Fierce Warrior Quotes

I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don't know. I don't really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn't... I might have become as awful as that prick we're going to face today. If I had not met an Illyrian warrior-in-training," he said to Cassian, "I would not have known the true depths of strength, of resilience, of honor and loyalty." Cassian's eyes gleamed bright. Rhys said to Azriel, "If I had not met a shadowsinger, I would not have known that it is the family you make, not the one you are born into, that matters. I would not have known what it is to truly hope, even when the world tells you to despair." Azriel bowed his head in thanks. Mor was already crying when Rhys spoke to her. "If I had not met my cousin, I would neer have learned that light can be found in even the darkest of hells. That kidness can thrive even amongst cruelty." She wiped away her teas as she nodded. I waited for Amren to offer a retort. But she was only waiting. Rhys bowed his head to her. "If I had not met a tiny monster who hoards jewels more fiercely than a firedrake..." A quite laugh from all of us at that. Rhys smiled softly. "My own power would have consumed me long ago." Rhys squeezed my hand as he looked to me at last. "And if I had not met my mate..." His words failed him as silver lined his eyes. He said down the bond, I would have waited five hundred more years for you. A thousand years. And if this was all the time we were allowed to have... The wait was worth it. He wiped away the tears sliding down my face. "I believe that everything happened, exactly the way it had to... so I could find you." He kissed another tear away.

I have met my self and I am going to care for her fiercely.

Out there, King Lahn is a fierce warrior but in here, my Lahn… kah Lahn is sweet.

He's like six hundred years younger than you are. I refuse to be the moral compass of our cell! Most weekends I have an intoxispell bong attached to my mouth like a respirator. I love scatological humor, and I list 'pranks involving nuclear waste' and 'making demons eat things' as my hobbies.

Fire will save the Clan...you never understood, did you? Not even when I gave you your apprentice name, Firepaw. And I doubted it myself, when fire raged through our camp. Yet I see the truth now. Fireheart, you are the fire who will save ThunderClan. You will be a great leader. One of the greatest the forest has ever known. You will have the warmth of fire to protect your Clan and the fierceness of fire to defend it. You will be Firestar, the light of ThunderClan." - Bluestar

Grief makes unlikely warriors out of us all.

He gripped her nape. "I fuckin' love you, Regin!" Rain spiked his lashes as he gazed down at her, commanding her, "Love Me Back

If your women are strong and fierce warriors, just think how the men are! - Kailin Gow

Don't look at me like that," said Ruza. "Like what?" "Like I'm a beautiful book you're about to open and plunder with your greedy mad eyes." Lazlo laughed. "Greedy mad eyes? Plunder? Are you afraid of me, Ruza?" Ruza looked suddenly steely. "Do you know, Strange, that to ask a Tizerkane if he fears you is to challenge him to single comabt?" "Well then," said Lazlo, who knew better than to believe anything Ruza said. "I'm glad I only said it to you and not one of the fearsome warriors like Azareen or Tzara." "Unkind," said Ruza, wounded. His face crumpled. He pretended to weep. "I am fearsome," he insisted "I am." "There, there," consoled Lazlo. "You're a very fierce warrior. Don't cry. You're terrifying." "Really?" asked Ruza in a pitiful little hopeful voice. "You're not just saying that?" "You two idiots," said Azareen, and Lazlo felt a curious twinge of pride, to be called an idiot by her, with what might have been the tiniest edge of fondness.

Wow,” I said. “That story is disturbing on so many different levels. One thing that’s mystifying about Indian mythology is how often the names change. The skin color changes – she’s golden, she’s black, she’s pink. Her name changes – she’s Durga, Kali, Parvati. Her personality changes – she’s a loving mother, she’s a fierce warrior, she’s terrible in her wrath, she’s a lover, she’s vengeful, she’s weak and mortal, then she’s powerful and can’t be defeated. Then there’s her marital status – she’s sometimes single, sometimes married. It’s hard to keep all the stories straight.” Ren snickered. “Sounds like a normal woman to me.

I loved your laugh, Nina. And your fierce warrior’s heart. I might have loved you, too.

When you peeled back the skin, you were dealing with bone and muscle, blood and nerve endings. It was all the same. She liked the beautiful logic of the circulatory system, the elegance of the neurological, and the fierce warrior spirit of the heart. The body had rules and it had quirks.

fierce lovers. and battle warriors both come from the same place. there is bound to be, some bloodshed.

I became a skater because I wanted to feel like that. Fierce. Confident. A warrior goddess covered in glitter. So sure of myself, I could make my dreams come true through sheer force of will.

