Crimson Bound Quotes

This is the human way, she thought. On the edge of destruction, at the end of all things, we still dance. And hope.

..You always have to choose between the path of needles and the path of pins. When a dress is torn, you know, you can just pin it up, or you can take the time to sew it together. That's what it means. The quick and easy way or the painful way that works.

Do you think that doing the right thing will always be pretty?

I knew you lived," her mother said after a moment. "Any daughter of mine would be ruthless enough.

The problem with martyrs is that they’re all dead

But that’s what makes it so exciting. Will she kiss me or will she kill me—I think every man secretly wants to play that game

In all your life, your only choice is the path of needles or the path of pins.

Whatever creature you turn into, whatever form you take, I won't let go of you.

Every day for the last three years, she had thought she deserved to die. She still didn’t want to. She wanted to live with every filthy desperate scrap of her heart

She had won them the sun and the moon, but she had become a monster

We are bound, remember? If you have no heart, I will give you half of mine. If you have no spirit, I will bind yours to mine.

Her dreams were a tangled mess of blood and shuddering trees

Mademoiselle, you are very kind," he said to Soleil. "But I did not lose my hands for the purpose of making you feel special.

If I'm damned, what's the point of pretending that I'm not?

He knew what she was and he was not letting go.

I think sometimes there is no right thing.

He leaned close and breathed in her ear, "You will be the lady dearest and most dreadful." For a moment, she almost felt the wind of the Great Forest in her hair.

There were three of them, all with rapiers, and she had only a dagger. It would have been a wretchedly uneven fight, if she were human. It was still a wretchedly uneven fight; it was just uneven in her favor.

Speechless?” asked Erec. “Don’t be ashamed. I bring all ladies to that state sooner or later.” “Too bad for you,” she said, “I’m not a lady.

I grow impatient, little girl.” “Then learn to wait,

Just because things were fair didn't make them easy.

If we all got what we deserved we'd all be dead. And yet somehow God refrains from smiting us. Whatever you ought to have done then, dying won't undo it now.

I killed somebody and I'm not sorry," she said, calmly and very distinctly. "I don't think you want me on your altars unless blasphemy is the custom of your kingdom.

He grinned at her, and it felt like there was no space or barrier at all between them, like his smile was happening inside her heart. Without meaning to at all, she smiled back.

You are my father,” she said to Averill. “And you are my grandmother,” she said to Elena. “And you are duty-bound to me,” she said to Nightwalker. “If you take action against Hunts Alone without my permission, we will be at war.

I'd rather worship bloody bones than the murderer who makes them.

She had never, in her whole life, been satisfied with peace.

I tell you, there was nothing she would not do for her brother.

So you know what's wrong but you don't know what's right. What use is that? Well, it narrows down the options anyway.

In all your life, your only choice,” Aunt Léonie said to her once, “is the path of needles or the path of pins.” Rachelle remembered that, the day that she killed her.

He stared at her a moment longer, then laughed softly. “I wouldn’t love you if you were any weaker,” he said, and let go of her.

For your penance," the Bishop said finally, "say three rosaries, one for each year of your sinful life, and offer them for the people you have harmed." "That is not remotely enough," she snapped. "Do you need also to confess doubts about the power of God to forgive sins?" "Yes," she admitted after a few moments. "In that case, for your penance, say only one rosary.

Because lovely, innocent girls could not ever hope to fight the Devourer.

We are bound in every world, my lady.

Then he kissed her again. And kissed her and kissed her, until her heartbeat was a song and her veins pulsed with honey and fire, and his arms were around her and he was not letting go. He new what she was and he was not letting go. She had never understood, until now, what it would be like to kiss somebody who was not trying to use or master her. Who cleanly and simply /delighted/ in her.

