Cassius Quotes

But it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he has Cassius note, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves.

Let me have men about me that are fat, ...Sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.

Sevro snorts. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time, you silky turd? Wanking off in the bushes?” Cassius and I look at each other. “Kind of,” I say. “Yeah, actually,” Cassius agrees.

I am Cassius Bellona, son of Tiberius, son of Julia, brother of Darrow, Morning Knight of the Solar Republic, and my honor remains.

Were she better, or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/But in ourselves.

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.

Everyone in this tale had a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is no in our stars / But in ourselves.” Easy to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

She could no longer remember what Ambrose looked like, or smelled like, or was like. All she knew was Cassius Clayton McLinn. All she wanted began and ended with him.

Some make you sing and some make you scream, One makes you wish that you'd never been seen. But there's a shop on the corner that's selling papier-mache, Making bullet-proof faces, Charlie Manson, Cassius Clay. If you want it, boys, get it here, thing. - Sweet Thing

June!” I call out. She turns into my stunpike and shudders as the electricity dumbs down her muscles. That’s how I steal their cook. Cassius finds me running with June over my shoulder through their gardens. “What the hell?” “She’s a cook!” I explain. He laughs so hard he can barely breathe.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

Oh my darling Annaleigh, remember when you let the turtles go? Some things can't be kept." He cupped my cheek, and my tears trickled down his fingers. "Be brave. Be strong. You'll always have my whole heart.

Lucius Cassius ille quem populus Romanus verissimum et sapientissimum iudicem putabat identidem in causis quaerere solebat 'cui bono' fuisset. The famous Lucius Cassius, whom the Roman people used to regard as a very honest and wise judge, was in the habit of asking, time and again, 'To whose benefit?

It is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves.” Easy enough to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

I can be a builder, not just a destroyer. Eo and Fitchner saw that when I could not. They believed in me. So whether they wait for me in the Vale or not, I feel them in my heart, I hear their echo beating across the worlds. I see them in my son, and, when he is old enough, I will take him on my knee and his mother and I will tell him of the rage of Ares, the strength of Ragnar, the honor of Cassius, the love of Sevro, the loyalty of Victra, and the dream of Eo, the girl who inspired me to live for more.

Cassius couldn’t take any more. “Okay, that’s enough. We’re done here.” His heart hammered, his palms were sweating, and his knees felt wobbly. “We’ve changed our minds. Just put it back.

This is the legend of Cassius Clay, The most beautiful fighter in the world today. He talks a great deal, and brags indeed-y, of a muscular punch that's incredibly speed-y. The fistic world was dull and weary, But with a champ like Liston, things had to be dreary. Then someone with color and someone with dash, Brought fight fans are runnin' with Cash. This brash young boxer is something to see And the heavyweight championship is his des-tin-y. This kid fights great; he’s got speed and endurance, But if you sign to fight him, increase your insurance. This kid's got a left; this kid's got a right, If he hit you once, you're asleep for the night. And as you lie on the floor while the ref counts ten, You’ll pray that you won’t have to fight me again. For I am the man this poem’s about, The next champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt. This I predict and I know the score, I’ll be champ of the world in ’64. When I say three, they’ll go in the third, 10 months ago So don’t bet against me, I’m a man of my word. He is the greatest! Yes! I am the man this poem’s about, I’ll be champ of the world, there isn’t a doubt. Here I predict Mr. Liston’s dismemberment, I’ll hit him so hard; he’ll wonder where October and November went. When I say two, there’s never a third, Standin against me is completely absurd. When Cassius says a mouse can outrun a horse, Don’t ask how; put your money where your mouse is! I AM THE GREATEST!

Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know / When though didst hate him worst, thou loved’st him better / Than ever thou loved’st Cassius.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

In great attempts it is glorious even to fail

I one time tripped on that shit with Cassius for a week on the Thermic.” She catches my look. “Well, it was before I met you. And have you ever seen him with his shirt off? Don’t tell Sevro, by the way.

Do you ever feel lost?” The question hangs between us, intimate, awkward only on my end. He doesn’t scoff as Tactus and Fitchner would, or scratch his balls like Sevro, or chuckle like Cassius might have, or purr as Victra would. I’m not sure what Mustang might have done. But Roque, despite his Color and all the things that make him different, slowly slides a marker into the book and sets it on the nightstand beside the four-poster, taking his time and allowing an answer to evolve between us. Movements thoughtful and organic, like Dancer’s were before he died. There’s a stillness in him, vast and majestic, the same stillness I remember in my father. “Quinn once told me a story.” He waits for me to moan a grievance at the mention of a story, and when I don’t, his tone sinks into deeper gravity. “Once, in the days of Old Earth, there were two pigeons who were greatly in love. In those days, they raised such animals to carry messages across great distances. These two were born in the same cage, raised by the same man, and sold on the same day to different men on the eve of a great war. “The pigeons suffered apart from each other, each incomplete without their lover. Far and wide their masters took them, and the pigeons feared they would never again find each other, for they began to see how vast the world was, and how terrible the things in it. For months and months, they carried messages for their masters, flying over battle lines, through the air over men who killed one another for land. When the war ended, the pigeons were set free by their masters. But neither knew where to go, neither knew what to do, so each flew home. And there they found each other again, as they were always destined to return home and find, instead of the past, their future.

Well, I do believe I am the lightning,” Cassius declares. “And you, my brooding friend, are the thunder.

Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? Brutus. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, 140 But by reflection, by some other things.

Regret." I [Annaleigh] smiled, though it wasn't funny. "Is that really a nightmare?" "Can you think of anything more frightening?" [Cassius]

Cassius was covered in lionesses. Just…covered. Those submissive lionesses he’d been abusing had risen up against him. Those meek little mice weren’t mice anymore—they were motherfuckin’ weapons.

I'm simply waiting for him to realize he's pushing the wrong parent away." "And I'm waiting for him to realize that neither of his parents deserve him!

It’s the same in Caesar. Brutus and Cassius assassinate Caesar and set themselves up for disaster.” “But they’re not villains, are they?” Wren asked. “Cassius maybe, but Brutus does what he does for the greater good of Rome.” “Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more,

I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays As thou dost, Anthony; he heard no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,

CASSIUS : "Will you dine with me tomorrow?" CASCA : "Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating.

Friends, I owe more tears to this dead man than you shall see me pay —I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.

Cassius lets his helmet retract and winks at me. His face is harder than when we first met. But every now and again there’s that twinkle in his eyes, like a light inside a far-off tent, making you feel warm even though you’re still outside. And I am outside. He thinks I don’t see how wounded he is. How I’m a replacement for the brother Darrow of Lykos took from him in the Institute. Sometimes he looks at me and I know he sees Julian. A small, selfish part of me wishes he just saw me.

And whether we shall meet again, I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. Forever and forever farewell, Cassius. If we do meet again, why we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, 'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves.' Easy enough to say when you're a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there. And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters, if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men: I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, 'tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament-- Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read-- And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue.

Mia had seen some fighters who moved like dancers, lithe and graceful. Others moved like bulls, and brawn and bluster. But Cassius moved like a knife. Simple. Straight. Deadly. There was no flash to his style. No flair. He simply cut right to the bone.

Battered and bloody, we join Cassius, Lysander, and Sevro before the door leading out of the Sovereign's inner sanctum as Cassius types in the Olympic code to open the doors. He pauses to sniff the air. 'What's that smell?' 'Smells like a sewer,' I say. Sevro stares intensely at the razors he's taken from Aja, including the one belonging to Lorn. 'I think it smells like victory.' 'Did you shit your pants?' Cassius squints at him. 'You did.' 'Sevro...' Mustang says. 'It's an involuntary muscle reaction when you're fake executed and swallow massive amounts ofhaemanthus oil,' Sevro snaps. 'You think I would do that on purpose?' Cassius and I look at each other. I shrug. 'Well, maybe.' 'Yeah, actually.' He flips us the crux and makes a face, twisting his lips till it looks like he's going to explode. 'What's happening?' I ask. 'Are you... still...' 'No!

Everyone in this tale has a rock-solid hamartia: hers, that she is so sick; yours, that you are so well. Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

Roque always did dress up a place. Unfortunately he's got the taste of a ninety-year-old orchestra first chair.

I forget to breathe. Then I gasp. My body shivers. Hugs the sword. I smell Cassius’s neck. He’s close. Close as when he used to cup my head and call me brother.

I am Cassius au Bellona, son of Tiberius, son of Julia, Morning Knight, and my honor remains.

Cassius has a lean and hungry look;      He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

Well, she pissed on Sevro and lived,” Cassius manages between fits of laughter. “Name one other person who’s done that.

What is deemed as “his-story” is often determined by those who survived to write it. In other words, history is written by the victors...Now, with the help of the Roman historian Tacitus, I shall tell you Queen Boudicca’s story, her-story……

when meeting someone, our brains are in overdrive. Remember Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar? He said of Cassius, he "has a lean and hungry look . . . he thinks too much . . . such men are dangerous.

My sweet Cassius,” Merrick replied before cupping Cassius’s cheek and kissing him again. “We shall make this the best night of our lives.” Cassius grinned, kissed Merrick’s hand, and said, “It already is

With his death imminent, the worlds feel emptier. Almost as cavernous as they did when Cassius fell. One by one, the titans of my youth disappear, and freed from their shadow, I do not feel liberated. I feel bereft.

Cas, my darling Cas,” Merrick murmured into his throat. “I am yours. I will always be yours. You own my heart.” Cassius swayed and moaned, his hand reaching up to clasp their fingers together. “And you own mine, my prince

You flatter me, my prince." Cassius murmured, and Merrick nearly melted at the tender tenor of his voice. "I... I want... Please show me..." "Show you what?" Merrick asked, feathering his lips along his chin. "Show me everything.

