Arch Enemies Quotes

After a long moment, he said, "Aleksander." A little laugh escaped me. He arched a brow, a smile tugging at his lips. "What?" "It's just so... common." Such an ordinary name, held by kings and peasants alike. His smile deepened and he cocked his head to the side. It almost hurt to see him this way. "Will you say it?" he asked. "Aleksander," I whispered.

Why not?” He sounds resigned. “Might as well fly into the heart of the enemy where the primitive natives can tear me to pieces, sell my body parts for money, and grind the rest to be consumed in teas for sexual potency.” I tighten my arms around his neck. “We’re not that primitive anymore.” He arches his perfect eyebrow at me, sending waves of skepticism. “We have Viagra now.” He gives me a sideways glance

And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!

Redd turned to her assassins. "What is it I always say?" The Cat, Sacrenoir, and the others bandied uncertain glances about. "Don’t be stupid?" ventured Alistaire. "I should kill you now?" offered The Cat. "Do I have to murder everyone myself?" tried Siren. "No, idiots! When in doubt, go for the head. That’s what I always say.

He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good-humour, as if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of enjoying supper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy.

Khattam-Shud,' he said slowly, 'is the Arch-Enemy of all Stories, even of language itself. He is the Prince of Silence and the Foe of Speech. And because everything ends, because dreams end, stories end, life ends, at the finish of everything we use his name. "It's finished," we tell one another, "it's over. Khattam-Shud: The End.

It is supposed that power corrupts," the caterpillar said in a voice as untroubled as time itself. "Yet the powerful are often corrupt before they are powerful. In fact, I find that they too often become powerful by being corrupt. Whether real or perceived, a lack of power can also corrupt.

Regarding vengeance and arch-enemies, one must not only be timely but prideful, and pride exacts propriety.

Alice of Wonderland was stranded on Earth.

Even the pious Scots, locked throughout history in a long-drawn-out battle with their arch-enemies the Scots, managed a few burnings to while away the long winter evenings.

You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and, instead of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable; am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? Would you not call it murder if you could Precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury, I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart , so that you curse the hour of your birth.

Swelter's eyes meet those of his enemy, and never has there held between four globes of gristle so sinister a hell of hatred. Had the flesh, the fibres, and the bones of the chef and those of Mr Flay been conjured away and away down that dark corridor leaving only their four eyes suspended in mid-air outside the Earl's door, then, surely, they must have reddened to the hue of Mars, reddened and smouldered, and at last broken into flame, so intense was their hatred - broken into flame and circled about one another in ever-narrowing gyres and in swifter and yet swifter flight until, merged into one sizzling globe of ire they must surely have fled, the four in one, leaving a trail of blood behind them in the cold grey air of the corridor, until, screaming as they fly beneath innumerable arches and down the endless passageways of Gormenghast, they found their eyeless bodies once again, and reentrenched themselves in startled sockets.

Khattam-Shud,' he Said slowly 'is the arch-enemy of all stories, even of language itself. He is the prince of silence and the foe of speech. And because everything ends, because dreams ens, stories end, life ends, at the finish of everything we use his name. 'It is finished,' we tell one another, 'it's over, Khattam-Shud; the end.

To have a life that is in any way detached from the megatechnic complex , to say nothing of being cockily independent of it, or recalcitrant to its demands, is regarded as nothing less than a form of sabotage. Hence the fury evoked by the Hippies-quite apart from any objectionable behavior. On megatechnic terms complete withdrawal is heresy and treason, if not evidence of unsound mind. The arch-enemy of the Affluent Economy would not be Karl Marx but Henry Thoreau.

The Easy Company men began throwing grenades at the retreating enemy. Compton had been an All-American catcher on the UCLA baseball team. The distance to the fleeing enemy was about the same as from home plate to second base. Compton threw his grenade on a straight line—no arch—and it hit a German in the head as it exploded. He,

She had heard it was easy to blame others for one's own failures. But that wasn't exactly accurate. It was easy to blame herself for what had happened--hard to live with it. [...] It was hard to blame them, harder still to live with the need to blame them.

And we were taught to play golf. Golf epitomizes the tame world. On a golf course nature is neutered. The grass is clean, a lawn laundry that wipes away the mud, the insect, the bramble, nettle and thistle, an Eezy-wipe lawn where nothing of life, dirty and glorious, remains. Golf turns outdoors into indoors, a prefab mat of stultified grass, processed, pesticided, herbicided, the pseudo-green of formica sterility. Here, the grass is not singing. The wind cannot blow through it. Dumb expression, greenery made stupid, it hums a bland monotone in the key of the mono-minded. No word is emptier than a golf tee. No roots, it has no known etymology, it is verbal nail polish. Worldwide, golf is an arch act of enclosure, a commons fenced and subdued for the wealthy, trampling serf and seedling. The enemy of wildness, it is a demonstration of the absolute dominion of man over wild nature.

will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear

It was the Arch-votary, with its patterned shell. Slowly, it approached; those massive claws raised…The Arch-votary stopped, looming up before them. “Evil ones,” it said, “enemies of the Great One, come and be judged.” Roshaun raised his head and gave the Arch-votary an inexpressibly haughty look. “Killed, perhaps,” he said, “But your dark Master has neither authority nor right to judge us. Therefore, stand away, lackey, and keep silent in the presence of your betters.

You say halfer as if it's a terrible thing," he said. "But everyone I've ever known has been a halfer; if old enough t-to be called an adult, then ch-childish in their prejudices. All of us in the world really, I take to be h-halfers- half human, half divine, halfers of the best sort. I'd think the s-same must be true for the people of Wonderland, that there's...there is no such thing as s-someone who is not a halfer, or even a quarter-er, if you'll allow me the inelegant term.

There are many themes found in the Book of Psalms that are generally not found in modern music. These include the fear of God, the righteousness and justice of God, the sovereignty of God, the judgement of God, the evil of sin, spiritual and physical warfare, the arch enemies of the Christian, the destruction of the wicked, the reality of hell, the blessedness of the church, the vicious attacks upon the church, the commandments of God, the dominion of David’s son, and so on. Without the backdrop of these truths, the themes of love, mercy, faith, and salvation become largely meaningless.