I suppose you think you know what autumn looks like. Even if you live in the Los Angeles dreamed of by September’s schoolmates, you have surely seen postcards and photographs of the kind of autumn I mean. The trees go all red and blazing orange and gold, and wood fires burn at night so everything smells of crisp branches. The world rolls about delightedly in a heap of cider and candy and apples and pumpkins and cold stars rush by through wispy, ragged clouds, past a moon like a bony knee. You have, no doubt, experienced a Halloween or two. Autumn in Fairyland is all that, of course. You would never feel cheated by the colors of a Fairyland Forest or the morbidity of a Fairyland moon. And the Halloween masks! Oh, how they glitter, how they curl, how their beaks and jaws hook and barb! But to wander through autumn in Fairyland is to look into a murky pool, seeing only a hazy reflection of the Autumn Provinces’ eternal fall. And human autumn is but a cast-off photograph of that reflecting pool, half burnt and drifting through the space between us and Fairyland. And so I may tell you that the leaves began to turn red as September and her friends rushed through the suddenly cold air on their snorting, roaring high wheels, and you might believe me. But no red you have ever seen could touch the crimson bleed of the trees in that place. No oak gnarled and orange with October is half as bright as the boughs that bent over September’s head, dropping their hard, sweet acorns into her spinning spokes. But you must try as hard as you can. Squeeze your eyes closed, as tight as you can, and think of all your favorite autumns, crisp and perfect, all bound up together like a stack of cards. That is what it is like, the awful, wonderful brightness of Fairy colors. Try to smell the hard, pale wood sending up sharp, green smoke into the afternoon. To feel to mellow, golden sun on your skin, more gentle and cozier and more golden than even the light of your favorite reading nook at the close of the day.

Rachelle choked on a laugh. “You were always stronger.” “You,” said Amélie, “were always foolish enough to think that mattered.

The problem with martyrs is that they’re all dead. What do they have to do with us that are simple enough to still be alive? Should we just give up and want to die because death is better than dishonor? But suicide is a sin too so we really are damned if we do and damned if we don't.

Your fate is bound to mine now,” I whispered, my lips against his. “Your heart is my own, and where you are is my home. Whatever we face, we face it together.” “Together,” he echoed firmly. “Always.

Do you think he would dare half as much for your love as I have?” “No,” she said. “He never could. That’s why I love him.” “You were desperate for me.” “Desperate. Not happy.” For the first time in all the years she had known him, she truly pitied him. “You can never, ever make me happy. My heart will never rest in you.

The question is," said Amelie, sounding like she had just come to the end of a long speech, "are you brave enough?" "What?" "I can't make you beautiful," said Amelie. "I'm going to give you the most beautiful makeup you've ever seen, but if you just sit under it and - and wilt, you'll look pathetic. It's like a sword. If you don't wield it, then it isn't any use to you. And it's all right if you want to look pathetic most of the time, but this is my one chance to show anyone what I can do, so you are not going to ruin it. Understood?

The same wolfish greed beats in your heart: to have what you will, and kill for it.

Rachelle wanted to sew the world back to safety, if she must use her own bones for needles.

The gilded wreaths and crowns that the Legion had won in the days of its honour were gone from the crimson-bound staff; the furious talons still clutched the crossed thunderbolts, but where the great silver wings should have arched back in savage pride, were only empty socket-holes in the flanks of gilded bronze.

She said that you always had to choose between the path of needles and the path of pins. When a dress is torn, you know, you can just pin it up, or you can take the time to sew it together. That’s what it means. The quick and easy way, or the painful way that works.

Add to that six tables of cakes, ices, and punch bowls, a group of seven musicians playing the violin, three hundred candles, and who knew how many courtiers, and the result was a room that made Rachelle feel like she was being punched in the face just by looking at it.

But she would have to wait until there were not a hundred people crowded into the room.

She looked fragile and beautiful and terribly strong.

Sometimes abiding is more important than doing.

It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for. They’ll dance in your blood, leaving crimson footsteps in the snow just because it looks pretty.

the quiet ones you have to watch out for. They’ll dance in your blood, leaving crimson footsteps in the snow just because it looks pretty.

This is the human way, she thought, on the edge of destruction, at the end of all things, we still dance. And hope.

She didn't know if the ache in her chest was grief or freedom. Maybe they were the same.