I’d very much like to meet your family.” Cassius pulled suddenly to the side of the road and turned to seek Merrick’s gaze. “Why would you request such a thing?” “Because they are part of your life, and I long to know more of you.

I am sorry,” Merrick said with his back to Cassius. “I am too, Your Highness.” Merrick did not turn around when Cassius finished and walked toward the door. He had just set his hand upon the knob when Merrick added, “Thank you, Cas…for everything

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, "The fault, dear Brutus, is in our stars / But in ourselves." Easy enough to say when you're a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves.” Easy enough to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

Have we arrived?” “Just.” “Verdict?” “My goodman, do I look like your valet?” “No. She was much fairer. With better bedside manner.” “Adorable, pretending you just had one.” I raise an eyebrow. “You should talk, prince of Mars.” Cassius au Bellona grunts.

Once, the worlds called Cassius the Morning Knight, protector of the Society, slayer of Ares. Then he murdered his Sovereign, my grandmother, and let the Rising tear down the very Society he swore to protect. He let Darrow destroy my world and bring chaos to the Society. I can never forgive him for that, but neither can I repay the debt I owe him. He kept Sevro au Barca from killing me.

The kiss they shared would have been a dangerous moment of pleasure and nothing more. But it hadn’t been. Over a day had passed and his lips still felt the press of Prince Merrick’s. Cassius recalled his taste—brandy and passion so fierce, Cassius’s soul caught on fire.

I love him,” Cassius found himself saying. She brushed his hair from his forehead. “He loves you as well, dear brother. He wore it like armor for me to see. Armor he was proud to wear because it kept him safe. You wear it too. I saw it in both of you when you brought him home. It makes you strong.

Sir, I have no opinion,” Cassius had said at first. “Everyone has one,” Merrick had replied. “Please, humor me. I am dying for a conversation with somebody who is a contemporary. As well as somebody I can trust.” Cassius’s gaze had sprung to the mirror at that declaration, something like surprise registering in his eyes

But who are they that for no other reason but that they were weary of life have hastened their own fate? Were they not the next neighbors to wisdom? among whom, to say nothing of Diogenes, Xenocrates, Cato, Cassius, Brutus, that wise man Chiron, being offered immortality, chose rather to die than be troubled with the same thing always.

It’s her sense of justice that is killing her. Somehow she thinks we should pay, that the Proctors should come down and interfere. Most of the kids think that about this game; hell, Cassius said it a hundred times as we scouted together. But the game isn’t like that, because life isn’t like that. Gods don’t come down in life to mete out justice. The powerful do it. That’s what they are teaching us, not only the pain in gaining power, but the desperation that comes from not having it, the desperation that comes when you are not a Gold.

This day I breathèd first: time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I end; My life is run his compass.

Heaven is probably not as nice as people think it is." - Cassius Black

The drawing after that showed Lord Cassius covered in some sort of thick, sticky slime.

When did you grow a back bone?" Cassius stopped pacing and actually smiled a little. Kendall wasn't appeased "I borrowed Jory's

He was like the most beautiful words Cassius could ever write brought to life.

His hands cupped Cassius’s buttocks as they fed each other, quenched each other’s thirst with the pleasure of the moment.

He’s treating the girls like animals!” Cassius seethes. Veins in his neck stand out. “They are Golds and he is treating them like dogs, like Pinks.

You can smell their lust — it is awakening your own need to mate.” “So you’re saying…” I clenched my fist. “That in a messed up way, Alex is turning me on?” Cassius

Brutus and Cassius howl in Hell together,

Merrick," he said again before kissing Cassius so deeply, their souls touched. And then, without another word, Cassius turned and slipped out the door before it became impossible to do so.

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves." Easy enough to say when you're a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars.

Sevro snorts. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time, you silky turd? Wanking off in the bushes?” Cassius and I look at each other. “Kind of,” I say. “Yeah, actually,” Cassius agrees.

It would forever be one of the most consuming regrets of his life because he longed for the prince in ways he had never longed for anyone or anything else. He was like the most beautiful words Cassius could ever write brought to life. He was the greatest story ever told, and Cassius had denied himself the chance to read him, to study him, to engrain Merrick into his brain and skin and soul

Mustang’s face is a quick one. Quick to mocking smiles. Quick to pleasant frowns. She gives me the smile and asks what is on my mind. “I am wondering when you will betray me,” I say. Her eyebrows knit together. “You’re expecting that?” “Cheat or be cheated,” I say. “Echoed by your own lips.” “Are you going to cheat me?” she said. “No. Because what advantage would you gain? You and I have beaten this game. They would have us believe one must win at the cost to all the rest. That isn’t true, and we’re proving it.” I say nothing. “You have my trust, because when you saw me hiding in the mud after taking my castle, you let me escape,” she explains thoughtfully. “And I have your trust, because I pulled you from the mud when Cassius left you for dead.” I do not respond. “So there is the answer. You are going to do great things, Darrow.” She never calls me Darrow. “Maybe you don’t have to do them alone?” Her words make me smile. Then I bolt upright, startling her. “Get our men,” I order.

I make up a lie, and it is a good one. Vague and boring. He only wants to talk about himself now anyway. After all, this is what Cassius was bred for. There are roughly fifteen kids who have that same quiet gleam in their eye. Not evil. Just excited. And those are the ones to watch, because they’re the born killers. Looking around, it’s easy to see that Roque was right. There weren’t many tough fights. This was forced natural selection. Bottom of the heap getting slaughtered by the top. Hardly anyone is severely injured except a couple of small lowDrafts. Natural selection sometimes has its surprises.

Sevro does not want to go without me. He does not understand why Cassius needs his help to mop up the remainders of Diana. I tell him the truth. “Cassius has a pouch in his boot, the one Lilath gave him. I need you to steal it.” His eyes do not judge. Not even now. There are times when I wonder what I did to earn such loyalty, then others when I try not to press my luck by looking the gift horse in the mouth. That

Cassius shook his head and sighed "I want to have just one conversation with you that doesn't required GPS to navigate. I'm not asking for the world-just one normal conversation. We used to talk. Remember that?

Nothing has ever felt like it does when I’m with you.” He raised Cassius’s hand to his lips and kissed his wrist. Cassius closed his eyes and sighed. “For me as well.” Merrick leaned forward and rested their foreheads together. “I wish this could be real.” “It is real,” Cassius replied, placing his hand against Merrick’s chest and then his own. “Inside both of us. So let us pretend it’s real everywhere else for tonight

I dread finding Cassius. I hope he is dead, because I’m afraid of him. He reminds me of Dancer—handsome, laughing, yet a dragon just beneath the surface. But that’s not why I’m afraid. I’m afraid because he has a reason to hate me, to want to kill me. No one in my life has had just cause before. No one has ever hated me. He will if he finds out. Then I realize it. How could the House ever be knit tightly with such secrets? It can’t. Cassius will know someone here killed his brother. Others will have lost friends, and so the House will devour itself. The Society did this on purpose; they want chaos. It will be our second test. Tribal strife.

If he is treating them like Pinks, then it is because they merited no better in this little world than Pinks do in our big world.” “You’re joking.” Cassius can’t understand. “They are Golds, not Pinks. He’s a monster.

You have lain with men before, Cassius?” The valet’s cheeks darkened further. “I…yes.” Merrick swallowed roughly, his chest tightening like a screw. “I am jealous of those men.” “Your High—” Cassius paused, his eyes wide. “Please, no titles, not when it is just us…” Merrick brushed his wrist over his eyes. “I am just a man who longs to touch your skin and breathe in your scent.” “Merrick,” Cassius whispered. “I long for that as well

I cannot imagine never being inside you again.” Cassius glanced over his shoulder, his gaze softening. “We have all night, my prince.” And that was exactly what they had. It was hours before dawn. They napped, fucked again, and nestled tightly together until light filtered through the window. They were covered in each other’s seed, the room smelled of musk and sex, and Merrick wanted nothing more than to live forever with Cassius in his arms

Will you tell me a story?” Merrick asked. So Cassius did. He told a story of two men who were in love. How one courted the other, and their families shared dinners, and magic allowed them to fly. They laughed together, drew together, wrote together, and spent their days having snowball fights with children. They hung the moon together each night and helped the sun rise each morning. And they lived happily ever after, in ways Merrick and Cassius could not

Man, all the time somebody is telling me, ‘Cassius, you know I’m the one who made you.’ I know some guys in Louisville who used to give me a lift to the gym in their car when my motor scooter was broke down. Now they’re trying to tell me they made me, and how not to forget them when I get rich. And my daddy, he tickles me. He says, ‘Don’t listen to the others, boy; I made you.’ He says he made me because he fed me vegetable soup and steak when I was a baby, going without shoes to pay the food bill. Well, he’s my father and I guess more teenagers ought to realize what they owe their folks. But listen here. When you want to talk about who made me, you talk to me. Who made me is me.”3

Cassius cannot lead this House. Not after what happened. Titus’s boys and girls might obey him, but they won’t respect him. They won’t think him stronger than them, even if he is. Darrow, they pissed on him. We are Golds. We do not forget.

were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so truly crossed, but it is in the nature of stars to cross. Never was Shakespeare more wrong then when he had Cassius note "The fault dear brutus is not in our stars but in ourselves

What do you think they’ll say about us?” Cassius whispered in Merrick’s ear as they danced heart to heart and cheek to cheek. “That we are two handsome princes madly in love.” “We are certainly handsome this evening,” Cassius replied with a twinkle in his eye. They had chosen to wear matching black tailcoats with golden cuff links. “And I shall definitely love you until I take my final breath.” “And I you,” Merrick replied with a thick throat as he pressed a discreet kiss to his temple.