Ten thousand swords before you, ten thousand daggers drawn. Ten thousand lives defend you, ten thousand warriors strong Our blood will spill ten thousand times In hope, ten thousand sigh For love we face ten thousand deaths With joy, ten thousand die Ten thousand Fey before you, ten thousand fierce and tall, Ten thousand souls protect you, beloved of us all ~Ten Thousand Swords, a Fey Warrior’s Song

Start being honest with her. Aidan always let her know what he was thinking. And he fairly much treated her like a queen.” Lothaire sneered, “That’s the worst bloody advice I’ve ever heard!” Brandr bowed his chest. “And why’s that, leech? She cared for Aidan once—she will again.” “Precisely. She cared for Aidan,” Lothaire said. “I knew of Aidan the Fierce—no mortal could kill that many of the Horde without my hearing about it. And I know that he was a bold, blond Viking who was like a god among men. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him.” He sighed. “Reminded me of myself.

It is poetry which effortlessly moves the heavens and the earth, awakens the world of invisible spirits to deep feeling, softens the relationship between men and women, and consoles the hearts of fierce warriors.

My head is so full of memories!" Cinderheart wailed. "I feel as though there are two lives inside me, not one. How can it be my choice to make? Doesn't Cinderpelt have a choice? I can't make her a warrior! She was a medicine cat!" Lionblaze pressed his muzzle closer. "She chose you", he murmured. "She gave you the choice". Cinderheart began to tremble. Lionblaze could sense her mind whirling. "You can only live one life, Cinderheart. It's your choice! This is your destiny, not Cinderpelt's. She lived her own life". Cinderheart gasped. Then her pelt smoothed. She lifted her chin. "Then I choose the life of a warrior". Her blue eyes shone. "And I choose you". A breeze stirred the ferns. Lionblaze glimpsed a pale gray shape appear like a shadow beside Cinderheart. Stepping back in surprise, he saw it peel away from her and drift up like a cobweb carried by the wind. A soft voice whispered, Thank you. Lionblaze's fur stood on end. "Did you see that? Cinderheart was watching the shadow disappear into the trees. "It was Cinderpelt", she breathed. "I've set her free". Lionblaze purred loudly. "Will you fight alongside me?" Cinderheart pressed her muzzle fiercely against his. "Always".

Fierce warrior, sweet.

Johanna sat by the fire every night and worked on her tapestry. Dumfries waited until she was settled in her chair and then draped himself across her feet. It became a ritual for Alex to squeeze himself up next to her and fall asleep during her stories about fierce warriors and fair maidens. Johanna's tales all had a unique twist, for none of the heroines she told stories about ever needed to be rescued by their knights in shining armor. More often than not, the fair maidens rescued their knights. Gabriel couldn't take issue with his wife. She was telling Alex the truth. It was a fact that maidens could rescue mighty, arrogant warriors. Johanna had certainly rescued him from a bleak, cold existence. She'd given him a family and a home. She was his love, his joy, his companion. She was his saving grace.

…having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes into the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength--there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilzie him of the sin of bloodshed! It is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds.

All eyes flew to the entrance. A great gray stallion reared up in the doorway, its breath frosting the air with puffs of steam. It was a scene from every fairy-tale romance she'd ever read: the handsome prince bursting into the castle astride a magnificent stallion, ablaze with desire and honor as he'd declared his undying love before all and sundry. Her heart swelled with joy. Then her brow puckered as she scrutinized her "prince." Well, it was almost like a fairy tale. Except this prince was dressed in nothing but a drenched and muddy tartan with blood on his face and hands and war braids plaited at his temples. Although determination glittered in his gaze, a declaration of undying love didn't appear to be his first priority. "Jillian!" he roared. Her knees buckled. His voice brought her violently to life. Everything in the room receded and there was only Grimm, blue eyes blazing, his massive frame filling the doorway. He was majestic, towering, and ruthless. Here was her fierce warrior ready to battle the world to gain her love. He urged Occam into the crowd, making his way toward the altar. "Grimm," she whispered.

Wolves travel in packs, but the fiercest travel alone.

The world stopped fighting for me long ago, I had to rely on self and pave a path on my own. Some of us women are fierce beyond our means, We are raised by warriors to be nothing but queens.

This wasn’t what she expected. Never, in her wildest dreams. This... this was the Blood Queen of Garbhán Isle? Scourge of the Madron lands? Destroyer of Villages? Demon Killer of Women and Children? She who had blood pacts with the darkest of gods? This was Annwyl the Bloody? Talaith watched, fascinated, as Annwyl held onto Morfyd the Witch’s wrists. Morfyd — the Black Witch of Despair, Killer of the Innocent, Annihilator of Souls, and all around Mad Witch of Garbhán Isle or so she was called on the Madron lands — had actually tried to sneak up on Annwyl to put ointment on the nasty wound the queen had across her face. But as soon as the warrior saw her, she squealed and grabbed hold of her. Now Annwyl lay on her back, Morfyd over her, trying her best to get Annwyl to stop being a ten year old. “If you just let me—” “No! Get that centaur shit away from me, you demon bitch!” “Annwyl, I’m not letting you go home to my brother looking like that. You look horrific.” “He’ll have to love me in spite of it. Now get off!” ... “Ow!” “Crybaby.” No, this isn’t what Talaith expected. Annwyl the Blood Queen was supposed to be a vicious, uncaring warrior bent on revenge and power. She let her elite guard rape and and pillage wherever they went, and she used babies as target practice while their mothers watched in horror. That’s what she was supposed to be and that’s what Talaith expected to find. Instead, she found Annwyl. Just Annwyl. A warrior who spent most of her resting time reading or mooning over her consort. She was silly, charming, very funny, and fiercely protective of everyone. Her elite guard, all handpicked by Annwyl, were sweet, vicious fighters and blindingly loyal to their queen.