How did Regis feel, when he found out that Ianna had given him half a life? I wondered. Was he grateful? Or did he resent that he was bound to her forever because she wasn’t sure how to live without him? The rain fell harder, and the night offered no reply.

She appeared dressed in the most patrician of colors, a subdued and decorous crimson, her robe bound round and adorned in a style suitable to her years. At that very moment, and I speak the truth, the vital spirit, the one that dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that even the most minute veins of my body were strangely affected; and trembling, it spoke these words: “Here is a god stronger than I who comes to rule over me.

It’s dark as a tomb in here,” she said, unable to see more than shadows. “Will you light the candles, please,” she asked, “assuming there are candles in here?” “Aye, milady, right there, next to the bed.” His shadow crossed before her, and Elizabeth focused on a large, oddly shaped object that she supposed could be a bed, given its size. “Will you light them, please?” she urged. “I-I can’t see a thing in here.” “His lordship don’t like more’n one candle lit in the bedchambers,” the footman said. “He says it’s a waste of beeswax.” Elizabeth blinked in the darkness, torn somewhere between laughter and tears at her plight. “Oh,” she said, nonplussed. The footman lit a small candle at the far end of the room and left, closing the door behind him. “Milady?” Berta whispered, peering through the dark, impenetrable gloom. “Where are you?” “I’m over here,” Elizabeth replied, walking cautiously forward, her arms outstretched, her hands groping about for possible obstructions in her path as she headed for what she hoped was the outside wall of the bedchamber, where there was bound to be a window with draperies hiding its light. “Where?” Berta asked in a frightened whisper, and Elizabeth could hear the maid’s teeth chattering halfway across the room. “Here-on your left.” Berta followed the sound of her mistress’s voice and let out a terrified gasp at the sight of the ghostlike figure moving eerily through the darkness, arms outstretched. “Raise your arm,” she said urgently, “so I’ll know ‘tis you.” Elizabeth, knowing Berta’s timid nature, complied immediately. She raised her arm, which, while calming poor Berta, unfortunately caused Elizabeth to walk straight into a slender, fluted pillar with a marble bust upon it, and they both began to topple. “Good God!” Elizabeth burst out, wrapping her arms protectively around the pillar and the marble object upon it. “Berta!” she said urgently. “This is no time to be afraid of the dark. Help me, please. I’ve bumped into something-a bust and its stand, I think-and I daren’t let go of them until I can see how to set them upright. There are draperies over here, right in front of me. All you have to do is follow my voice and open them. Once we do, ‘twill be bright as day in here.” “I’m coming, milady,” Berta said bravely, and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve found them!” Berta cried softly a few minutes later. “They’re heavy-velvet they are, with another panel behind them.” Berta pulled one heavy panel back across the wall, and then, with renewed urgency and vigor, she yanked back the other and turned around to survey the room. “Light as last!” Elizabeth said with relief. Dazzling late-afternoon sunlight poured into the windows directly in front of her, blinding her momentarily. “That’s much better,” she said, blinking. Satisfied that the pillar was quite sturdy enough to stand without her aid, Elizabeth was about to place the bust back upon it, but Berta’s cry stopped her. “Saints preserve us!” With the fragile bust clutched protectively to her chest Elizabeth swung sharply around. There, spread out before her, furnished entirely in red and gold, was the most shocking room Elizabeth had ever beheld: Six enormous gold cupids seemed to hover in thin air above a gigantic bed clutching crimson velvet bed draperies in one pudgy fist and holding bows and arrows in the other; more cupids adorned the headboard. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, first in disbelief, and a moment later in mirth. “Berta,” she breathed on a smothered giggle, “will you look at this place!