Let him go, Lord Cassius told her. He’s better off where he is. And he can handle himself. How can you be so sure? He sighed, and his mind rumbled again—shaking and shaking and shaking, until several dim memories rose up from the shadows. Sophie’s chest tightened as she watched the scenes from Keefe’s childhood. So many tears. So many lectures. So little warmth or support or love. I’ll only say this once, he told her, and I’ll deny it if you ever bring it up again. But… if there’s one thing I know about my son, it’s that he’s a survivor. And if he could endure more than a decade at Candleshade with his mother and me, he can handle anything the humans throw at him. Let him take care of himself. He’s been doing it his whole life.

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves

CAESAR: Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. ANTONY:Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous. He is a noble Roman, and well given. CAESAR: Would he were fatter! But I fear him not. Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men.

Say my name again.” “Merrick,” Cassius replied. “Merrick, Merrick, Merrick,” he said against the prince’s lips. “I shall never forget this moment.” He kissed Cassius’s cheek, the corner of his mouth. “It will be with me always, and I will always long for more.” “I will forever long for more as well, my prince.” His chest squeezed tight in a way it shouldn’t have. He knew what this was and had to remember that. Merrick cupped Cassius’s face in his hands. “Thank you.” “Please do not thank me for this.

Have no fear whatever of the Romans; for they are superior to us neither in numbers nor in bravery… Let us, therefore, go against them trusting boldly to good fortune. Let us show them that they are hares and foxes trying to rule over dogs and wolves. - Boudica

Cassius could not control his rapidly shaking hands. He wrung them together as though that would prevent it, but of course, it did no such thing. Merrick had chosen him. He had approached Cassius with all of Evergreen’s aristocrats in attendance, and had asked Cas to dance. And Cas had run. That had been the right thing to do. He knew that to the depths of his soul. Merrick had too much at stake, too much to risk for Cassius. The kingdom was more important than Cassius, and Merrick was as well. Merrick had chosen him…

never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves.” Easy enough to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars. While

Please, my prince…my Merrick.” Merrick trailed his nails over the dimples of his buttocks before his lips found the shell of his ear. “Anything, Cas. I would give you anything.” Cassius’s breath ghosted out of him as he arched his back, his head sinking to the crook of Merrick’s neck. Cas twisted his mouth, and the way their lips brushed together made Merrick shiver. “I would like to feel your cock inside me.” Merrick gasped as he gripped Cassius’s hair in his fingers, bent his head back, and crushed their lips together. “Take me,” Cassius groaned. “Make me yours.

It was very dark. Cassius boldly crossed to a window and threw back a shutter; it dropped off in his hand. He cursed as the heavy wood crashed to the floor, leaving splinters in his fingers and grazing his leg on the way. “Frankly,” Helena decided at once, “this seems a bit too elegant for us!

Julius Caesar is an ambivalent study of civil conflict. As in Richard II, the play is structured around two protagonists rather than one. Cesar and Brutus are more alike one another than either would care to admit. This antithetical balance reflects a dual tradition: the medieval view of Dante and Chaucer condemning Brutus and Cassius as conspirators, and the Renaissance view of Sir Philip Sidney and Ben Johnson condemning Caesar as tyrant. Those opposing views still live on in various 20th-century productions which seek to enlist them play on the side of conservatism or liberalism.

But she would not give Cassius any more opportunities to see her vulnerable. Nor was she giving up. If there were no other way, she would marry Cassius. But she had six days. Wars had been won, empires toppled, and cities leveled in less time. If there were a way out of this, Rora would find it.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii: Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquishi'd him: then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.

I…thank you, my prince,” Cassius replied. He didn’t have the words to express what that meant to him, what Merrick did. “Cas…” Merrick whispered. Their hands were still clasped together. Merrick used his free one to cup Cassius’s cheek. “You cause me to desire things I should not desire, things I cannot have, but…” He brushed his thumb over Cassius’s bottom lip, making Cas gasp. “Your lips are soft. I want to taste them again.” “We shouldn’t,” Cas replied, but his head leaned in slowly as he spoke. “No, we should not,” Merrick replied as he leaned in as well. They did not stop until their foreheads pressed together

Remember how we agreed we would pull out?” Cassius asks. “I’m done with that.” My eyes snap open. Wait, what? “I never liked it. A Ferragamo does not pull out.” His big hand squeezes my ass. “Bambina, you’re ours, I want you pregnant and we’re starting now. I don’t even remember why we decided on that bullshit.

Even stranger, I desperately want him to like me. Why? I think it is because I feel as though he is the only one, including Roque and Cassius, who understands life. He is ugly in a world where he should be beautiful, and because of his deficiencies, he was chosen to die. He, in many ways, is no better than a Red.

If you are wrong, then I am wrong too.” Cassius’s eyes widened. He found he could not breathe. Did he mean…? “Your Highness?” he whispered as he was drawn into his searing gaze filled with so much longing, Cassius’s chest ached. “I am a simple man with simple desires. Same as you.” Before Cassius could decipher what was transpiring, Prince Merrick’s mouth came down on his. It began as such a gentle press of lips that Cassius wasn’t sure it was really happening. Then Prince Merrick’s tongue lashed against Cassius’s in what felt like a plea. Cassius could not deny Merrick or himself, so he opened up, and the prince’s tongue slipped inside

Uncle Henry said he believed he had once seen the Judge at a levee and asked Cassius if he too was at the Bar. ‘No,’ said Cassius. ‘No, I do nothing at all.’ ‘Nothing?’ Uncle Henry, who had done nothing during the whole of his life, sounded shocked. ‘Nothing,’ Cassius repeated. He implied that it was enough that he should exist.

Cassius?” Prince Merrick whispered, looking at him as though he could feel Cassius’s tension. “Are you well? You’re shaking.” “I’m…I’m sorry, Your Highness. I am well.” He managed to get the words past his dry lips. Though it was too dark to see the prince’s eyes, he could feel them upon him, his stare intense. He felt it like a caress, like soft yet urgent fingers against his skin. Why could he not have this one thing for himself? A moment that went beyond satisfying his prick with a man he did not know, but with one he did. Someone he enjoyed, someone he desired beyond simple fucking. Because he is a prince and you are his servant… This was not a story, a fairy tale selling the lie of a happily-ever-after that couldn’t be a reality for someone like Cassius. That was not a reality for Merrick either. He turned away, did not let himself gaze at the prince for the rest of the performance. He ignored Lady Penelope’s whispers to Prince Merrick, the jealousy that burned through his gut. This was his reality, and he had better get used to it

Lord Cassius cleared his throat. “Well. My son may like to pretend he’s above everything. But I hope you won’t hold his laziness against him, Miss Foster. Or his sloppiness. I know how much he values your friendship.” “Keep it up, Dad, and Foster’s going to get jealous of all the sweet things you say about me. Not everyone gets to be so lucky, after all!

The Highlanders are Great Thieves

Never give a sucker an even break

Merrick moved away from the guests and toward the terrace doors, where Cassius had made his escape, hoping it was only a dream and he would see his love waiting for him. But as the cool air hit his skin, he only saw the vast forest before him and heard the whistling wind through the trees. He felt hollow once again. A rectangular object on the stairs caught his attention, and he bent to pick it up. It was Cassius’s notebook, flipped open to the very last page. His gaze greedily drank in the sentences written by his lover’s hand. Once upon a time there was an exquisite prince Who filled my wintry soul with all the colors of spring He became my day, my night, my sun, my moon My heart, my soul, my very bones My Ever After

Tell me of your family,” Prince Merrick continued. “Um…yes, sir. It is just my mother and my sisters Emily and Elizabeth. As you know, we lost my father.” “I am sorry for your loss,” the prince said, not for the first time. “And you take care of them?” he prompted before pulling the carrot from a stunned Cassius and feeding it to the horse. “Yes, I am all they have, but I want to care for them. They’re my family. I love them. My sisters…especially Emily, she is my heart.” Their eyes caught again, and Cassius could have sworn he saw a grin in the prince’s stare. “We have that in common too, then. My family is everything to me, and I love my sister more than anything.” “I can see that, Your Highness, in the way you spoke with her today

I was going to say they’re comforting. There is something about horses that soothes whatever ails you…makes you feel free when you’re anything but. Like you can ride anywhere and there are no walls to stop you, no places you cannot go. They do not ask for much, but they give much in return.” His fingers stilled on Ursula’s neck as his words replayed in his head. Christ, had he truly verbally assaulted the prince of Evergreen with such foolishness, such frivolous thoughts? “I apologize. I didn’t… That was…” “That was beautiful. You have a way with words, Cassius. It was as if…as if you experienced what you said.” Cas’s eyes snapped to the prince’s, which were firmly pointed to his face with an unfamiliar intensity Cassius didn’t understand.

It is like a dream come true,” he admitted. They had both dreamed of one another, but now it was real. Now it was flesh and reality, and he wished this night could last an eternity. “Maybe you will write it one day…a story or a poem of a prince who desired his valet like his lungs yearned for air.” His heart thundered, grew, swelled within his chest. Yes, Cassius thought he would. He could immortalize them in words. Cassius gasped when Merrick lowered to his knees to remove Cas’s trousers and undergarments. His prick ached as it sprung free, and the prince leaned in, nudging his nose in the coarse hair at Cassius’s groin. “Merrick.” Cassius twined his fingers in the prince’s soft hair. “You smell of my soap.” “I need you,” Cassius replied. “I am here.