Had I realized while on Earth," he said, "that Hell was such a delightful place, I should have put more faith in the teachings of religion. As it was, I actually doubted its existence. A foolish error, cherie. I am pleased to say that you have converted me completely." "I, too," observed Mr. Hamilton, helping himself to wine, "was something of an unbeliever in my time, and while never quite an atheist, like my arch-enemy Jefferson, I was still inclined to look upon Satan as merely a myth. Imagine my satisfaction to find him ruling a monarchy! You know I spent the greater part of my earthly existence fighting Mr. Jefferson and his absurd democratic ideas and now look at the damn country! Run by morons!

Even the pious Scots, locked throughout history in a long-drawn-out battle with their arch-enemies the Scots,

the pious Scots, locked throughout history in a long-drawn-out battle with their arch-enemies the Scots,

I had started out as an outright 'debunker,' taking great joy in cracking what seemed at first to be puzzling cases. I was the arch enemy of those 'flying saucer groups and enthusiasts' who very dearly wanted UFOs to be interplanetary. My own knowledge of those groups came almost entirely from what I heard from Blue Book personnel: they were all 'crackpots and visionaries.' My transformation was gradual but by the late sixties it was complete. Today I would not spend one further moment on the subject of UFOs if I didn't seriously feel that the UFO phenomenon is real and that efforts to investigate and understand it, and eventually to solve it, could have a profound effect -- perhaps even be the springboard to mankind's outlook on the universe.

I think it should be done over, Buddy. …Please make peace with your wit. It's not going to go away, Buddy. To dump it on your own advice would be as bad and unnatural as dumping your adjectives and your adverbs because Prof. B. wants you to. What does he know about it? What do you really know about your own wit? I've been sitting here tearing up notes to you. I keep starting to say things like 'This one is wonderfully constructed,' and 'The conversation between the two cops is terrific.' So I'm hedging. I'm not sure why. I started to get a little nervous right after you began to read. It sounded like the beginning of something your arch-enemy Bob B. calls a rattling good story. Don't you think he would call this a step in the right direction? Doesn't that worry you? Even what is funny about the woman on the back of the truck doesn't sound like something you think is funny. It sounds much more like something that you think is universally considered funny. I feel gypped. Does that make you mad? You can say our relatedness spoils my judgement. It worries me enough. But I'm also just a reader. Are you a writer or just a writer of rattling good stories. I mind getting a rattling good story from you.

When he thrust inside her in a single movement, she moaned, digging her nails into his back as she arched her own. His groan matched hers, and soon he was fucking her hard, pinning her hands above her head.

It is also said that the sheep heed the Shepherd, because they know his voice. Is it true that men recognize Christ's call and respond to it? In one sense it must be, for he has said so; yet much in me qualifies the statement. Actually I respond much more readily to the call of 'the others'; I neither really understand Christ's summons nor follow it. Therefore, in order that I may hear, he must not only speak, but also open my ears to his voice. Part of me, the profoundest part, listens to it, but superficial, loud contradiction often overpowers it. The opponents with whom God must struggle in order to win us are not primarily ‘the others,’ but ourselves; we bar his way. The wolf who puts the hireling to flight is not only outside; he is also within. We are the arch-enemy of our own salvation, and the Shepherd must fight first of all with us – for us.

The Jeffersonians “hated and feared” the Jacobin concept of a “general will,” wrote Felix Morley in Freedom and Federalism.29 For if “the general will” were to become a practical reality regarding the operation of government, then all voluntary associations must be subjected to government regulation and control in the name of “the people” and their “will”—as interpreted by a ruling elite. This would be the road to serfdom and the end of individual liberty.

Country gentlemen who read in their newspapers the speeches of this or that Minister would mutter to themselves that he was certainly a clever fellow. But the country gentlemen were not made comfortable by this thought. The country gentlemen had a strong suspicion that cleverness was somehow unBritish. That sort of restless, unpredictable brilliance belonged most of all to Britain’s arch-enemy, the Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte; the country gentlemen could not approve it.

Of the 850,000 Indian soldiers who left the subcontinent during the First World War, 49,000 were killed in action. India also made her contribution to the material aspects of the Allied struggle, including the manufacture of 555 million bullets and more than a million shells. Over 55,000 Indians served in the Indian Labour Corps, as butchers, bakers, carpenters, shoemakers, tailors and washermen. Many did menial work within range of the enemy guns. In Delhi, a monumental arch records the Indian losses, India’s contribution in blood to the Allied war effort.

will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth.

Khattam-Shud’ he said slowly, ‘is the Arch-Enemy of all Stories, even of Language itself. He is the Prince of Silence and the Foe of Speech. And because everything ends, because dreams end, stories end, life ends, at the finish of everything we use his name. “It’s finished,” we tell one another, “it’s over. Khattam-Shud: The End.

If a man imagined that I was his arch-enemy and killed me, I should be dead on account of mere imagination. Imaginary conditions do exist and they may be just as real and just as harmful or dangerous as physical conditions. I even believe that psychic disturbances are far more dangerous than epidemics [of physical disease] or earthquakes.

One of a guardian's privileges is to be seen talking to his ward without occasioning remark,' he said. 'I can assure you he has not many.' She set her hand on the stair-rail, preparing to follow Lady Jersey. She looked a little arch. 'Is your position as my guardian so painful, sir?' 'It is a damnable position,' he said deliberately, and turned away, leaving her staring.