The Jewel in Her Crown, which showed the old Queen (whose image the children now no doubt confused with the person of Miss Crane) surrounded by representative figures of her Indian Empire: princes, landowners, merchants, moneylenders, sepoys, farmers, servants, children, mothers, and remarkably clean and tidy beggars. The Queen was sitting on a golden throne, under a crimson canopy, attended by her temporal and spiritual aides: soldiers, statesmen and clergy. The canopied throne was apparently in the open air because there were palm trees and a sky showing a radiant sun bursting out of bulgy clouds such as, in India, heralded the wet monsoon. Above the clouds flew the prayerful figures of the angels who were the benevolent spectators of the scene below. Among the statesmen who stood behind the throne one was painted in the likeness of Mr. Disraeli holding up a parchment map of India to which he pointed with obvious pride but tactful humility. An Indian prince, attended by native servants, was approaching the throne bearing a velvet cushion on which he offered a large and sparkling gem. The children in the school thought that this gem was the jewel referred to in the title. Miss Crane had been bound to explain that the gem was simply representative of tribute, and that the jewel of the title was India herself, which had been transferred from the rule of the British East India Company to the rule of the British Crown in 1858, the year after the Mutiny when the sepoys in the service of the Company (that first set foot in India in the seventeenth century) had risen in rebellion, and attempts had been made to declare an old Moghul prince king in Delhi, and that the picture had been painted after 1877, the year in which Victoria was persuaded by Mr. Disraeli to adopt the title Empress of India.

You’re blood bound—that means Taylor can only drink from you.” “What?” Now he looked really upset and pissed off. “She has to what? You’re kidding me!” “I assure you, my friend, this is not a joke,” Corbin growled warningly. “Taylor is your responsibility. Do you not remember the part of your vows where you promised to protect and nourish her?” “I thought that meant like… I don’t know, bringing home the bacon or some shit like that,” Victor protested. “I didn’t know I would actually be the bacon.

Gretchen VanTreese (from The Crimson Corset) is easily the most heartless character I’ve ever written. Ruthless, self-obsessed, and ambitious beyond her means, she is the epitome of greed and overindulgence. This is woman who keeps handsome young men as pets, a staff of venom-addicted employees to do her daytime bidding, and a basement full of bound human delicacies.

I enjoy taking care of you.

Take Back America Old Glory's wavin' high but there's a shadow in our land, They're sellin' off our roots to foreign hands. Cowboys livin' broke while strangers make their stand, It's high time we reclaimed this promised land. [Verse 2] From the prairies to the plains, where the wild rivers flow, We've built our homes on pride but now it's gettin' sold. Politicians turnin' blind, as if they didn't know, But real Americans, we can see the show. [Chorus] We won't back down, no, we won't compromise, For our country, we'll rise and defy. Standin' up for what is ours, with God on our side, Hell to pay, take back America, it's our right. [Verse 3] They barter bits of history for a dollar and a cent, But they can't buy the years our families spent. Sweat and tears on crimson fields where our forefathers bled, Warriors of the free, never easily led. [Bridge] From the smokestacks to the mountains, every rusted coastal town, We hear the echoes calling, time to turn this train around. We'll fight with all we've got, feel it as our duty bound, Keep the spirit of America, on solid ground. [Chorus] We won't back down, no, we won't compromise, For our country, we'll rise and defy. Standin' up for what is ours, with God on our side, Hell to pay, take back America, it's our right.

Forgive me. I thought you were protesting the blood because you didn’t want me to bond you to me.” “What?” This was something entirely new to consider. “You bonded me to you? As in for life? For all eternity?” “For as long as I live, anyway,” Corbin said. “It was the only way to save your life. I had taken too much of your blood—you were dying, Addison.” His tone took on a pleading tone. “Please tell me you would not rather be dead than bound to me.” “I could ask you to say the same thing,” I pointed out. “You were checking out on me without even telling me first.” “I didn’t think you cared.” His deep voice was soft, almost wistful. “Well, I do. I love you, damn it,” I said, poking him in the chest again.

We may be pleased by the still-glinting wings of an airliner high above us, leaving a contrail soaked in crimson light, while at street level the sun has already set. We see the plane we are not on, bound for a place we are not, in the last light of a day that has already left us.

