecy about Paris. And like the other men of Troy, Aesacus too fell in love with a daughter of the river-god, Cebren when he met Hesperia.

      “Wait a minute.” Said Cassandra. “That would mean—“

      Alexirho interrupted her with the remainder of the tale. The nymph clarified that while Aesacus fell in love with Hesperia, he did not know the truth of his lineage.

      “You never told him you were his mother?” Said Cassandra.

      “No.” Said Alexirho. “I could not tell him, because I had to protect him. I could not bear the pain he would feel if he were to learn that I, his mother, allowed him to live beyond my embrace.”

      “So, all his life, he believed that Queen Hecuba was his mother?” Said Coroebus.

      “Yes.” Said Alexirho. “However, Hecuba could never feel the grief I felt when Aesacus died.”

      “How did that happen?” Said Cassandra.

      Alexirho knelt before the Trojan princess and told her of how Aesacus pursued Hesperia. He followed her into the woods, chased her into the mountains, and rushed after her into the river. Regardless of her effort to elude him, his devotion remained unwavering.

      Word had reached Mount Olympus about the unconditional love that Aesacus felt for Hesperia, and they watched with wonder and amusement as he pursued the predilection for his passion. Soon, even Zeus was inclined to urge Aphrodite to fulfill the young man’s desire. But the goddess grew enraged with the mortal for he appeared to love a nymph more than he loved her, and furthermore, he had failed to call upon the goddess of love in his endeavor.

      Aphrodite asked that Ariadne, the goddess of snakes, have a poisonous serpent strike Hesperia and kill her. Ariadne agreed after Aphrodite promised to permit her to return to the Earth where she might walk on the land of her father once more.

      Ariadne did as Aphrodite requested, and to ensure that none of the other gods knew what she did, Aphrodite cast Ariadne into a maze of tunnels beneath the surface of the Earth to wonder for eternity.

      “What became of Aesacus?” Said Cassandra.

      After Hesperia died, Aesacus could not bear to live without her, and leapt from a high cliff into the sea. However, as he plunged to his death, Tethys, a Titaness and aquatic sea goddess took pity on him and changed him into a bird.

      “My son was forever lost to me as a mortal, but I watch him as he lives in the form of a diving bird.” Said Alexirho. “Still, I mourned them both, and wish to exact my revenge on Aphrodite in any way I can.”

      “You do realize the danger of such actions, do you not?” Said Coroebus.

      “Do you?” Asked Alexirho.

      Coroebus nodded.

      Cassandra stood. “How do you intend to help?”

      “I can take you by river to Abydos.” Said Alexirho.

      “We can travel to Abydos by land.” Said Cassandra.

      “Yes, that is true. However your absence from Troy has not gone unnoticed, and there are many in the service of your father roaming these lands. Emissaries also venture to and fro with tidings of the comings and goings between kingdoms. It would be to your advantage to accept the safe passage that I offer.”

      Cassandra considered Alexirho’s offer.

      “Time is of the essence. You cannot lose, even a day.”

      “I agree, my lady.” Said Coroebus.

      That night, the company slept beneath the stars. Alexirho kept a watchful eye from the river, and cast a blanket of serenity over them to sleep without fear. They had grown weary in body and in mind, and quickly fell into a long sleep.

      No sound or dream disturbed his or her slumber, save for Cassandra, whose thoughts remained on her brothers, who journeyed to Sparta, and her family in Troy.

      She thought of her mother, Queen Hecuba, and how the Queen had dealt with her father. Surely, King Priam would be furious with them both, but they had no other choice. He wouldn’t listen!

      Her mind wandered to Troylus, her youngest brother. He had risked exposing his secret love affair with Cressida by helping them escape. And what would King Priam say of the involvement of his trust priest, Calchas?

      Nestled in the comfort of her wool blanket, she finally drifted to sleep.

Cassandra felt her eyes open, but could not move. There was a silence, for unexpectedly the darkness pressed upon her, full of secret purpose. She struggled to remain calm as her eyes darted to and fro while an unseen entity held her body still. Her breathing quickened. Her voice failed her, and remained lodged in her throat when she attempted to scream.

      The shadows danced, and filled her with fear before she felt the familiar touch of Apollo. His gaze fell upon her and morphed into an intense stare. He lifted her, and cradled her protectively in his arms. Her heart pounded against her chest as she stared at him, trying to gauge his mood and feelings, but the Sun god remained impenetrable.