I HAVE said somewhere that the three Presidentiads preceding 1861 show’d how the weakness and wickedness of rulers are just as eligible here in America under republican, as in Europe under dynastic influences. But what can I say of that prompt and splendid wrestling with secession slavery, the arch-enemy personified, the instant he unmistakably show’d his face? The volcanic upheaval of the nation, after that firing on the flag at Charleston, proved for certain something which had been previously in great doubt, and at once substantially settled the question of disunion. In my judgment it will remain as the grandest and most encouraging spectacle yet vouchsafed in any age, old or new, to political progress and democracy. It was not for what came to the surface merely—though that was important—but what it indicated below, which was of eternal importance. Down in the abysms of New World humanity there had form’d and harden’d a primal hard-pan of national Union will, determin’d and in the majority, refusing to be tamper’d with or argued against, confronting all emergencies, and capable at any time of bursting all surface bonds, and breaking out like an earthquake.

Conspiracies and Crime, Murder and Mayhem, Vengeance and Valor – For the First. Time. Ever! Only In New York City – A Global Gathering of Like Minded Minds: OsamaCon !!! Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden?? The shadowy Vigilante, the arch-criminal mastermind, the enemy of Western Civilization? Come and find out – if you dare! Be blown away – only at the First Annual OsamaCon, coming soon

It is the simplest phrase you can imagine,” Favreau said, “three monosyllabic words that people say to each other every day.” But the speech etched itself in rhetorical lore. It inspired music videos and memes and the full range of reactions that any blockbuster receives online today, from praise to out-of-context humor to arch mockery. Obama’s “Yes, we can” refrain is an example of a rhetorical device known as epistrophe, or the repetition of words at the end of a sentence. It’s one of many famous rhetorical types, most with Greek names, based on some form of repetition. There is anaphora, which is repetition at the beginning of a sentence (Winston Churchill: “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields”). There is tricolon, which is repetition in short triplicate (Abraham Lincoln: “Government of the people, by the people, and for the people”). There is epizeuxis, which is the same word repeated over and over (Nancy Pelosi: “Just remember these four words for what this legislation means: jobs, jobs, jobs, and jobs”). There is diacope, which is the repetition of a word or phrase with a brief interruption (Franklin D. Roosevelt: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”) or, most simply, an A-B-A structure (Sarah Palin: “Drill baby drill!”). There is antithesis, which is repetition of clause structures to juxtapose contrasting ideas (Charles Dickens: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”). There is parallelism, which is repetition of sentence structure (the paragraph you just read). Finally, there is the king of all modern speech-making tricks, antimetabole, which is rhetorical inversion: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” There are several reasons why antimetabole is so popular. First, it’s just complex enough to disguise the fact that it’s formulaic. Second, it’s useful for highlighting an argument by drawing a clear contrast. Third, it’s quite poppy, in the Swedish songwriting sense, building a hook around two elements—A and B—and inverting them to give listeners immediate gratification and meaning. The classic structure of antimetabole is AB;BA, which is easy to remember since it spells out the name of a certain Swedish band.18 Famous ABBA examples in politics include: “Man is not the creature of circumstances. Circumstances are the creatures of men.” —Benjamin Disraeli “East and West do not mistrust each other because we are armed; we are armed because we mistrust each other.” —Ronald Reagan “The world faces a very different Russia than it did in 1991. Like all countries, Russia also faces a very different world.” —Bill Clinton “Whether we bring our enemies to justice or bring justice to our enemies, justice will be done.” —George W. Bush “Human rights are women’s rights and women’s rights are human rights.” —Hillary Clinton In particular, President John F. Kennedy made ABBA famous (and ABBA made John F. Kennedy famous). “Mankind must put an end to war, or war will put an end to mankind,” he said, and “Each increase of tension has produced an increase of arms; each increase of arms has produced an increase of tension,” and most famously, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” Antimetabole is like the C–G–Am–F chord progression in Western pop music: When you learn it somewhere, you hear it everywhere.19 Difficult and even controversial ideas are transformed, through ABBA, into something like musical hooks.

Martin Luther was well aware that reason was religion’s arch-enemy, and he frequently warned of its dangers: ‘Reason is the greatest enemy that faith has; it never comes to the aid of spiritual things, but more frequently than not struggles against the divine Word, treating with contempt all that emanates from God.’84 Again: ‘Whoever wants to be a Christian should tear the eyes out of his reason.’ And again: ‘Reason should be destroyed in all Christians.

We were enemies as children. Now let us be allies as men. You’re the sword, I’m the pen.” Dancer would want me to accept the offer. It would guarantee my survival. Guarantee my meteoric rise. I would be inside the halls of the ArchGovernor’s mansion. I would be near the man who killed Eo. Oh, I want to accept. But then I would have to let the Proctors beat me. I’d have to let this little whorefart win and let his father smile and feel pride. I’d have to watch that smug smile spread across his bloodydamn face. Slag that. They’ll feel pain. The

Why, then, did the Americans invest so much in Vietnam when, in comparison with the whole of their interests at the time, so little was at stake there? Thucydidean resemblances, I think, suggest an answer. Megara might look like a trifle, Pericles told the Athenians in 432 B.C.E., but if they yielded on that small matter “you will instantly have to meet some greater demand.” “Without the United States,” John F. Kennedy warned a Texas audience on the morning of November 22, 1963, “South Viet-Nam would collapse overnight,” and American alliances everywhere were equally vulnerable. There was no choice, Pericles insisted, but to “resist our enemies in any way and in every way.” For, as Kennedy added: “We are still the keystone in the arch of freedom.” 58 However distant they may be in time and space, statements like these perch precariously across scale. For if credibility is always in doubt, then capabilities must become infinite or bluffs must become routine. Neither approach is sustainable: that’s why walls exist in the first place. They buffer what’s important from what’s not. When one’s own imprecisions pull walls down—as Pericles and Kennedy did when they dismissed the possibility of giving anything up—then fears become images, images become projections, and projections as they expand blur into indistinctiveness.

