Avalon Tower Quotes

Beyond the River of the Blessed, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Avalon. Our swords were shattered in our hands and we hung our shields on the oak tree. The silver towers were fallen, into a sea of blood. How many miles to Avalon? None, I say, and all. The silver towers are fallen. …waters,where the stars shone like bonfires at night and the green of day was always the green of spring. Youth, love, beauty-I knew them in Avalon. Proud steeds, bright metal, soft lips, dark ale. Honor…

I’m scared of failing—but I’m also scared of succeeding.

We’re trapped in the waking nightmare.

Beyond the River of the Blessed, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Avalon. Our swords were shattered in our hands and we hung our shields on the oak tree. The silver towers were fallen, into a sea of blood. How many miles to Avalon? None, I say, and all. The silver towers are fallen.

I can hardly catch my breath as I glance at the judges. Wrythe and Amon both look horrified. But Viviane meets my eyes, and her lips twist in a tiny smile.

But right now, I don’t give a fuck what they think.

I’m going to need to kiss you.” “For realism,” I whisper. He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. “For the mission.” “For England.” He presses his lips against mine, claiming my mouth.

Hic Jacet Arthurus Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus Arthur is gone…Tristram in Careol Sleeps, with a broken sword - and Yseult sleeps Beside him, where the Westering waters roll Over drowned Lyonesse to the outer deeps. Lancelot is fallen . . . The ardent helms that shone So knightly and the splintered lances rust In the anonymous mould of Avalon: Gawain and Gareth and Galahad - all are dust. Where do the vanes and towers of Camelot And tall Tintagel crumble? Where do those tragic Lovers and their bright eyed ladies rot? We cannot tell, for lost is Merlin's magic. And Guinevere - Call her not back again Lest she betray the loveliness time lent A name that blends the rapture and the pain Linked in the lonely nightingale's lament. Nor pry too deeply, lest you should discover The bower of Astolat a smokey hut Of mud and wattle - find the knightliest lover A braggart, and his lilymaid a slut. And all that coloured tale a tapestry Woven by poets. As the spider's skeins Are spun of its own substance, so have they Embroidered empty legend - What remains? This: That when Rome fell, like a writhen oak That age had sapped and cankered at the root, Resistant, from her topmost bough there broke The miracle of one unwithering shoot. Which was the spirit of Britain - that certain men Uncouth, untutored, of our island brood Loved freedom better than their lives; and when The tempest crashed around them, rose and stood And charged into the storm's black heart, with sword Lifted, or lance in rest, and rode there, helmed With a strange majesty that the heathen horde Remembered when all were overwhelmed; And made of them a legend, to their chief, Arthur, Ambrosius - no man knows his name - Granting a gallantry beyond belief, And to his knights imperishable fame. They were so few . . . We know not in what manner Or where they fell - whether they went Riding into the dark under Christ's banner Or died beneath the blood-red dragon of Gwent. But this we know; that when the Saxon rout Swept over them, the sun no longer shone On Britain, and the last lights flickered out; And men in darkness muttered: Arthur is gone…

Everyone on your horses. Nia, you’re riding with me.” The hem of my dress hikes up to my hips as I climb into the saddle. I shift forward, gripping the horse’s pommel, the cool night air sweeping over my bare thighs. Raphael mounts behind me, pressing close against me, his body warm and firm. He reaches around me for the reins. I lean back against his chest. Heat radiates from his body, warming mine.

You’ve proven yourself to be the same self-obsessed twat you always were. You don’t have to be wealthy to think you’re better than everyone else, do you? To some people, arrogance comes just as naturally as breathing. And in reality, Raphael, I saved your ass more than once, you egomaniacal, solipsistic, stuck-up prick. Do not speak to me again unless it’s an order. Unless it’s life or death. You’re not good enough to speak to me, and you never were.

Turning to the northwest I see the much nearer fires on the hill, like a dwarfish volcano. Vigorous figures mill about the blazes, their shadows hopping and hobnobbing, like island natives beside a night-painted ocean. I might’ve been able to catch the sounds of their carnivalesque revelling if there weren’t so much music and mad gaiety behind me. Far beyond the hill, the forest ends at the grey northern stretch of moorland with its dead whip of gritty roadway, down which I had seen the Night Hounds. Now, hooded figures trundle the same gloomy way. I wonder, are those druidic forms en route to the fire-capped hilltop? It seems a long way to go. Further north, past that winding road, the watching mountains tower, nigh-entirely disguised against the sky, one ebon peak protruding sharply, resembling an unapproachable pyramid or similar conical fortress. It must be some falsifying angle of light and shadow from the sky which has accentuated that dome in such a way - I well knew that those mountains should seem far smoother, more gentle, not nearly so sharp and craggy as that peak now appeared.