      “I’ve missed you.” Apollo whispered tenderly.

      Cassandra tensed as he placed her on the altar of the temple that rose around them. And when he placed his hand on her lower abdomen, she felt a sensation she could not describe. Without realizing she had been disrobed, she lay naked before him. His long graceful fingers caressed her skin, and she moaned. When she felt his fingertips circle her nipples, she felt as though he strummed the surface of the sea with as much care as he played his lyre.

      No longer paralyzed, she turned slightly to face him. His hazel eyes studied her; he looked into her deep blue eyes as if he was staring into her soul, into her heart, searching for a place within where he might belong.

      As she stared at his perfect lips she remembered the desire that dripped from his kiss when she surrendered herself to that moment when he ravaged her mouth with his tongue. A raw, untapped passion rose from the depths of eternity, and seared her soul.

      “I would forego my seat on Mount Olympus for the honor of your love.” Said Apollo.

      Cassandra turned away from him with tears welling in her eyes. She wanted to love him. If it meant that Troy would be saved, and her family would be spared. If it meant that she could end his suffering, and they would be together until the end of time. Cassandra would love Apollo as he longed to be loved.

      “Why must you ask of me that which I am unable to feel?” Said Cassandra.

      “The heart wants what the heart wants. Even that of a god.” Said Apollo.

      “But for what reason?” Said Cassandra. “There are many others from which to choose. Many who are lovelier than me; many who possess the capacity to fulfill your passionate proclivities.”

      “I find none to be lovelier than you, Cassandra. And to know that you love me the way the heart is intended to love would be the fulfillment of my greatest desire.”

      “I cannot grant you what I do not possess.” Said Cassandra.

      “I have all of eternity to wait.” Said Apollo, and he vanished.

Cassandra woke with a start. The cold morning air blew on her face. She was lying on her back, and turned to see her companions also rousing from their sleep.

      They ate a little, and after packing their belongings prepared to set off down the river.

      “What about the horses?” Said Arisbe.

      “They are of no use to you now. You would risk being discovered if you tried to cross Propontis with them, and even then, they would be a burden you cannot afford to bear when you reach the Aegean.” Said Alexirho.

      The nymph fashioned a boat out of a log that bobbed on the surface of the water near the wooded north bank of the river. The branches waved gently in the breeze of the grey morning as the company climbed aboard.

      The boat drifted with the current of the river as Alexirho commanded, aware that time was pressing, and that fate had not been idle during the hours they slept.

      The lands gradually changed: the trees thinned and disappeared completely. The mountains on the horizon fell in the distance, and the landscape stretched far and wide into various shades of green.

      “When you arrive at Sestos, it is imperative that you go with caution to the temple of Aphrodite.” Said Alexirho.

      “Why?” Said Cassandra.

      “She will sense the presence of this,” said Alexirho as she brandished a sword. “It is the sword of Ariadne, and it is the only blade strong enough to free the tortured and captured soul of Hero. You must free her, and she will guide you across the land to the shores of the Aegean. After you cross the Aegean, go to the labyrinth where Ariadne is held prisoner. Present her with this blade, and she will lead you through the maze of underground passages to find the entrance to the Underworld where you will find the assistance you seek.”

      They gazed upon the sword with wonder. Its splendor accentuated by the elegantly carved hilt, masterful design of the blade, and the placement of colorful, shinning stones.

      “When Aphrodite discovers what you have done, she will enlist gods, creatures and mortals to seek you out and punish you.” Said Alexirho. “You may fear the goddess, but you do not yet fear her enough. And where until now you have merely ventured beyond the high walls of Troy, once you cross Propontis there will be no turning back.”

      There was a heavy silence. Cassandra gave no answer, her mind puzzled with fear and doubt. Coroebus pursed his lips, but said nothing and looked out at the horizon. Arisbe frowned, and worry filled her eyes as she turned to Cassandra and touched her hand. Calchas fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted back and forth between his companions, and then his eyes fell on the nymph who studied him carefully. She squinted at him with suspicious eyes, and he turned away quickly.

      The boat continued along the river, carrying the caravan to the dark destiny that had been chosen for each of them without their knowledge.

To be continued…