All terrorism is fake. It is a military deception practiced by the rich upon the poor in an ongoing class war. Their most important weapon in this class war are television presenters. The BBC has actually become The Ministry of Truth of George Orwell’s 1984….Why is this happening right now? It’s happening because we no longer have an enemy. We have an unprecedented situation in which there is only one super state: the Anglo-American alliance…..The ruling group maintain their position in society by controlling the masses through fear. In order to make us believe that we must live in fear, the rich had to provide us with a new foreign enemy, a “bogeyman” who wants to conquer the world. The moment you have a world at peace, the keystone in the arch of ruling class power is gone. Every year America’s oligarchs take three trillion dollars out of America’s economy. This is how the rich have rigged the system – so that it benefits them at the expense of everyone else all of the time. To keep this fraud going, the public must be convinced of the need for military expenditure, and this is where all of the phony terror attacks come in. Here is Orwell’s definition of totalitarianism: ‘ A society living by and for continuous warfare in which the ruling caste have ceased to have any real function but succeed in clinging to power through force and fraud.

Lydia arched a chiding brow at him. “My father didn’t tell me anything and I’m still angry at him for that. But I remembered you. Even though I didn’t understand it, I felt you with me constantly. And if that wasn’t enough…” She took his hand and placed it on her stomach so he could feel the slight swelling there. “You left me with a very special gift.” The news slammed into him harder than one of Noir’s blows. She was pregnant? With his child. Unimaginable joy ripped through him as he felt the slightest fluttering of his son or daughter moving inside her. But that only solidified his resolve. “You won’t be safe if I leave.” She cupped his now healed face in her hands. “No one ever is, Seth. No matter how hard we try. No matter how much we plan and prepare. There will always be an enemy at the door and a storm trying to knock us down. Life’s not about security. It’s about picking up the pieces after it’s all over and carrying on. We can choose to be cowards who fear letting someone inside us, and do that alone. Or we can choose to be brave and let someone stand by our side and help us. I’m not a coward. I never have been. And there is nowhere else I plan to be, except beside you. Forever. Be it on earth, or here in this hellhole if that’s what it takes. I will always be with you.” In that moment, he realized he didn’t need his swallow to fly him away from pain. All he needed was her. And she was right. It took much more courage to lay his heart open to someone else than it did to keep it guarded. To let someone else in to that place deep inside where only they could do you harm. Only Lydia could destroy him. And yet only she gave him life … at least one worth living.

There is in all these connections a prehistory of the Enlightenment. What were the intentions of those who were proud to give themselves the ‘Enlightenment’ label? In one form, the eighteenth-century Enlightenment did indeed set itself against Christianity, proclaiming itself the enemy of mystery and the emancipator of humankind from the chains of revealed religion. Much of this started as being anti-Catholic rather than anti-Christian: a powerful consideration was the memory of the arch-Catholic Louis XIV of France’s great betrayal of trust in revoking the Edict of Nantes. Often doubt, scepticism or hatred of the Church then moved on to become what we would define as atheism. So an anti-Christian Enlightenment encompassed the anger of Voltaire against clerical stupidity, David Hume’s serene indifference to any hope of life after death that so shocked the diarist James Boswell, Maximilien Robespierre’s cold hatred of Catholicism and the French Revolution’s replacement of the Catholic Church with the goddess of reason. The authors of The treatise of the three impostors would have been delighted by all that, and they should also have been humbled by the quality of some of the minds which they had recruited by their clumsy diatribe.

You risked your own life to save me,” she said. “I won’t forget that.” His face grew expressionless again. “I told you, Becca. You belong to me. I will not let you go until my father is released.” You belong to me. You belong to me. The words echoed in her mind. “I belong to no one but myself,” she said throatily. But deep inside, she wished . . . “You are my captive.” “I could have left you to bleed to death,” she reminded him. “Ahikta. It is true. But my father is old. If I do not save him, he will die. It shames me to use a woman for a weapon, but sometimes a man must do what he must.” “I think I understand that now,” she said. As I must return to a husband that I can never love, as I might have loved this man were we not born mortal enemies. Talon did not speak again, and in a little while he drifted off to sleep. She sat beside him, hands in her lap, gazing at his sleeping face. How alien he is, she thought, and how beautiful. His skin tone was a warm red-bronze, his cheekbones high and prominent. His lips were thin but sensual, his eyes slightly slanted beneath raven-black brows. His forehead was high and broad, his chin and nose ruggedly defined. It was all she could do to keep from touching his face again. She wanted to stroke the smooth lines of his beardless jaw, to trace those fierce arching brows and commit them all to memory.

Again I see before me the usual street. The canopy of civilization is burnt out. The sky is dark as polished whalebone. But there is a kindling in the sky whether of lamplight or of dawn. There is a stir of some sort--sparrows on plane trees somewhere chirping. There is a sense of the break of day. I will not call it dawn. What is dawn in the city to an elderly man standing in the street looking up rather dizzily at the sky? Dawn is some sort of whitening of the sky; some sort of renewal. Another day; another Friday; another twentieth of March, January, or September. Another general awakening. The stars draw back and are extinguished. The bars deepen themselves between the waves. The film of mist thickens on the fields. A redness gathers on the roses, even on the pale rose that hangs by the bedroom window. A bird chirps. Cottagers light their early candles. Yes, this is the eternal renewal, the incessant rise and fall and fall and rise again. 'And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!' The waves broke on the shore.

The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun Blister’d and scorch’d, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, Save in the breeze that came not; savagely They glared upon each other—all was done, Water, and wine, and food,—and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. At length one whisper’d his companion, who Whisper’d another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew, An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade’s thought each sufferer knew, ’Twas but his own, suppress’d till now, he found: And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellow’s food. But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remain’d of shoes; And then they look’d around them and despair’d, And none to be the sacrifice would choose; At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, But of materials that much shock the Muse— Having no paper, for the want of better, They took by force from Juan Julia’s letter. The lots were made, and mark’d, and mix’d, and handed, In silent horror, and their distribution Lull’d even the savage hunger which demanded, Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or plann’d it, ’Twas nature gnaw’d them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter— And the lot fell on Juan’s luckless tutor. He but requested to be bled to death: The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebb’d his breath, You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a Catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they’re bred, And first a little crucifix he kiss’d, And then held out his jugular and wrist. The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; But being thirstiest at the moment, he Preferr’d a draught from the fast-flowing veins: Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow’d o’er the billow The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Who were not quite so fond of animal food; To these was added Juan, who, before Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could Feel now his appetite increased much more; ’Twas not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master. ’Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme; For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad—Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack’d, Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. Their numbers were much thinn’d by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others ponder’d on a new dissection, As if not warn’d sufficiently by those Who had already perish’d, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly. And if Pedrillo’s fate should shocking be, Remember Ugolino condescends To eat the head of his arch-enemy The moment after he politely ends His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea ’Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck’s short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante.