If you weren’t supposed to be here, you’d already be dead.

Understand your true self, then hide it from the world so it can’t be used against you.

you always were. You don’t have to be wealthy to think you’re better than everyone else, do you? To some people, arrogance comes just as naturally as breathing. And in reality, Raphael, I saved your ass more than once, you egomaniacal, solipsistic, stuck-up prick. Do not speak to me again unless it’s an order. Unless it’s life or death. You’re not good enough to speak to me, and you never were.

We are sisters in nausea now.

So, you’re not only a magical healer, but you’re also a magical antidepressant, too,

This is my M.O.: act like everything is fine, blast people with positivity, and hope for the best.

An enormous serpentine coil rises above our boat. Thick as a ship, it’s covered in metallic scales that gleam silver in the moonlight. Rising high above us, it blocks out the sky. I can’t figure out where it starts and where it ends—or maybe it’s everywhere. A sea serpent.

Graceful and sophisticated as she looks, she spent the boat ride next to me, vomiting over the side. We are sisters in nausea now.

You’re tormenting me on purpose, and I absolutely cannot stop thinking about the perfect shape of your breasts through that camisole, or what your nipples would feel like in my mouth.

You’re what I’ve been missing all these years. His thoughts echo in my mind.

Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you, Nia?

I’ve wanted this for so long, and right now, I literally don’t give a fuck about anything but you.

I let my legs fall open wider in invitation and start touching myself while he watches. Have you thought of me before while you pleasured yourself? “Often,” I say out loud.

A high-pitched voice, loud and terrified, echoes in my mind. “We’re gonna die, we’re gonna die, there’s no escape, they’ll catch you. WE’RE GONNA DIE!” Oh, hell, no. It’s happening again. This is the entire reason my doctor told me to avoid stress. I’m not avoiding stress, and now the voices are back.

If you kill one of our only two Sentinels, Pendragon, I will end your life.” He flashes a dark smile. “And I don’t give a fuck who your great-grandmother was.

Language is the cloak of the gods,

My power worked through fear and anger, and when I looked at him, I felt something else.

I’ve got you, love. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.

Raphael is pale, and there’s something in his expression that I never expected to see. Fear. So, the man does feel emotions.

For once, Raphael’s ice-cold composure has abandoned him, and he is rattled.

You’re still awake,” I say. “How do you know?” “Because I’ve slept in a room with you before, and you snore horribly.” “Bollocks, I do.” I smirk. “Did you really not know that?” “I don’t have many nighttime guests.” Good.

I hear your thoughts,” I whisper. A quiet chuckle. “Stop listening. They’re about to become wildly inappropriate.” I want to hear you moan my name.

This is a terrible idea,” he repeats. Because if I can’t strip you naked and fuck you hard, I will lose my mind.

You’re not leaving. And if I get even the faintest hint that you’re going to pull another stunt like threatening to inform on us, I will end your life. Maybe your dinner will be poisoned. Maybe I’ll slit your throat in your sleep. Maybe I’ll simply bash your pretty little head against a rock. Understood?

Why are you using your healing magic on me? I’m not broken.” Lips parted, he leans in closer. “I can feel your sadness.

Say the first thing that comes to your mind,” he murmurs. “You’re beautiful.” The silver in his eyes grows brighter. “So are you.

What made you decide to jump in?” I ask. “You’re not usually fun.” He’s so close to me now, studying me intently. His expression looks almost desperate. “Because I wanted to kiss you, and I’m not supposed to. And you make it hard for me to stay in control of myself. You destroy my self-control, Nia.” His eyes flick down to my lips.

Perfect,” he murmurs, and his eyes flick up to mine. “You are perfect.

At this point, I’ve pretty much forgotten about the dead mage in my room and all the years I spent hating this gorgeous man. I only know that the power radiating from his rugged body is making my breath catch. It’s not just how he looks, it’s him, too, and the way he seemed so completely undone by my injury. It’s the way he’s finally dropped his guard.

I clean up messes. It’s what I do. I keep people calm, happy, and safe. I’m a balm to soothe panic and rage and bare feet pierced with broken glass. I’m a blanket of fog to cool a sofa burning from a lit cigarette.

I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time.

His gaze rakes down my body, lingering at my breasts, peaked beneath the silk. “Fuck.” A line forms between his eyebrows, his pale eyes burning with the heat of stars. “What’s wrong?” I let the strap of my camisole fall down. “You look fucking perfect.