You may refer to me as Prince Merrick or simply Merrick for this trip. We are just two companions enjoying a simple horse ride together.” “I don’t bite.” “I thought…maybe your family would like to have it. To know you are…well cared for and…safe.” What the prince had done for him…drawing his likeness with such skill and for Cassius’s family…why would he do something like that? He couldn’t make sense of it, not from their time in the barn, nor from their ride today. The truth lingered there, teased the edges of his brain, but Cassius couldn’t let himself believe it. There was no way Prince Merrick could be interested in him. Unless it was as Valor said and what Cassius knew to be true: men sometimes lay with other men, even if just to satisfy their carnal urges

I write about you too. What it is like inside you.” He took in a shaky breath and then asked, “Can I see them?” Merrick nodded. He reached for his notebook before leaning back against Cas again. He thumbed through the pages, and Cassius saw his face, his smile, his eyes, his prick, and his buttocks. “They are…they’re beautiful. I can hardly believe they’re me.” “Why?” Merrick asked. “You are beautiful.” He couldn’t believe it because they were drawn by Prince Merrick’s hand with such care…such affection, that it stole his breath. When Cas didn’t reply, Merrick continued, “What if we could do it together? I could draw illustrations and you could write the stories. We could spend eternity that way.” “It is a nice dream,” he replied, because that was all it could be

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of stars to cross, and never was Shakespeare more wrong than when he had Cassius note, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves.” Easy enough to say when you’re a Roman nobleman (or Shakespeare!), but there is no shortage of fault to be found amid our stars. While

Heat stirred in Cassius’s gut. His pulse beat hard and heavy like a fist punching against his skin. He knew he should look away but could not. He struggled to make sense of this moment, each moment from the very first when the prince asked Cas to meet him. It was as if he’d stepped inside a fairy tale, a story he would make up for Emily and Elizabeth, a make-believe land where he would have something in common with someone like Prince Merrick. Where someone like the prince would look upon him as an equal. That’s what this was, he realized. In this piece of time, they were not prince and servant. They were two men who felt tied to their lives. At any moment, he expected to be roused by Valor and for all this to have been a dream, but Valor did not come, and Cassius didn’t awaken

To the followers of the murdered Caesar: Do you march against Decimus Brutus Albinus in Gaul, or against the son of Caesar in Rome? Ask Marcus Antonius. Are you mobilized to destroy the enemies of your dead leader, or to protect his assassins? Ask Marcus Antonius. Where is the will of the dead Caesar which bequeathed to every citizen of Rome three hundred pieces of silver coin? Ask Marcus Antonius. The murderers and conspirators against Caesar are free by an act of the Senate sanctioned by Marcus Antonius. The murderer Gaius Cassius Longinus has been given the governorship of Syria by Marcus Antonius. The murderer Marcus Junius Brutus has been given the governorship of Crete by Marcus Antonius. Where are the friends of the murdered Caesar among his enemies? The son of Caesar calls to you.

He recalled their first conversation in the stables about flying and freedom, and this moment was just that. They were traveling together, journeying to a land that was theirs and theirs alone. A secret world where responsibilities and rules regarding what was proper or not didn’t exist. A place that was made in Cassius’s imagination where he and Merrick could touch, kiss, talk, and laugh with no consequences. A place he wished truly existed but did not. It was a lie. They were not lovers, not in the true sense. He would not be allowed to have Prince Merrick again or to give himself to the prince. But in this moment that truth was not their reality, and Cassius allowed himself to pretend Merrick was courting him. That they were simply two men who desired one another and could have what they wanted

I slip into the seat behind hers and take a mouthful of the coffee, wincing at the heat. “Apologies. I neglected to eat supper.” “I neglected to eat supper,” Pytha repeats, mocking my accent. Born on the Palantine Hill of Luna, I have lamentably inherited the most egregiously stereotypical highLingo accents. Apparently others find it hilarious. “Haven’t we servants to spoon-feed His Majesty supper?” “Oh, shut your gory gob,” I say, modulating my voice to mimic the Thessalonican bravado. “Better?” “Eerily so.” “Skipping supper. No wonder you’re a little twig,” Cassius says, pinching my arm. “I daresay you don’t even weigh a hundred ten kilos, my goodman.” “It’s usable weight,” I protest. “In any matter, I was reading.” He looks at me blankly. “You have your priorities. I have mine, muscly creature. So piss off.

You returned,” the prince whispered. “Does the offer still stand, Pr—Merrick? Do you still want me?” His voice quivered as he waited, hoped. “So much, I do not feel comfortable in my own skin. It is as if you lit a fire within me that I cannot control…and I don’t want to, Cassius.” Cassius yearned to fall to his knees in gratitude. He stepped farther inside as Merrick stood. Cassius closed the door, clicking the lock into place behind him. When the prince reached him, his arm rose and he fingered Cas’s hair, which was loose around his face. He never allowed himself to wear his hair down outside his chamber, and he couldn’t believe he had forgotten. “Forgive me… I…” “There is nothing to forgive. You are…breathtaking, Cassius.” “Cas. If I am to call you Merrick when we are alone, you can call me Cas if you’d like

We will have one night in each other’s arms.” One night was all they would have when they longed for their ever after… “Yes, my prince.” Cassius closed his eyes, felt the prince’s soft mouth upon his. His tongue lashed Cas’s lips before he parted them. It was difficult to be as close to Merrick as he wanted because of their layers of clothing. Still, Merrick’s touch somehow seared through him; he felt the warmth of Merrick’s hand against his back. Cassius raised his hands and cupped Merrick’s handsome face as they shared what he hoped was their first kiss of a night full of their mouths intimately attached. He longed to hear the soft noises that came from Merrick’s throat when they kissed. As though he heard Cas’s thoughts, he made a soft sound into Cas’s mouth, and Cas swallowed it down as though it nourished him.

Cassius Marcellus Clay of Lexington, Kentucky, founder of the antislavery newspaper The True American, commanded a crowd of about fifteen hundred in a grove in Springfield. Lincoln, accompanied by his friend Orville Browning, was there. “Whittling sticks, as he lay on the turf, Lincoln gave me a most patient hearing,” Clay recalled. “I shall never forget his long, ungainly form, and his ever sad and homely face.

After this success Caesar wanted to pursue the remaining forces of the Helvetii. He therefore built a bridge over the Saône and led his army across. Alarmed by his unexpected arrival and seeing that he had effected in one day the crossing which they had the greatest difficulty in accomplishing in twenty days, they sent an embassy to him headed by Divico, who had been their commander in the campaign against Cassius.

Elijah Muhammad announced that Cassius Clay had renounced his name and taken another. From now on he would be known as Muhammad Ali. Mohammad means ‘worthy of all praise’. Ali means ‘the greatest.’ To journalists who refused to use his new name he declared ‘I am America. I am the part you won't recognize. But get used to me. Black, confident, cocky; my name, not yours; my religion, not yours; my goals, my own; get used to me.

We shall ride soon,” Prince Merrick told him. “If you would like. I don’t make nearly enough time to ride, and I think I would like it…the freedom you spoke of.” Then he smiled, and again, it made Cas’s stomach flip. The familiar ache of desire sat heavy within him. Cassius’s throat felt dry. “Yes, Your Highness. Whatever you wish.” The prince’s eyes darted away as if that had been the wrong answer. Cas didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he yearned to remedy it. “This…tonight, I do not have the words to thank you. You didn’t have to do this, not for me, but you did, and I will forever be grateful" “And I did it because I wanted to…for you.” The words hung heavy in the air. It was as if the prince desired Cas’s friendship, his company, and fucking hell, Cas thought he might want the same from the prince. He enjoyed him—not as a prince, but as a man

Come. You can borrow a horse and go to him. I will send word to Winterfrost that if Merrick returns, you have gone to find him.” “Why?” Cassius stopped and looked at her. “Why would you do all this? I have ruined his reputation. I…” “Love my brother, that is what you do and that is all that matters to me. You still love him, do you not?” she asked. “With every ounce of my heart and soul,” Cassius replied. “Nothing matters more than that.” No…no it didn’t. They hurried the rest of the way to the stables. Princess Marjorie watched while Cassius prepared Tabby to ride. When he finished, he hiked his bag more securely on his shoulder before using the stirrup to climb into the saddle. “Thank you, Your High—Marjorie,” he told her, and then he was gone, flying through the woods and to their magical place beneath the canopy of dreams where all their stories could come true.

Cassius leaned against Merrick and sighed. It felt too perfect, too right, and Merrick feared the tormenting aftermath of this spellbinding evening shared with a man he’d fantasized about almost nightly. “You feel like heaven, and I wish we could stay like this for days.” When Cassius glanced back at him, Merrick took his mouth again in a bruising kiss. His fingers glided over Cassius’s chest to toy with his nipples as Cassius shuddered against him. Merrick’s hand brushed over Cassius’s abdomen, and the valet moaned, burying his head against his shoulder. Merrick forked his fingers through the downy hair at his groin, his palm closing around the velvety skin of his cock, stroking the hardened shaft upward. Cassius whimpered as his back bowed in what Merrick hoped was utter bliss. “I…have dreamed of this moment.” Merrick groaned in his ear. “Tell me more of this dream

Would you like me to draw you a bath, Your Highness?” Cassius asked, his throat unfamiliarly rough. “No, Cassius. I…” Instinctively, Cassius lowered his head. The prince was not going to let this go, was he? Cassius knew he would not, so he would have to approach it head on. “I apologize, Your Highness…for the ride. I do not know why it happened, and it won’t happen again. I can’t…” Cassius shook his head. “I know it was inappropriate. It is wrong. That I am wrong. But please…I need to care for my family.” He closed his eyes, wishing he could have swallowed the words he’d just spoken before they’d gotten the chance to escape his mouth. He hadn’t meant to admit he fancied men. Not to the prince. But maybe he would be rewarded for his honesty. The prince was kind. Maybe he would take pity on Cassius—even though Cassius despised pity—since he knew Cassius had family to care for.