Egyptian liberalism is typically presented as an odd combination of two arch enemies: monarchical (the liberal, Europe-oriented elite) and Nasserite (Arab nationalist, which despite an anti-Western political agenda is culturally drawn to London, Paris and New York).

But it’s okay, it’s fine, because Tara is saying let’s go and dance before it wears off, so they all go and stand in the railway arches in a loose group facing the DJ and the lights, and they dance for a while in the dry ice, grinning and nodding and exchanging that strange puckered frown, eyebrows knitted, but the nodding and grinning are less from elation now, more from a need for reassurance that they’re still having fun, that it isn’t all about to end. Dexter wonders if he should take his shirt off, that sometimes helps, but the moment has passed. Someone nearby shouts ‘tune’ half-heartedly, but no-one’s convinced, there are no tunes. The enemy, self-consciousness, is creeping up on them and Gibbsy or Biggsy is the first to crack, declaring that the music is shit and everyone stops dancing immediately as if a spell has been broken.

to

Talon rocked her against his chest, cradling her as one would a feverish child. “Shhh, shhh,” he soothed in Algonquian. “He is not dead.” She opened her eyes, and he knew from her glazed expression that she wasn’t seeing his face, but the haunting shadows of the spirit world. “Nuwi,” he coaxed. “Come back to me.” He dared not handle her roughly. Did not the shamans speak of dreaming souls that broke free from sleepers to drift away into the spirit world and never return? “Nuwi, Becca.” She whimpered and slipped her arms around his neck. He felt the shudders rack her body as she clung to him. “He’s not dead,” she whispered hoarsely. “No,” he repeated in English. “He is not dead.” She took a deep breath and her eyes closed. Her trembling lessened and color flowed into her cheeks. This time when her lashes parted, she saw him. She stiffened and gave a fearful cry, striking at him with her hands and trying to break free. “Ku,” he said. “No—do not be afraid. I will not harm you.” He released her and she tore loose from his arms and scrambled away until she reached the walls of the cave. “Do not be afraid,” he said impatiently. “You . . . you . . .” She gasped, clutching her arms against her body. “You cried out,” he explained, feeling foolish. “You had a dream.” “Yes.” Her voice was dry and rasping, her eyes wide with alarm. “You were very loud,” he chided. “I thought your screeching would bring the Huron.” “You . . . you touched me,” she said accusingly. “I touched you—as I would a terrified child or a startled horse.” “A horse?” He noticed spots of high color in her fair-skinned, oval face, a startling contrast to her vivid blue eyes and dark arching brows. Her fear was quickly turning to indignation. He gazed intensely at her delicate English features. Her nose was thin, sprinkled with freckles and slightly tilted at the tip. Without realizing that he was doing so, he smiled. Such a foolish nose for a woman—he didn’t think he had ever seen one quite like it. Her mouth was full, her lips plump and red as the first wild strawberries in May. “How dare you compare me to a horse?” she demanded hotly. “A horse?” He chuckled, remembering his words. “A horse was not the best comparison,” he conceded. “I may be your prisoner, but I have rights.” His mood shifted. “No,” he said sharply, remembering too how she had fitted neatly into his arms. “No. A prisoner has no rights—none but those her captor gives her. You are the wife of my enemy. Expect nothing from me, and be grateful for what I give.

But tarry a while, haste is the arch-enemy of delight.

you and your friend are welcome to my hospitality, unless of course you think your delicate sensibilities will be offended.

Around 1921, however, their relationship began to show signs of strain. One contributing factor was Lenin’s victory at the Tenth Congress and the resulting resolution of the intra-party conflict that had alienated him from Trotsky. These developments cleared the way for a renewal of Lenin’s close ties with the man whom Stalin saw as his own arch-enemy; and rapprochement between Lenin and Trotsky could not fail to stir resentment in Stalin.

Muclear

Clutter is the arch-enemy of the restful home. It is the interiors equivalent of a to-do list that never gets completed, undermining any attempt at relaxation. Physical clutter equates to emotional debris, stifling energy and dampening enthusiasm.

The horn of Hemdall sounds as he stands facing his enemies on the rainbow-coloured arch of Bifrost.

Litis.

What is it I always say?” The Cat, Sacrenoir, and the others bandied uncertain glances about. “Don’t be stupid?” ventured Alistaire. “I should kill you now?” offered The Cat. “Do I have to murder everyone myself?” tried Siren. “No, idiots! When in doubt, go for the head. That’s what I always say.

Wasn’t that partly what it meant to be in love—that two people told each other everything, confiding without reserve or embarrassment their dreams, doubts, fears, plans, ambitions? Didn’t being in love mean there was no need of secrets?

It is ironic that a number of eminent Christians were charged with the care of the same plant whose consumption had been linked with the arch-fiend and enemy of their church.

I am observing a distinct historical development of the Norse culture of Scandinavia (Denmark, Norway, and Sweden) through symbolism. Contrary to ancient Egyptian 18th Dynasty, Indian, Jewish, German, Gnostic and Greek positive connotations of the Ouroboros, the Norse had Jörmungandr as an arch-enemy of their thunder-god, Thor. Although the etymology (according to my own observations and discoveries) of the word 'Thor' itself refers to a 'Bull', but that is a later on introduced interpretation that was more probably and condescendingly assigned to the Norse culture in the Middle East by its foe - like by the culture of the Jews that has a reverse symbolism; however, the root itself is derived from the verb 'to revolt' signaling thereby the different and opposing worldview.