March 31 MORNING “With His stripes we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5 PILATE delivered our Lord to the lictors to be scourged. The Roman scourge was a most dreadful instrument of torture. It was made of the sinews of oxen, and sharp bones were inter-twisted every here and there among the sinews; so that every time the lash came down these pieces of bone inflicted fearful laceration, and tore off the flesh from the bone. The Saviour was, no doubt, bound to the column, and thus beaten. He had been beaten before; but this of the Roman lictors was probably the most severe of His flagellations. My soul, stand here and weep over His poor stricken body. Believer in Jesus, can you gaze upon Him without tears, as He stands before you the mirror of agonizing love? He is at once fair as the lily for innocence, and red as the rose with the crimson of His own blood. As we feel the sure and blessed healing which His stripes have wrought in us, does not our heart melt at once with love and grief? If ever we have loved our Lord Jesus, surely we must feel that affection glowing now within our bosoms. “See how the patient Jesus stands, Insulted in His lowest case! Sinners have bound the Almighty’s hands, And spit in their Creator’s face.” “With thorns His temples gor’d and gash’d Send streams of blood from every part; His back’s with knotted scourges lash’d. But sharper scourges tear His heart.” We would fain go to our chambers and weep; but since our business calls us away, we will first pray our Beloved to print the image of His bleeding self upon the tablets of our hearts all the day, and at nightfall we will return to commune with Him, and sorrow that our sin should have cost Him so dear.

He is a celestial? We have seen plenty of them, Dianna,” Alistair said as he rubbed one hand across his face. Blood stained his skin and clothing from the destruction he’d wreaked downstairs. His normally perfectly combed silver hair had a few strands out of place and was streaked with crimson. “I saw Arariel. He was there. They spoke of Vincent, which means he,” I shook the chair with our bound friend slightly, “works with The Hand.” A grin, sharp and deadly, caressed his features. “You’re lying.” “I’m not,” I said, shaking my head and pushing the chair toward him. “I’ve tasted it. This is Peter McBridge, twenty-seven, second-tier celestial. His parents are retired, and he has no other connections to the mortal world. The fortress is in Arariel. His colleagues talked about us and what we’ve done so far. They spoke about The Hand of Rashearim and even mentioned Vincent.” The guy in the chair stuttered as he craned his head, looking from me to Alistair and back. “How did you see that? How can you know?

Another bullet hit Hajji Murad in the left side. He lay down in the ditch and again pulled some cotton wool out of his beshmet and plugged the wound. This wound in the side was fatal and he felt that he was dying. Memories and pictures succeeded one another with extraordinary rapidity in his imagination. now he saw the powerful Abu Nutsal Khan, dagger in hand and holding up his severed cheek as he rushed at his foe; then he saw the weak, bloodless old Vorontsov with his cunning white face, and heard his soft voice; then he saw his son Yusuf, his wife Sofiat, and then the pale, red-bearded face of his enemy Shamil with its half-closed eyes. All these images passed through his mind without evoking any feeling within him -- neither pity nor anger nor any kind of desire: everything seemed so insignificant in comparison with what was beginning, or had already begun, within him. Yet his strong body continued the thing that he had commenced. Gathering together his last strength he rose from behind the bank, fired his pistol at a man who was just running towards him, and hit him. The man fell. Then Hajji Murad got quite out of the ditch, and limping heavily went dagger in hand straight at the foe. Some shots cracked and he reeled and fell. Several militiamen with triumphant shrieks rushed towards the fallen body. But the body that seemed to be dead suddenly moved. First the uncovered, bleeding, shaven head rose; then the body with hands holding to the trunk of a tree. He seemed so terrible, that those who were running towards him stopped short. But suddenly a shudder passed through him, he staggered away from the tree and fell on his face, stretched out at full length like a thistle that had been mown down, and he moved no more. He did not move, but still he felt. When Hajji Aga, who was the first to reach him, struck him on the head with a large dagger, it seemed to Hajji Murad that someone was striking him with a hammer and he could not understand who was doing it or why. That was his last consciousness of any connection with his body. He felt nothing more and his enemies kicked and hacked at what had no longer anything in common with him. Hajji Aga placed his foot on the back of the corpse and with two blows cut off the head, and carefully -- not to soil his shoes with blood -- rolled it away with his foot. Crimson blood spurted from the arteries of the neck, and black blood flowed from the head, soaking the grass. Karganov and Hajji Aga and Akhmet Khan and all the militiamen gathered together -- like sportsmen round a slaughtered animal -- near the bodies of Hajji Murad and his men (Khanefi, Khan Mahoma, and Gamzalo they bound), and amid the powder-smoke which hung over the bushes they triumphed in their victory. the nightingales, that had hushed their songs while the firing lasted, now started their trills once more: first one quite close, then others in the distance. It was of this death that I was reminded by the crushed thistle in the midst of the ploughed field.