Get leverage to get them out after they do their job of taking Titus down, obviously.” “Yes. Y-yes. I get it.” I shake off the last of my shivers. “But how?” Sevro shrugs. “We’ll take Minerva’s standard.” “W-wait,” Cassius says. “You know how to do that?” Sevro snorts. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time, you silky turd? Wanking off in the bushes?” Cassius and I look at each other. “Kind of,” I say. “Yeah, actually,” Cassius agrees. We

But Decebalus was not one to be cowed easily, and still showed his spirit by taunting the Romans. As Trajan reached the Iron Gates, Decebalus sent him a warning inscribed rather surprisingly, according to Dio Cassius, on 'a large mushroom'. This was probably a mushroom-shaped dish used for ritual purposes, and sadly not the only instance in history of diplomatic correspondence by fungi. The inscription advised Trajan to turn back and 'keep the peace'.22

He did not see how he could be considered the breathtaking one with the prince in the room. He was everything Cassius was not. He set Cassius’s soul afire. And yet those words filled him in ways he did not know he needed filling. “You are…breathtaking, Cassius.” “Cas,” the prince whispered again. “Merrick,” Cassius tested the name on his tongue once more. “I would like to taste the brandy upon your lips. We can have tonight, can we not? Just tonight?” It was all they would ever be allowed to share. The prince would be forced to continue to court Lady Penelope or another woman, and Cassius would watch from afar and dream. “If I cannot have more, then I will gladly take one night with you.” Merrick clutched Cas’s hand, twined their fingers together, and led him to the side of his bed. “May I undress you tonight?” Shivers wracked Cassius’s body. To hear the prince make a request such as that to him… “Yes, my prince.

I only… I want to know what it is like to be normal. To spend a day and a night with my lover where we do not have to hide, where we can just be like everyone else. Where I could hold your hand and dance with you and…” He shook his head. “I sound foolish. Forgive me.” “No.” Cassius fingered Merrick’s hair. “You do not sound foolish. It is my dream as well.” “We shall dream together, then.” Cassius nodded before he leaned down, pressing his lips upon the prince’s. Merrick’s tongue sneaked into his mouth, and Cassius welcomed it, sucked it, offered his own to Merrick. He pulled Cassius on top of him as their tongues continued to tangle and Cassius fingered Merrick’s hair. His hands cupped Cassius’s buttocks as they fed each other, quenched each other’s thirst with the pleasure of the moment. They kissed until Cassius’s jaw hurt and he leaned far enough away that he could look down at the prince again. He touched a lock of his hair. “Please do not cut it,” Cassius asked

We can stop…” Cassius said. “We can…” He felt Merrick’s breath upon his mouth. “I do not want to,” Cassius replied. “I do not want to either.” Then their mouths were lightly teasing one another. They pressed gentle kisses upon each other’s lips as though they were testing the waters again. “I felt you all day…the evidence of you being inside me. Each time I sat or moved, my body recalled taking you deep.” Cas shuddered. “I wish I could feel you inside me as well, so I would always know you there.” They were kissing again then, more hungrily. Cassius had never tasted anything as sweet as the prince on his tongue. His prick hardened, ached. He wished to embed the mixture of brandy and Merrick into his taste buds. To feel the strength of Merrick deep within his ass. To burn Merrick into the memory of his fingertips so he could recall it over and over and over again. “You wreck me, Cas,” Merrick said against his mouth. Their tongues moved together. Merrick’s hand cupped the back of his head, slid under his hat, and threaded his fingers there

And now you feel the pressure to court someone like Lady Penelope because…” “Because I cannot publicly court someone better suited for me. Perhaps someone like you,” Merrick replied, and he heard Cassius inhale sharply. “Me? Even if it were possible… I am nothing more than a simple—” “No, Cassius. You are not simple.” Merrick shut his eyes, his lips trembling, his chest loosening in blissful relief as he let the words flow out of him. “You are pure and real and complicated. To someone like me, you might simply be everything.” He felt Cassius move closer, but he kept his lids closed, held his breath. “I do not…” Cassius began but trailed off. “I long for this…for one moment that is only for me.” Cassius’s breath ghosted against his lips; his fingertip traced his jaw, his cheek, his eyebrow as his heart thundered in his ears. When Cassius’s lips brushed against his own, he opened his eyes and noticed how Cassius watched him, his gaze filled with wonder. Their lips met a second time, gentle, tentative at first before Cassius increased the pressure

I did not think you would come back.” Cas’s heart bled for the pain he’d caused his prince. “I did not think I would either,” he answered honestly. Merrick whipped his head up at that. “Not because I didn’t want to. You have much to lose, my prince. More than I could ever give you in return.” “Should I not be the one who decides how much what I lose or gain means to me?” He shook his head. “You do not get to make that decision for me, Cas, just as I cannot make it for you…and that is what I did by approaching you at the ball. I apologize for that. I should not have done it so publicly, but that doesn’t change what I want. You think you don’t give me much, but your love gives more than any title ever could. It is with you that I am the truest form of myself.” Cassius’s knees went weak. His heart thudded in his ears, and his vision blurred. “It is with you that I am the truest form of myself as well. I could not separate my love for you from my fear of what you would sacrifice for me. I could not see how the trade was fair to you…to the people of Evergreen.

My dearest brother,” Marjorie replied with a sorrowful smile. “I am only sorry your heart has been broken.” “Cassius was right to refuse me,” Merrick replied even as the words ripped the fresh wound along the seams again. “He was only protecting himself. His reputation.” The words stuck in his throat. Had Merrick thought about the repercussions, he would’ve chosen a different route last night. He would not have done it so publicly perhaps, for Cassius’s sake, no matter what they’d whispered to each other their last night together. “I do not care who knows. It is only the harm it could do that holds me back. If I could, I would walk proudly by your side.” But what then? It was a jumbled mess no matter the outcome. Marjorie shook her head. “Cassius was protecting you. That much was evident.” The words only warmed Merrick for a brief instant. He knew Cassius cared for him. But now he understood that the idea of them being together was only a fool’s wish, no matter how many times he recited the words of Cas’s poem from memory and wished them true with all his might

Rora shifted her gaze away from him. "Actually. I'm not here for your help." She had made her decision. It wasn't just about her distrust of Cassius or her yearning for freedom anymore. All her life she had been raised to believe that the kingdom came first. And what was a kingdom if not its people? She wanted to rule, wanted to help and change things, not just for herself but for them all. Locke's eyebrows flattened to a straight line. "Oh? Then why are you here?" She turned to Duke. One side of the old man's mouth tipped up, and she said, "I want to join your crew.

KNOWN ABILITIES: Empath [DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING ELSE MY MOM TELLS YOU] RESIDENCE: The Shores of Solace and Candleshade [ANYONE WANNA TRADE LIVES WITH ME?] IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Lord Cassius Sencen (father); Lady Gisela Sencen (mother) [AKA: WORST. PARENTS. EVER!] MATCH STATUS: Unregistered [TRY NOT TO BE TOO HEARTBROKEN, PEOPLE] [THOUGH I GOTTA SAY: I DON’T REALLY GET WHY EVERYONE PAYS SO MUCH ATTENTION TO THIS.] EDUCATION: Current Foxfire prodigy [AND PROUD DETENTION RECORD–HOLDER] NEXUS: No longer required [BECAUSE I’M COOL LIKE THAT] PATHFINDER: Not assigned. Restricted to Leapmasters and home crystals. [HA, THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK!] SPYBALL APPROVAL: None [BUT I HAVE FRIENDS WITH CONNECTIONS, THAT’S ALL I’M SAYING.…] MEMBER OF THE NOBILITY: No [THANK GOODNESS] TITLE: None [UM, HELLO, WHAT ABOUT LORD HUNKYHAIR? THAT’S A THING!] NOBLE ASSIGNMENT: None [MASTER MISCHIEF-MAKER] SIGNIFICANT CONNECTIONS: Fealty-sworn member of the Black Swan; former Wayward at Exillium; son to one of the leaders of the Neverseen [SWORN PROTECTOR OF THE MYSTERIOUS MISS F] ASSIGNED BODYGUARD(S): Ro (ogre) [AND SHE KNOWS, LIKE, 500,000 WAYS TO KILL YOU! SO IT’S REALLY NOT A GOOD IDEA TO MESS WITH US!]