He passed an irritated smirk at Bart. “Given that I be the rightful king of the throne Flowery’s father currently parks his arse upon, aye. I dare them to question me.” He turned back to his cousin. “That not right, Flowery? Or have you finally found the bullocks to behead your father and come for me?” He stiffened visibly in his saddle. “What would you have of me … Majesty?” The word was more insult than title of honor. Ignoring the slight, Devyl glanced over his shoulder as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Gadreyal was about to pierce the veil and come after them. He could feel it like a tangible touch on his skin. “You might want to gather up some troops.” Flaithrí arched his brow. “Might I inquire as to why?” No sooner had he asked the question than Devyl’s enemies brought down the shield and found their way into his grandfather’s realm. Devyl smiled coldly at Flaithrí. “No particular reason, other than if you don’t, you’re going to have something a lot worse than me to worry about.

Swelter’s eyes meet those of his enemy, and never was there held between four globes of gristle so sinister a hell of hatred. Had the flesh, the fibres, and the bones of the chef and those of Mr Flay been conjured away and away down that dark corridor leaving only their four eyes suspended in mid-air outside the Earl’s door, then, surely, they must have reddened to the hue of Mars, reddened and smouldered, and at last broken into flame, so intense was their hatred – broken into flame and circled about one another in ever-narrowing gyres and in swifter and yet swifter flight until, merged into one sizzling globe of ire they must surely have fled, the four in one, leaving a trail of blood behind them in the cold grey air of the corridor, until, screaming as they fly beneath innumerable arches and down the endless passageways of Gormenghast, they found their eyeless bodies once again, and re-entrenched themselves in startled sockets.

Momentous events, the stuff of a nation's history, were sometimes dependent on individuals commonly thought the least likely to set them in motion.

It was time to lie down and die.

No matter how kind or well-meaning you are, someone will always resent you.

Did people in love always disappoint each other so much?

You can’t kill what isn’t there, even if what isn’t there can kill you.

Curse you then. However beat and done with it all I am, I must haul myself up, and find the particular coat that belongs to me; must push my arms into the sleeves; must muffle myself up against the night air and be off. I, I, I, tired as I am, spent as I am, and almost worn out with all this rubbing of my nose along the surfaces of things, even I, an elderly man who is getting rather heavy and dislikes exertion, must take myself off and catch some last train. Again I see before me the usual street. The canopy of civilization is burnt out. The sky is dark as polished whalebone. But there is a kindling in the sky whether of lamplight or of dawn. There is a stir of some sort—sparrows on plane tree somewhere chirping. There is a sense of the break of day. I will not call it dawn. What is dawn in the city to an elderly man standing in the street looking up rather dizzily at the sky? Dawn is some sort of whitening of the sky; some sort of renewal. Another day; another Friday; another twentieth of March, January, or September. Another general awakening. The stars draw back and are extinguished. The bars deepen themselves between the waves. The film of mist thickens on the fields. A redness gathers on the roses, even on the pale rose that hangs by the bedroom window. A bird chirps. Cottagers light their early candles. Yes, this is the eternal renewal, the incessant rise and fall and fall and rise again. And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man’s, like Percival’s, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death! The waves broke on the shore.

How angry are my enemies and especially the arch-enemy! Shall I stretch forth my hand and fight my foes? No, my hand is better employed in doing service for my Lord. Besides, there is no need, for my God will use his far-reaching arm, and he will deal with them far better than I could if I were to try. ” Vengeance is mine ; I will repay, saith the Lord.” He will with his own right hand of power and wisdom save me, and what more can I desire?

She’s your enemy. Enemy! Remember? My brain keeps trying to tell me that, but my dick has other ideas about our relationship. Other, very strong ideas. I remove my thumb from her mouth and replace it with my tongue. She forgets she hates me kissing her and arches into me with a sigh, opening her mouth to kiss me back passionately. She’s all heat and shivering nerves, pounding pulse and hunger.

You want me to fuck you?” I leaned down, bringing her face to mine so our noses crushed together. I grabbed the front of her dress, twisting, tightening it against her skin until the fabric began pulling apart and tearing. “You want me to knock you up?” “Yes,” she breathed out. “Yes.” I dropped to the marble, resting my back against the vanity. “Ask nicely.” “Please.” “Nicer.” She crawled toward me on all fours, straddled my lap, and grabbed my hand, bringing it between her legs. Her fingers guided mine into her slick pussy, two of hers joining mine inside her warmth. My lips found her nipple, biting down through her dress. Together, we fucked her cunt down to our knuckles, curling until her walls pulsed. I watched our fingers disappear inside her. She arched her back, trying to accommodate as much of us as she could. Her lips drifted to the shell of my ear. “Please, please, please.” I tore my fingers out of her, ripped her dress down the middle, and captured both sides of her waist, sinking her onto my cock, down to the hilt. Her head fell forward. She bit my shoulder, drawing blood, her hips bucking. She was so tight it felt like I was fucking her ass. Her walls squeezed around me, milking my dick for cum. I let her ride my length until my impatience won over, and I pulled her off me, flipped her over, and lowered her on all fours. The marble was cold and hard against her knees. I love seeing that spoiled little brat take all of my cock, feeling the discomfort of it. My silver-spooned nymph. I entered her from behind. She drove back, meeting each of my thrusts. My fingers curled around her neck and steered her upward until her back plastered against my front. She craned her head around and captured my lips, slipping her tongue past my teeth. Her back arched, fingers dipping between her legs, searching for her clit. I smacked them away, then landed a palm on her ass. “Rom,” she whined. “I need to come.” “What you need is to be fucking grateful.” My blood brought my point home, covering every inch of her back, arms, and tits, matting her hair in clumps. I released her throat and pet the crown of her head, whispering praises into her ear. “Such a good girl.” Words I never thought I’d say. Especially to this particular girl, who was anything but good two hundred percent of the time. “If only you took directions so well when you’re not filled with my cock.” I reached around her and found her clit, rewarding her with a single flick. She cried out and fell forward, on her hands and knees again, pushing onto my cock. More crimson drops splattered onto her back. I’d reopened my wound, and fresh red painted her spine. I dipped a finger into it, then spelled my name across her back dimples. “Who owns your ass?” I growled. “You.” “Louder.” “You.” “Now crawl forward and show me your cunt from behind. I want to see if it’s worth my cum.” With a reluctant moan, she inched away from my cock, writhing about two feet away. She started to turn when I hissed, “I don’t want to see your face, Mrs. Costa. Just the cunt I stole from my enemy.” She spread her thighs apart, exposing her pussy. It dripped on my floor, her juices mixing with my blood, creating a pink puddle at her feet. I stroked my cock, coated with her wetness, scented by the wife I couldn’t get enough of. I grinned, the release tickling my shaft. “Embarrassed?” “No. Empty.” Fuck me sideways. How this woman would ever end up with a wuss like Madison, I had no idea. She would make meatballs out of him before the reception. (Chapter 55)