Are you falling asleep on me, pixie?

He’s holding a white box wrapped with string, and he slides it onto the windowsill. The surface is slightly damp. “What’s this?” I ask. “I remember you saying you liked lavender cake, and I saw some in the bakery.” He takes the spyglass from me and starts staring out the window. I take the box and sit on the bed, scooting back cross-legged. I pull the string on the box, unwrapping it. “You got me cake?” I’m still confused. This doesn’t square with his rant about not liking me. “Why?” “Because you said you liked it. You told me you ordered the lavender cake, but you got blackberry.” I stare at his large back, stunned. “That was six months ago.” “Right.

I’m desperate for you. Desperate the way a starving man craves fruit. I’ve dreamt of this for years, and I want to taste every inch of your skin.

Today, we are soldiers, it seems. We’re heading to battle, whether we’re prepared or not. I want you to stay close to me the whole time, do you understand? I can’t have anything happen to you.” Fear flickers in his eyes, and I remember a time when I thought the man didn’t feel emotions at all.

What happened to your leg? You were limping when I first saw you, and you’re favoring your right leg.” “I sprained my ankle jumping into a train car from the roof.” “You did what?” “That’s how I got here,” I say. “I took the Gobannos train. It was the only way I could make it here on time. But I didn’t have a ticket, so I had to board the train through the roof.” “Why do I feel like you’ll be the death of me?” he mutters, and kneels down. “What are you doing?” “Healing you. The left one, right?” He brushes the back of his knuckles over my ankle where it hurts the most. How does he know exactly where I need him to heal me?

I’m always the one who picks up the pieces. I take care of things when everyone falls apart around me. I live in the shadows, trying to make things go smoothly. And who comes to help me in the night when I’m sick and can’t breathe? When I’m calling for help, and there’s no answer?

The problem is, banning desire doesn’t douse the heat. If anything, it fuels it.

I clamp my eyes shut and bite my lip. The seaside air no longer smells fresh. It feels like I’m inhaling brackish rot. My lungs whistle as I inhale. I’m running out of breath, and this could be a panic attack or my lungs collapsing. Probably both. My airway is narrowed to a single point. I focus on my senses and the feel of the ground beneath my feet to calm myself and ignore the seaside scent of decay. I smell thyme and brine, the faint whiff of lavender. I feel the kiss of the breeze against my skin. My chest is practically caving in. From my handbag, I pull out my inhaler. Two puffs. Within moments, my airways start to open. I shove the inhaler back into the bag and hurry back over the brush, onto the sand. I shield my eyes and find the group huddled on the beach.

Our academy dates back to the Roman occupation of Britain.

My desire for you will burn me alive.

He still hasn’t uttered a word to me. I suppose we did declare our hatred for one another.

My gaze roams over the Gothic ceiling as I walk. This place looks like a grandiose version of Oxford or Westminster, with soaring arches and ornate carvings from centuries ago. It’s like a medieval monastery on a scale fit for gods.

I turn to a platter of food. It looks like something from a fairytale—fresh bread pudding, jams, fruit, cakes decorated with dandelions, entire baked salmon and potatoes, all resting on a bed of wildflowers. Teapots stand on the table, along with a golden liquid that might be beer or whiskey.

his heated gaze makes my soul light on fire.

I’m desperate for you. Desperate the way a starving man craves fruit.

A voice rings in my thoughts, the sometimes violent sensualist. I will taste you. Wrap your thighs around me. In a dark, consuming flame, we will burn, a comet in the sky.

Because I wanted to kiss you, and I’m not supposed to. And you make it hard for me to stay in control of myself. You destroy my self-control, Nia.

Serana’s forehead scrunches up. “I was just speaking metaphorically, I guess. There are no demons in the world, Tana.” Her face has gone pale. “Right?” “Right.” Tana sips from her mead and smiles faintly. “It’s better to think that.” “Well, that’s a thought that’s gonna fester,” Darius mutters.

The shadows are closing in. Death hunts you. During the trials, the darkness will start to envelop you. If you don’t survive, we all die. England is lost. Scotland and Wales, too. The rot will creep from the Cliffs of Dover all the way to the highlands. It starts during the trials.

I stare at him for a moment, but only just a moment. I can always figure out what people want and give it to them. It’s one of my greatest skills. And right now, I know exactly what role I’m supposed to play.

as if my life depends on it. Which it does. This is my M.O.: act like everything is fine, blast people with positivity, and hope for the best.