How long have you known that you also fancy men?” Merrick’s breath hitched as he dropped his head, panting heavily as the sponge stroked across his nape. He attempted to get his jumbled thoughts in order. Was this Cassius’s attempt to understand him? To form an amicable connection with him? “Not also,” he replied. “Only. I only fancy men.” For of that he was certain, and saying it out loud made it ring even clearer in his head. “I’ve known for as long as I can remember. When Marjorie played with her dolls, I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my chest as she pretended the male was courting the female. I would change the script in my head and…and have the gentleman court another gentleman.” The silence was nearly deafening in the room, the only sounds their harsh breaths and the water dripping off the sponge. “And you?” Merrick asked, clearing his throat. “It’s taken me a bit longer to know…to understand. I thought something was wrong with me, or that perhaps I was a late bloomer. My life has always been about my family…not about friends, nor anyone I ever fancied. When I finally took time to look inside myself, to allow myself pleasure, women had never figured into the equation

I believe I was afraid…of not being worthy of you. I have spent weeks writing, scribbling my thoughts, reliving every moment we shared, and I saw…the happiness we shared when we were together. The gleam in your dark eyes when you saw me. And I realized…that is what it’s about, is it not? Those pieces of happiness are what matters. Not title or name. I write stories and poems of love and dreams coming true, but I did not allow myself to see it as something that could be real…not for me…but it was true…what we shared, and not only am I better for it, the world could be too.” “I am a better man because of you, Cas. Imagine what we could do together?” Cassius gasped…hoped. “Do you still want me, my prince?" “I have never wanted another the way I want you. There will never be another I love the way I love you.” Merrick raised his hand, cupped Cassius’s cheek. Cas nuzzled into him, closed his eyes, trembled when he felt Merrick’s lips touch his. They kissed slowly, deeply, reexploring each other. Cassius swallowed down Merrick’s moans and then fed him his own. And it was…perfect. When they pulled apart, Cassius led Merrick back to the rock. The sun kept the chill off as they climbed on together

Democracy, indeed, has a fair-appearing name and conveys the impression of bringing equal rights to all through equal laws, but its results are seen not to agree at all with its title. Monarchy, on the contrary, has an unpleasant sound, but is a most practical form of government to live under. For it is easier to find a single excellent man than many of them, section 2and if even this seems to some a difficult feat, it is quite inevitable that the other alternative should be acknowledged to be impossible; for it does not belong to the majority of men to acquire virtue. And again, even though a base man should obtain supreme power, yet he is preferable to the masses of like character, as the history of the Greeks and barbarians and of the Romans themselves proves. section 3For successes have always been greater and more frequent in the case both of cities and of individuals under kings than under popular rule, and disasters do not happen so frequently under monarchies as under mob-rule. Indeed, if ever there has been a prosperous democracy, it has in any case been at its best for only a brief period, so long, that is, as the people had neither the numbers nor the strength sufficient to cause insolence to spring up among them as the result of good fortune or jealousy as the result of ambition.

The Shadow Spokeswoman for Unbelievable Lies steps out of the circling assassins. She is Casca, she is Cassius, and she is Marcus Brutus. She channels them all. She is carrying a long glinting dagger, as sharp as a razor fabricated from the steel callousness of a woman whose lies have destroyed the life of her former lover. She is a silent cat climbing steps of air to a platform of the purest hate. She is a Death’s Head butterfly emerging from an encircling teardrop of one of her victims. Her eyes are fixed in an impassive stare. She has come from William Blake’s House of Death. She is a stone heart. She is a machine. A rain of blood falls on her, on her alone. She is horror.

Sir, you do understand that - officially - I'm not actually a centurion. I haven't even been assigned to a legion yet.' The general continued writing as he spoke. 'What was the name?' 'Corbulo, sir.' 'Corbulo, you have an officer's tunic and an officer's helmet; and you completed full officer training did you not?' Cassius nodded. He could easily recall every accursed test and drill. Though he'd excelled in the cerebral disciplines and somehow survived the endless marches and swims, he had rated poorly with sword in hand and had been repeatedly described as "lacking natural leadership ability." The academy's senior centurion had seemed quite relieved when the letter from the Service arrived. 'I did, sir, but it was felt I would be more suited to intelligence work than the legions, I really would prefer -' 'And you did take an oath? To Rome, the Army and the Emperor?' 'I did, sir, and of course I am happy to serve but -' The General finished the orders. He rolled the sheet up roughly and handed it to Cassius. 'Dismissed.' 'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I just have one final question.' The General was on his way back to his chair. He turned around and fixed Cassius with an impatient stare. 'Sir - how should I present myself to the troops? In terms of rank I mean.' 'They will assume you are a centurion, and I can see no practical reason whatsoever to disabuse them of that view.

Aurora thought about Nova, afraid to even discuss the Eye's existence. She thought about the crammed, ramshackle homes she'd passed that people had no choice but to live in if they wanted the safety that Pavan provided. She thought about every time she'd ever heard of some traveling party that disappeared, lost to the dangers of the wildlands. Maybe she could do something. With magic of her own, she would gain the crown. Not Cassius. Not a husband. And then maybe she could change everything for the better. No more treason or banishment. No need to sell the magic in secret. She thought of her favorite book again. She had no boat to leave the sea, no skills as a sailor, but perhaps she culd have a similar voyage of her own. If they could not sail away to some better land, then the only choice was to make this land better.

Funny thing is, only one tribe has a silvershit’s idea what is going on. And it’s not ours. It’s not Antonia’s. And it sure as hell isn’t Titus’s. It’s Sevro’s, and I’m nearly certain he’s the only member in that tribe, unless he’s adopted wolves by now. It is hard to say if he has or hasn’t. Our House does not have family dinners. Though occasionally we’ll see him running along the hillsides at night in his wolfskin, looking, as Cassius put it best, “like some sort of hairy demonchild on hallucinogens.” And once Roque even heard something, not a wolf, howling in the shrouded highlands. Some days Sevro walks around all normalish—insulting everything that moves, except for Quinn. He makes an exception for her, delivering meats and edible mushrooms instead of insults. I think he’s sweet on her even though she’s sweet on Cassius. We

I face Aurae. “It’s been a journey,” I mumble. “I wanted to say thank you. For bringing us here. For giving me The Path to the Vale. I was spiraling. People have saved my life before, but I think you saved my soul.” “And you saved Cassius’s,” she says. “It wasn’t me that did it. I liked him very much. In another life, I might have loved him. But he didn’t need a woman’s love. He needed a brother’s. The way he talked about you. Well…” Her eyes swim with tears. “Lysander was an obligation. You were an aspiration. He was so afraid on our journey to the Core. So nervous to see you and be rejected. But when he saw you respected him, valued him, he shined like a star. His path led back to you, because you made him feel loved. That is all that matters, Darrow. When he died, he knew he was loved. So when you think of him, when you feel sad, remember that.” She kisses me on the cheek. “If we do not meet again, I will see you in the Vale with Cassius. You know the path.

Cher Monsieur Waters, Je reçois votre courrier électronique en date du 14 avril dernier et suis comme il se doit impressionné par la complexité shakespearienne de votre drame. Chaque personnage dans votre histoire a une harmatia en béton. La sienne : être trop malade. La vôtre : être trop bien portant. Fût-ce le contraire, vos étoiles n'auraient pas été aussi contrariées, mais c'est dans la natures des étoiles d'être contrariées. A ce propos, Shakespeare ne s'est jamais autant trompé qu'en mettant ces mots dans la bouche de Cassius : « La faute, cher Brutus, n'en est pas à nos étoiles ; elle en est à nous-mêmes. » Facile à dire lorsqu'on est un noble romain (ou Shakespeare!), mais nos étoiles ne sont jamais à court de tort. Puisque nous en sommes au chapitre des défaillances de ce cher vieux William, ce que vous me dites de la jeune Hazel me rappelle le sonnet 55, qui commence, bien entendu ainsi : « Ni le marbre, ni les mausolées dorés des princes ne dureront plus longtemps que ma rime puissante. Vous conserverez plus d'éclat dans ces mesures que sous la dalle non balayée que le temps barbouille de sa lie. (Hors sujet, mais : quel cochon, ce temps ! Il bousille tout le monde.) Un bien joli poème, mais trompeur : nul doute que la rime puissante de Shakespeare nous reste en mémoire, mais que nous rappelons-nous de l'homme qu'il célèbre ? Rien. Nous sommes certains qu'il était de sexe masculin, le reste n'est qu'une hypothèse. Shakespeare nous raconte des clopinettes sur l'homme qu'il a enseveli à l'intérieur de son sarcophage linguistique. (Remarquez que, lorsque nous parlons littérature, nous utilisons le présent. Quand nous parlons d'un mort, nous ne sommes pas aussi gentils.) On ne peut pas immortaliser ceux qui nous ont quittés en écrivant sur eux. La langue enterre, mais ne ressuscite pas. (Avertissement : je ne suis pas le premier à faire cette observation, cf le poème d'Archibald MacLeish « Ni le marbre, ni les mausolées dorés » qui renferme ce vers héroïque : « Vous mourrez et nul ne se souviendra de vous ») Je m'éloigne du sujet, mais votre le problème : les morts ne sont visibles que dans l’œil dénué de paupière de la mémoire. Dieu merci, les vivants conservent l'aptitude de surprendre et de décevoir. Votre Hazel est vivante, Waters, et vous ne pouvez imposer votre volonté contre la décision de quelqu'un d'autre, qui plus est lorsque celle-ci est mûrement réfléchie. Elle souhaite vous épargner de la peine et vous devriez l'accepter. Il se peut que la logique de la jeune Hazel ne vous convainque pas, mais j'ai parcouru cette vallée de larmes plus longtemps que vous, et de mon point de vue, Hazel n'est pas la moins saine d'esprit. Bien à vous Peter Van Houten

They’ll also have an extensive amount of makeup work to tackle during the midterm break—and no, that option is not available to you, so don’t ask and don’t test my patience. I can become very creative with my punishments if you force me to.” “See, but now you’ve got me curious,” Keefe told him. “Uh-uh,” Ro jumped in. “I have to suffer through this stuff with you.” “You do,” Magnate Leto agreed. “And I found an entire room filled with recordings of speeches from the Ancient Councillors that I think you’ll find particularly enjoyable.” Ro grabbed Keefe’s arm and hauled him toward the door. “We’re going to your session, and you’re acing that test and taking lots of notes or I will hang a banner in the middle of this campus—and we both know what I will have that banner say!” “Bo and Ro 4 Eva?” Keefe guessed, because he clearly had a death wish. “That’s it!” Ro picked him up, hefting him over her shoulder and trudging toward the door. “We’ll be back after study hall.” “You’ll be back tomorrow,” Magnate Leto corrected. “Lord Cassius is expecting you both to be home immediately after school—and I wouldn’t recommend disobeying.” “Why not?” Sophie asked. “He was in . . . a mood.” “Goody! Raise your hand if you’re jealous of my life!” Keefe said, twisting in Ro’s grasp to survey the room. “No takers?” “Don’t worry,” Ro told him, patting his back as she carried him into the hall. “I’ll sneak your dad some amoebas tonight.