Man is an ugly animal, the arch-enemy, the most perverse creature on the planet, worse even than cats.

People are kept unaware of the reality, with the sweet and illusive candy of nationalism. They are made to believe in their bones that killing people in the name of sovereignty is the most glorious act of all - they are made to believe that the citizens of the neighboring country are their arch-enemies - they are made to believe that nationality is far greater than humanity. They are made to believe that surgical strikes against the nation across the border is a great patriotic deed - they are made to believe that raising wall and separating children from their parents are deeds of great glory. In short, politicians (not all) in the government keep doing whatever they desire, and the citizens choose to keep their mouth silent in obedience because that to them is the greatest act of patriotism. In short, to these spineless citizens, their country is always right and the neighboring country is always wrong - their country is always good and the neighboring country is always evil - their country is always on the side of ethics and morality, and the neighboring country is always on the side of moral degradation. And this has been going on since the rise of human civilization across the world. When will this change, one wonders! And the answer is now. You change - just you - you the individual - you the one human - and slowly but surely, little by little, the entire society will change.

Not a scream of rage, but of pure terror. His body distilled at that scream, as if it were no more than the knife in his hand, a weapon to be used to eliminate and destroy any threats to her, to kill and kill and not stop until every last enemy was dead or bleeding. Her door was open, and light blazed from within. Silvery, cold light. “Cassian,” Az warned, but Cassian pushed himself faster, running as swiftly as he ever had in his life. He slammed into the archway of her door, rebounding off it and into the room, and came up short at what he beheld. Nesta lay in her bed, body arched. Bathed in silver fire. She was screaming, hands ripping at the sheets, and that fire burned and burned without destroying the blankets, the room. Burned and writhed, as if devouring her. “Holy gods,” Azriel breathed. The fire radiated cold. Cassian had never heard of such a power amongst the High Fae. Fire, yes—but fire with warmth. Not this icy, terrible twin. Nesta arched again, sobbing through her teeth.

We shall judge the fallen angels at the last great day, and meanwhile a believing life is a life of triumph over the arch enemy. In the power of the Spirit it shall be proven that truth is mightier than error, love is stronger than hate, and holiness is higher than sin; for the Lord’s right hand and his holy arm have gotten him the victory.

Government, crown, and state - allies one and all to ecological destruction, and as such, by definition can only be the arch enemy to every true poet.

The time has come to revise this enigmatic and most important term “Aryan.” It need no longer be flagrantly and prejudiciously bandied by anyone wishing to claim exalted racial status. It need no longer be used as an appellation by those deviants brandishing pseudo-scientific ideologies, and by those who have long misunderstood the facts concerning the origin, identity and fate of the various Indo-European and Semitic races. Importantly, recent discoveries made by Jewish and Gentile investigators alike conclusively prove that the so-called “Israelites” (those arch-enemies of would-be Aryans) were not racially Semitic after all. Like the “Aryans,” they too were racially Indo-European. Their language, Hebrew, was identical with Egyptian. Therefore, in our mind, the term “Semite” must henceforth be dropped as a racial appellation for the Bible’s “Chosen People.” As we show in Volume Two, the terms “Israelite” and “Judite” do not denote races. The terms were religious and theological, and defined cult rather than race. Israelites and Judites were conglomerated groups closely affiliated with and probably blood-related to the Hyksos Pharaohs of old, a fact confirmed by top Jewish historians. Thanks to the researches of Sigmund Freud, Comyns Beaumont, L. A. Waddell, Ahmed Osman, Ralph Ellis and Moustafa Gadalla, the true identity of the Israelites has finally come out into the open. Obviously, the fact that the alleged ancestors of the Jews were racially Indo-European, and of the same racial stock as the antagonists defamed and condemned in the name of spurious racial superiority, has poignant ramifications. It assists us to immediately and swiftly restore the grievously abused term “Aryan.” The term has simply been dragged through the mud by perfidious fools of the same race as the “Israelites” whom they gullibly believe to be inferior. Now that the hydrochloric acid of reason has been applied, now that the term has been thoroughly excavated from its bed of filth, its unadulterated and original meaning may be discerned. They were not an ethnic group or a nation as such, but rather a social category with a common lifestyle – Robert Cornman and J. M. Modrzejewski (The Jews of Egypt: From Rameses II to Emperor Hadrian) Not until Jacob in a somewhat obscure manner was told to call himself Israel was that name adopted and accorded to his twelve “sons:” but if we accept the explanation of Sanchoniathon, a Phoenician of Tyre, Cronus “whom Phoenicians called Israel” was king of Phoenicia, and it signified that these Chaldeo-Phoenician tribes were worshippers of Cronus-Saturn...for Jehovah was a far later importation. The name Israel has subsequently been misappropriated, for those Biblical Christians who term themselves Israelites in fact label themselves followers of a pagan deity – Comyns Beaumont (The Riddle of Prehistoric Britain)

He’d amassed a number of new enemies. They had names like kettle bell, dead lifts, and overhead press. He’d lost many a confrontation with his arch nemesis, squats.