You know,” said Armand, “my mother used to say that if we all got what we deserved, we’d all be dead. And yet somehow God refrains from smiting us.

I’m not leaving you. I promise.” I know he believed it. Emuri’en’s strands of fate bound us, after all. Threads that transcended time and place, knotting us from one life to the next. But threads could be cut, and the threads of fate were no exception. For what was chaos but a knife slashing across the fabric of destiny?

Let our strands be ever knotted as we weather joy and sorrow, fortune and misfortune, and pass our years from youth to old age. We are of one heart, honor-bound, and one spirit, whether on earth or in heaven. From now until ten thousand years forth.

The sensation was a nightmare, worse than anything that I had ever felt, more vindictive and malicious than even Emerald's feelings toward himself. And worse of all, at the heart of that white hot core of anger, was another emotion so bound up with my attacker's fury that it was functionally indistinguishable from his ire: Love. His rage was rooted in love, a corruption so deepseated that it turned what should have been a bright and joyous emotion into a blight that spread through every corner of his mind.

Damn it, Addison—I was prepared to die. I never asked you to give your life to bring me back. To risk a horrible and painful death out of some twisted sense of obligation and duty.” “Is that what you think?” I demanded. “Listen to me, you big asshole—” I reached up and poked him angrily in the center of his broad chest. “I didn’t do it out of duty or because I owed you anything for saving Taylor or protecting me from Roderick or anything else like that. I did it because I love you! And you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought if you can’t see that.” Corbin’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “You are lying.” “What?” I glared at him and shook my head. “I tell you I love you and you say I’m lying? Why the hell would you say a thing like that?” “When I was giving you my blood in an effort to heal you from my savage attack, you pushed me away,” he accused. “You said, ‘Not that! Anything but that!’” I felt suddenly cold as I remembered his blood filling my mouth. “I was talking about you turning me into a vampire. You… you didn’t, did you? Because I love you, Corbin, but I don’t want to be like you. Living on blood, never going out in the sunlight… it wouldn’t be right for me. You can understand that, can’t you?” “I can.” He nodded and his eyes suddenly softened. “Forgive me. I thought you were protesting the blood because you didn’t want me to bond you to me.” “What?” This was something entirely new to consider. “You bonded me to you? As in for life? For all eternity?” “For as long as I live, anyway,” Corbin said. “It was the only way to save your life. I had taken too much of your blood—you were dying, Addison.” His tone took on a pleading tone. “Please tell me you would not rather be dead than bound to me.” “I could ask you to say the same thing,” I pointed out. “You were checking out on me without even telling me first.” “I didn’t think you cared.” His deep voice was soft, almost wistful. “Well, I do. I love you, damn it,” I said, poking him in the chest again. Corbin caught my finger in his big hand and then pulled me closer until I was pressed up against his tall frame. “Addison,” he murmured, cupping my face in both hands. “I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. Say you will stay with me now, promise never to leave.” “I promise,” I said and he kissed me, gently at first and then with more passion.

He tore into the man’s jugular, crimson spraying as the rest of the guards froze in horror.

When a dress is torn, you know, you can just pin it up, or you can take the time to sew it together. That’s what it means. The quick and easy way, or the painful way that works.