The word of no informer was doubted [by Tiberius]. Every crime was treated as capital, even the utterance of a few simple words. A poet was charged with having slandered Agamemnon in a tragedy, and a writer of history of having called Brutus and Cassius the last of the Romans. The writers were at once put to death and their works destroyed, although they had been read with approval in public some years before in the presence of Augustus himself. Some of those who were consigned to prison were denied not only the consolation of reading, but even the privilege of conversing and talking together. Of those who were cited to plead their causes some opened their veins at home, feeling sure of being condemned and wishing to avoid humiliation, while others drank poison in full view of the senate; yet the wounds of the former were bandaged and they were hurried half-dead, but still quivering, to the prison. Every one of those who were executed was thrown out upon the Stairs of Mourning and dragged to the Tiber with hooks, as many as twenty being so treated in a single day, including women and children. Since ancient usage made it impious to strangle maidens, young girls were first violated by the executioner and then strangled. Those who wished to die were forced to live; for he thought death so light a punishment that when he heard that one of the accused, Carnulus by name, had anticipated his execution, he cried: "Carnulus has given me the slip"; and when he was inspecting the prisons and a man begged for a speedy death, he replied: "I have not yet become your friend.

Macrinus was a Moor by birth, from [Mauretania] Caesarea, and the son of most obscure parents, so that he was very appropriately likened to the ass that was led up to the palace by the spirit; in particular, one of his ears had been bored in accordance with the custom followed by most of the Moors. But his integrity threw even this drawback into the shade. As for his attitude toward law and precedent, his knowledge of them was not so accurate as his observance of them was faithful. It was thanks to this latter quality, as displayed in his advocacy of a friend's cause, that he had become known to Plautianus, whose steward he then became for a time. Later he came near perishing with his patron, but was unexpectedly saved by the intercession of Cilo, and was appointed by Severus as superintendent of traffic along the Flaminian Way. From Antoninus he first received some brief appointments as procurator, than was made prefect, and discharged the duties of this office in a most satisfactory and just manner, in so far as he was free to follow his own judgment. Book 79 - 11

The story of Cassius Clay’s lost bicycle would later be told as an indication of the boxer’s determination and the wonders of accidental encounters, but it carries broader meaning, too. If Cassius Clay had been a white boy, the theft of his bicycle and an introduction to Joe Martin might have led as easily to an interest in a career in law enforcement as boxing. But Cassius, who had already developed a keen understanding of America’s racial striation, knew that law enforcement wasn’t a promising option. This subject—what white America allowed and expected of black people—would intrigue him all his life. “At twelve years old I wanted to be a big celebrity,” he said years later. “I wanted to be world famous.” The interviewer pushed him: Why did he want to be famous? Upon reflection he answered from a more adult perspective: “So that I could rebel and be different from all the rest of them and show everyone behind me that you don’t have to Uncle Tom, you don’t have to kiss you-know-what to make it . . . I wanted to be free. I wanted to say what I wanna say . . . Go where I wanna go. Do what I wanna do.” For young Cassius, what mattered was that boxing was permitted, even encouraged, and that it gave him more or less equal status to the white boys who trained with him. Every day, on his way to the gym, Cassius passed a Cadillac dealership. Boxing wasn’t the only way for him to acquire one of those big, beautiful cars in the showroom window, but it might have seemed that way at the time. Boxing suggested a path to prosperity that did not require reading and writing. It came with the authorization of a white man in Joe Martin. It offered respect, visibility, power, and money. Boxing transcended race in ways that were highly unusual in the 1950s, when black Americans had limited control of their economic and political lives. Boxing more than most other sports allowed black athletes to compete on level ground with white athletes, to openly display their strength and even superiority, and to earn money on a relatively equal scale. As James Baldwin wrote in The Fire Next Time, many black people of Clay’s generation believed that getting an education and saving money would never be enough to earn respect. “One needed a handle, a lever, a means of inspiring fear,” Baldwin wrote. “It was absolutely clear the police would whip you and take you in as long as they could get away with it, and that everyone else—housewives, taxi

It happens, therefore, that readers of the book, or of any other book built about a central concept, fall into three mutually exclusive classes: (I) The class of those who miss the central concept-(I have known a learned historian to miss it) -not through any fault of their own,-they are often indeed well meaning and amiable people,-but simply because they are not qualified for conceptual thinking save that of the commonest type. (II) The class of those who seem to grasp the central concept and then straightway show by their manner of talk that they have not really grasped it but have at most got hold of some of its words. Intellectually such readers are like the familiar type of undergraduate who "flunks" his mathematical examinations but may possibly "pull through" in a second attempt and so is permitted, after further study, to try again. (III) The class of those who firmly seize the central concept and who by meditating upon it see more and more clearly the tremendous reach of its implications. If it were not for this class, there would be no science in the world nor genuine philosophy. But the other two classes are not aware of the fact for they are merely "verbalists" In respect of such folk, the "Behaviorist" school of psychology is right for in the psychology of classes (I) and (II) there is no need for a chapter on "Thought Processes"- it is sufficient to have one on "The Language Habit.

Your stubbornness has gotten much stronger since you first arrived in our world,” Lord Cassius noted. “Perhaps this new separation from my son will help you learn better deference and respect.

Cassius asked me if I was happy, and I didn’t know how to answer. I hadn’t tried to be happy,

I pulled off my shirt and knew I wasn’t alone. “Did you really follow me to my bedroom?” I demanded, poking my head out of my closet to see Cassius. “Really?” “If she gets hurt, I will never forgive you,” he warned softly. “Obviously,” I snapped, unsurprised. “And if Raphael gets hurt, I’ll kill you. We’ll make it a whole fucking diplomatic incident.

Cassius’s wise and profound words The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.1

Cassius Wortham was possessive of his notebook. He believed that his ideas – however big or small – were fragile things that could melt away under the condemnatory gaze of a stranger.

Cassius. Have you noticed my beautiful cloak?

Hume declared that ‘Our connection with each other, as men of letters, is greater than our differences as adhering to different sects or systems’. ‘Let us’, he continued, ‘revive the happy times, when Atticus and Cassius the Epicureans, Cicero the Academic, and Brutus the Stoic, could, all of them, live in unreserved friendship together, and were insensible to all those distinctions, except so far as they furnished matter to discourse and conversation’.

Cassius’s irritability is explained by the fact that he identifies with his mother and therefore behaves exactly like a woman, as his speech demonstrates to perfection.33 His womanish yearning for love and his despairing self-abasement under the proud masculine will of Brutus fully justify the latter’s remark that Cassius is “yoked with a lamb,” in other words, has something feckless in his character, which is inherited from his mother. This can be taken as proof of an infantile disposition, which is as always characterized by a predominance of the parental imago, in this case that of the mother. An individual is infantile because he has freed himself insufficiently, or not at all, from his childish environment and his adaptation to his parents, with the result that he has a false reaction to the world: on the one hand he reacts as a child towards his parents, always demanding love and immediate emotional rewards, while on the other hand he is so identified with his parents through his close ties with them that he behaves like his father or his mother. He is incapable of living his own life and finding the character that belongs to him. Therefore Brutus correctly surmises that “the mother chides” in Cassius, not he himself. The psychologically valuable fact to be elicited here is that Cassius is infantile and identified with the mother. His hysterical behaviour is due to the circumstance that he is still, in part, a “lamb,” an innocent and harmless child. So far as his emotional life is concerned, he has not yet caught up with himself, as is often the case with people who are apparently so masterful towards life and their fellows, but who have remained infantile in regard to the demands of feeling.

M-mustang is a s-sexp-p-pot,” Cassius manages to shiver out. “She’s s-s-scary.” “R-r-reminds m-m-me of my m-mother.” “S-s-something is wrong w-with y-ou.

Reported Empaths: Keefe Sencen, Lord Cassius Sencen, Councillor Oralie, Stina Heks, Vika Heks, Vespera Folend

LEVEL TWO VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DITCHING ELVIN HISTORY According to a report from the gnomes, Keefe was found hiding near the Leapmaster during the morning session. 1 out of 10 Warning issued. I let Keefe off with a warning because he’s never caused problems before. (He also did extraordinarily well on his midterms.) He’s a year younger than his peers, so occasional moments of immaturity are natural—but I gave him a lecture on setting a positive example and he looked inspired when he returned to his session. —Dame Alina VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DITCHING THE UNIVERSE According to a report from the gnomes, Keefe was found napping near the main amphitheater during afternoon session. 2 out of 10 Note sent home. Clearly the warning I gave Keefe yesterday wasn’t enough, so I sent a note to Candleshade to apprise his parents of the situation. Lord Cassius assured me he’d correct the problem. —Dame Alina VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DISRUPTING STUDY HALL According to a report from Sir Bubu, Fitz Vacker began emitting gaseous noises and had to race to the bathroom. Keefe then took credit for slipping Gurgle Gut into Fitz’s lunch. Fitz didn’t seem upset. He claimed it was a prank (instead of a case of bullying). But the other prodigies were thoroughly distracted. 4 out of 10 One detention assigned. Perhaps allowing Keefe to skip Level One was a mistake—though his Mentors claim he continues to excel in their sessions. Still, that doesn’t excuse disrespectful behavior! I reminded Keefe that he could end up expelled if he continues down this path—and asked Elwin to make tomorrow’s detention particularly unpleasant to serve as a wake-up call. Elwin said he’ll have the prodigies refill vials of pooka pus, which should make Keefe regret his recent life choices. —Dame Alina VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S

Electricity sparked on Cassius’s flesh. His entire body focused on where Morgan was touching him. “What are you doing?” he whispered. Morgan’s pupils dilated as Cassius’s breath washed across his skin. “What I’ve yearned to do since the moment I laid eyes on you. Kiss you.