While Nigel helped her rearrange the contents of the basket, the door to the drawing room opened and Lord Broadmore came charging out. “Amelia, I must insist that you remain with me in the drawing room. You’re making a cake of yourself and I don’t like it one blasted bit.” Nigel’s eyes narrowed in warning as he took a step forward. Amelia shot out a hand to stop him. “I do not appreciate your tone of voice, my lord, nor your ungenerous implication,” she said. “I have my aunt’s approval. I certainly do not need yours.” Broadmore drew himself up to his full, outraged height. For once, Amelia didn’t care if she offended him. She was tired of his rudeness and resented his assumption that they were already engaged. “Amelia,” Broadmore said through clenched teeth, “I will not countenance this sort of behavior from the woman I expect to marry. Everyone will think you prefer Dash’s company to mine, which is bloody ridiculous. Even you can’t be that much of a birdwit.” Amelia sucked in a harsh breath, dumbfounded by the vile insult. She darted a quick glance at Nigel, expecting to find a seething male. Nigel’s blue eyes had gone so cold and flinty it made her shiver, but instead of ripping up at Broadmore he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. His eyebrows arched in polite inquiry as if to say to her, well, what are you going to do about that? It took Amelia a few moments to realize Nigel was deferring to her judgment instead of simply assuming the right to defend her regardless of her feelings. Good for you, dear Mr. Dash. She handed Nigel the sweets basket, then faced Broadmore. “My lord, I have had quite enough of your outrageously rude behavior. Rest assured that I will be escorting Mr. Dash upstairs to see my sister, and you are not to say another word about it.” Then, giving into an impulse that had been building within her for a long time, she jabbed Broadmore sharply in the chest with her index finger. “Please go back into the drawing room and do not dare to pass judgment on my behavior to anyone. In fact, if you say another word about this I will never speak to you again.” Then she whirled around, her anger propelling her like a cannonball up the staircase. Nigel caught up to her outside the nursery. “Well done, Miss Easton.” It sounded like he was choking back laughter. “You routed the enemy with commendable aplomb.” Amelia let her forehead thunk against the thick oak panel of the door. Now that her anger was cooling, her display of temper mortified her. “You must think me completely mad, Mr. Dash. I apologize for acting so disgracefully.” When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she shivered at the exhalation of his breath on her neck. “Actually, I thought you quite splendid, Miss Easton. I was hard-pressed not to give a resounding cheer.” She tilted her head sideways to look at him. His eyes, tender and amused, smiled back at her. “Shall we?” he asked. Reaching around her, he opened the door. Amelia

Roman engineering The Romans accomplished amazing feats of engineering as they built roads, bridges, and aqueducts (bridges for water conduits) across their empire. This 2,000-year-old Roman aqueduct at Segovia, in central Spain, has 128 arches. No mortar was used to cement the large blocks of granite together. Good roads were one of the reasons for the success of the Roman Empire. They allowed troops and supplies to be moved swiftly, before the enemy could either attack or escape.

She is owned by no one,” Leo said with care. “Good. Then I’ll—” “She is under my protection, however.” Latimer arched a brow, amused. “What am I to infer from that?” Leo was deadly serious. “That you are to go nowhere near her. That she’ll never have to endure the sound of your voice or the insult of your presence ever again.” “I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.” “I’m afraid you’ll have to.” A coarse laugh erupted. “Surely you’re not threatening me.” Leo smiled coldly. “Much as I always tried to ignore your inebriated ravings, Latimer, a few things did stick in my memory. Some of your confessions of misconduct would make more than a few people unhappy. I know enough of your secrets to land you in Marshalsea prison without so much as a chum ticket. And if that’s not enough, I would be more than willing to resort to bashing your skull in with a blunt object. In fact, I’m becoming quite enthused about the idea.” Seeing the astonishment in the other man’s eyes, Leo smiled without humor. “I see you grasp my sincerity. That’s good. It might save us both some inconvenience.” He paused to give his next statement greater impact. “And now I’m going to instruct my servants to escort you off my estate. You’re not welcome.” The older man’s face went livid. “You’ll regret having made an enemy of me, Ramsay.” “Not nearly as much as I’ve regretted having once made a friend of you.

warned you that my Wolf might be dangerous to you—might see you as the enemy or prey. You shouldn’t have risked letting me in.” “I had to,” I said simply. “I’m a vet—or I was going to be, anyway, before Celeste came along and turned me even though I didn’t want to be turned. I can’t stand to see an animal in pain. I had to help you.” He gave me a grim look. “You’re lucky I didn’t take your face off.” I gave him an arch little smile. “You were too busy eating bacon—three packs of it.” “Three packs?” He stared at me in disbelief. “You let me eat three packs of bacon? Fuck, woman—my cholesterol is going to be through the roof.” I shrugged. “It was the only way to keep you busy while I treated your paw. Besides, you didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who worried about things like cholesterol. If you did, why would you have three packs of bacon in your fridge in the first place?” “There was a sale at Publix,” he grumbled. “That precooked stuff—it keeps forever.” “It does as long as you don’t turn into a huge hairy wolf and gobble it up all at once,” I said solemnly, trying not to laugh.

Do you know how to cook?” Adam arched a brown eyebrow. “Yes.” Gaston stood. “Mostly.” He walked to the oven where the fire beneath sizzled and popped. “Some things.” Gaston paused. “Soup, okay. I can make soup.” Adam pinched his lips together to keep from smiling. One did not smile at an old enemy just because he was being funny. Adam should be furious at this man and… Ah, hell. “Soup is fine.

I had passed through the amphitheater’s arch on my way to challenge my brother. It had been simpler, then. A single enemy, a single path forward. Now, there were tyrants and chancellors and exiles and countless factions among the people who served each of them. And there was Akos. Whatever that meant. “Sifa said he’s not here,” Teka said to me. Like a mind reader. “Lazmet took him wherever they went. I know that’s not all that reassuring, but...better for him not to be hit by the blast, right?” It was. It meant that I could think clearly. But I didn’t want to admit to that. I shrugged. “I asked her for you,” Teka said. “I knew you’d be too proud to do it yourself.” “Time to go,” I said, ignoring her.