Blood thrummed heavily in Cassius’s veins, lust a tight ball growing in his belly. Morgan’s gaze dropped to Cassius’s mouth. “Tell me if you don’t want this.” Cassius hesitated. He couldn’t deny that he craved Morgan’s kiss just as badly. He parted his lips slightly. Desire darkened Morgan’s eyes at the silent invitation. He clasped Cassius’s cheeks in his hands, angled his face, and took his mouth fiercely. Oh God.

It was Remington, the kid we questioned the other day.” My stomach sinks as I realize what he’s saying. “W-What time did he do that?” “Around twelve.” Right after class. He left class and jumped off a damn bridge. Because of me.

If he is someone who is willing to leave me because of this, then he’s not who I thought he was. I don’t want to follow a God who would create me one way and hate me for it. But I don’t think that’s him.

Dear Cassius, I’m watching you. Can you feel me the way I feel you?

You honestly think telling someone that they’re wrong is okay? Telling them that the way they think and feel is wrong, won’t work at them and work at them until they hate themselves? Especially someone like their father? Someone who they look up to? You think it won’t wear and wear at them until they begin to think life is horrible?

Are you going to help me the same way you helped push your son over a bridge?

they decide that death is better than feeling like they’re wrong?

I’m happy with who I am. I know that God loves me for who I am and for who I choose to be. If you can’t see that, then you’re not the person I thought you were.” He turns to his enraptured audience. “My father has spent seven years of my life trying to force me to be someone I’m not. I don’t know if he thought that he was trying to help me become a better person, or if he’s really unhappy with who I am. But I am gay, and if you can’t accept me because of that, you don’t need to be in my life.

I’ll skin your hide,” Mom says as Peter and I laugh. “I brought you into this world and I can take you back out.” “Hopefully not the same way,” Peter says.

And one day I turned back to go home, and I didn't want to. I knew that to go down there to Cassius was to go down to a people who wouldn't understand what I'd become. I had spoken with starships, for God's sake. To go back to the farm was to cut out everything I'd taken in and strip myself down to something I didn't want to be anymore.

A pet is something to love, a dog particularly. He loves you without opinion or judgment, he does not speak to you indignantly, he does not confuse your affections with foolish ideas and odd perspectives; he merely loves. I sometimes think of how easy it was for my father to favor you, Cassius.

Clay’s quick, light boxing style – ‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee’ – was deemed inadequate to beat Liston. The night before the fight, Harvey Jones, the sparring partner of the young man already known as the ‘Louisville Lip’, presented a poem by Clay. Clay comes out to meet Liston and Liston starts to retreat, If Liston goes back an inch farther he'll end up in a ringside seat. Clay swings with a left, Clay swings with a right, Just look at young Cassius carry the fight. Liston keeps backing but there's not enough room, It's a matter of time until Clay lowers the boom. Then Clay lands with a right, what a beautiful swing, And the punch raised the bear clear out of the ring. Liston still rising and the ref wears a frown, But he can't start counting until Sonny comes down. Now Liston disappears from view, the crowd is getting frantic But our radar stations have picked him up somewhere over the Atlantic. Who on Earth thought, when they came to the fight, That they would witness the launching of a human satellite. Hence the crowd did not dream, when they laid down their money, That they would see a total eclipse of Sonny.

Can you talk?” I ask Sevro. He nods, lips trembling from the pain, but his eyes are all fire. I give my arm and help him stand. I hold up a fist, demanding silence. Sons shout the others down till the twenty five thousand breaths balance on the beating heart of my little friend. He looks out at them, startled by the love he sees, the reverence, the wet eyes. “Darrow’s wife . . .” Sevro croaks, larynx damaged. “His wife,” he says more deeply. “And my father never met. But they shared a dream. One of a free world. Not built on corpses, but on hope. On the loves that binds us, not the hate that divides. We have lost many. But we are not broken. We are not defeated, We fight on, But we do not fight for revenge for those who have died. We fight for each other. We fight for those who live. We fight for those who don’t yet live. “Cassius au Bellona killed my father...” He stands over the man, swallowing before looking back up. “But I forgive him. Why? Because he was protecting the world he knew, because he was afraid.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / but in ourselves

He may steal," says Plato, "who knows how to do it." Oaths are frequent in the writings of Plato and Seneca. Anstippus taught that a wise man had a right to commit adultery. Aristotle vindicated the awful crimes of foeticide and infanticide. Even suicide was defended by Cicero and Seneca as the mark of a hero, and Demosthenes, Cato, Brutus and Cassius carried the means of self-destruction about them, that they might not fall alive into the hands of their enemies.

Meanwhile the Jews in the region of Cyrene had put a certain Andreas at their head and were destroying both the Romans and the Greeks. They would eat the flesh of their victims, make belts for themselves of their entrails, anoint themselves with their blood and wear their skins for clothing; many they sawed in two from the head downwards; others they gave to wild beasts, and still others they forced to fight as gladiators. In all two hundred and twenty thousand persons perished. CASSIUS DIO, ROMAN HISTORY, BK 68, CH. 32 [on the events of 115–117]

From a parapet on Bryn Shander’s wall, Regis, Cassius, Agorwal, and Glensather watched in horror as the wicked force flowed down the stretch away from the two sacked cities, gaining on the fleeing people of Caer-Dineval.

But for all that tending, it’s the Archi’s scars I love the most. Little beauty marks that make her our home. A dent under the kitchen’s oven where Cassius fell and struck his head when drinking long ago—after news reached us of Darrow and Virginia’s wedding.

Dante Alighieri described the ninth and deepest pit of hell as an almost gaping void, locked in a perpetual state of suspended animation. It was reserved, in his interpretation, for the great traitors of history who were encapsulated in a lake of ice and contorted in all manner of unnatural positions. Joining them was Satan himself, waist-deep in the lake and beating his six wings in a foolhardy attempt at escape. And in Satan’s three mouths, condemned to an eternity of being slowly chewed to bits, were the most treacherous souls imaginable: Brutus, Cassius, and Judas Iscariot. But hell was a very real place on earth, as Ryan Freeman understood, and at the moment, he was convinced it sat on the top floor of the United States Capitol. There, he was trapped in the icy grips of four blue-faced beasts, his words contorted within their minds in all manner of unnatural positions as he was slowly chewed to bits, deep in the confines of a vaulted room where no one could hear him scream. Dante was wrong. The deepest pit of hell was reserved for the spymasters.

It’s a cache of Lagavulin. Lorn’s gift to Roque after the Siege of Mars.” Cassius

He nodded softly. “Thank you…brother.” And there, on a citadel landing platform in what was once the heart of Gold power, Cassius au Bellona and I shake hands and say farewell, almost six years to the day since we first met. —

ALI He was butterfly and bee. In the ring, he floated and stung. In 1967, Muhammad Ali, born Cassius Clay, refused to put on a uniform. “Got nothing against no Viet Cong,” he said. “Ain’t no Vietnamese ever called me nigger.” They called him a traitor. They sentenced him to a five-year jail term, and barred him from boxing. They stripped him of his title as champion of the world. The punishment became his trophy. By taking away his crown, they anointed him king. Years later, a few college students asked him to recite something. And for them he improvised the shortest poem in world literature: “Me, we.

It didn’t matter how many times Cassius or anybody else fucked me. It wasn't Isaac. That's when it hit me.

Cassius Clay Jr., who was only six months younger, Emmett Till

I’m the champion of the whole world,” Cassius said, “and I want to meet the people I’m champion of.

Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. had always adored his name. He had said it reminded him of a Roman gladiator, that it was the prettiest name he had ever heard, perfect for the prettiest and greatest heavyweight champion of all time

he has something I’m far more interested in. A question mark of a sword. A slingBlade for reaping grain. He faces me with his back hand on his hip and the crooked blade out like a razor. If it were a razor, I’d be dead. But it’s not. I make him miss, block one of Cassius’s attackers’ blows.

I nurse the small fish on my plate. Cassius is already finished with his, always a man of appetites. I'm more practiced than he in the art of self-deprivation at the dinner table, doesn't feel so long ago that I was a knobby-kneed boy sitting at my grandmother's dinner table when she turned her long neck to me and peered down that Peregrine nose, and in a kindly manner, inquired if I intend to sleep out in the gutter instead of in my bed chamber, because by virtue of the fact that I'd eaten three whole tarts, I'd clearly abdicated being a man in favor of being a little pig.

William Lee Lyons Brown, chairman of the Brown-Forman distillery, where Faversham worked, and a great southern charmer (“Ah wonder if you realize,” he once told Sports Illustrated, “that Cassius Clay’s aunt cooks for my double-first cousin?

War Elagabal ein religionspolitischer Reformator, der den Prinzipat ideologisch auf neue Grundlagen stellen wollte? Oder ein religiöser Dogmatiker orientalischer Prägung, der dem in kultischen Dingen toleranten Rom seinen exotischen Gott aufzwingen wollte? Oder einfach ein Irrer, wie unsere Hauptquelle Cassius Dio suggeriert?

Not Cassius, perhaps; rather, your archetypal Dostoevsky student: starved, and in conflict with demons.

Graves called her [Lilith] Liberty, and him [Cassius Chaerea] - Lover of Liberty. Coincidence? I don't think so.

As soon as the Germanic guards and their charges were gone, Chaerea drew his sword and struck Caligula in the neck. Almost simultaneously, Sabinus stabbed him in the chest. The emperor fell, but shouted that he was still alive. The rest of the Praetorians fell on him with their blades, and he was stabbed more than thirty times. As historian Cassius Dio wrote, “Caligula learned by actual experience that he was not a god.”[