I hope you will be a warrior and fierce for change so all can live.

God of Gods. Destroyer of Evil. Passionate lover. Fierce warrior. Consummate dancer. Charismatic leader. All-powerful, yet incorruptible. A quick wit, accompanied by an equally quick and fearsome temper. Over the centuries, no foreigner who came to our land – conqueror, merchant, scholar, ruler, traveller – believed that such a great man could possibly have existed in reality. They assumed that he must have been a mythical God, whose

But the paradox of pain is that it is only universal in retrospect. In the present, it is fiercely personal.

The only thing a warrior cannot fight is her own fierce nature.

I have met myself and I am going to love her fiercely.

You aren’t meant to fit in. Your fierce warrior spirit is meant to tear down old systems that lack integrity.

There, there," consoled Lazlo. "You're a very fierce warrior. Don't cry. You're terrifying.

It’s a name that means strong and fierce warrior, a protector.

More sense than a kit?” Stormfur took another step forward until he stood right on the border. “That must make you so proud. You’re really fierce warriors, I can see that.

You always hated my laugh.” “I loved your laugh, Nina. And your fierce warrior ’s heart. I might have loved you, too.” Might have. Once. Before she had betrayed him. Those words carved an ache into her chest. She knew she shouldn’t speak, but she couldn’t help herself. “And what did you do, Matthias? What did you do to me in your dreams?” The ship listed gently. The lanterns swayed. His eyes were blue fire. “Everything,” he said, as he turned to go. “Everything.

You are more beautiful than my eyes can take in. Your eyes enchant me and hold me to you. you are brave and fierce and strong and bright and these are just the things I've learned in the few hours we've been able to share. I want to know more.

You are so fierce," she whispered. Yet for her. hebled. He, who'd sworn he wouldn't cross Noir, had done so. Not just because Noir had threatened him. She didn't believe that. From the very beginning, he'd protected her in a way few people had. Jericho hated the world, yet he'd been her self-appointed guardian.

The songs of Japan take the human heart as their seed and flourish as myriad leaves of words. As long as they are alive to this world, the cares and deeds of men and women are endless, so they speak of things they hear and see, giving words to the feelings in their hearts. Hearing the cries of the warbler among the blossoms or the calls of the frog that lives in the waters, how can we doubt that every living creature sing its song? Not using force, it moves heaven and earth, makes even the unseen spirits and gods feel pity, smoothes the bonds between man and woman, and consoles the hearts of fierce warriors-such a thing is poetry.

Real strategists are warriors and must be willing and able to fight battles, to “see the elephant,” as Civil War soldiers were fond of saying.

Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds (20) In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol. The

What man didn't enjoy a beautiful woman curled up in his lap, even if she did treat him like a scratching post every time she woke up?

Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he asked hoarsely. Minka didn't answer. She simply reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair, urging him down for a searing kiss.

In the loudest voice I could muster, I shouted, "As of this moment, you are no longer the armies of China, Macedonia, Myanmar, Tibet or India. You are now warriors of Durga! We have already fought and overcome many fierce creatures. Now we give you the symbol of their power." I borrowed the Scarf and touched it to my Pearl Necklace. The silken material sped down each and every soldier to cloak them in the most brilliant red, blue, green, gold and white. Even the flag bearers were not left out and now held banners depicting Durga riding her tiger into battle. "Red for the heart of a Phoenix that sees through falsehood!" I cheered and raided the trident. "Blue for the Monsters of the Deep that rip apart those who dare to cross their domain! Gold for Metal Birds that cut their enemies with razor beaks! Green for the Horde of Hanuman that comes alive to protect that which is most precious! And white for the Dragons of the Five Oceans, whose cunning and power has no equal!

1212Forget what they told you. You are love child of a passionate affair between goddess and universe. You were born of a steamy forbidden heat and you were made for the cyclone of unadulterated wholeness. You are a daughter of delight. You are the unconstrained mother of all. A fierce warrior. A wicked priestess. Your roots twist into this earth. Your spirit rises in glorious asana. You let loose with the howl of the wilderness you’ve held tight all these years. You are the wild. Untethered. Gloriously free.

That’s right,” he said. “Every time I closed my eyes.” “What happened in the dreams?” she asked, eager for an answer, but fearing it, too. “Horrible things. The worst kinds of torture. You drowned me slowly. You burned my heart from my chest. You blinded me.” “I was a monster.” “A monster, a maiden, a sylph of the ice. You kissed me, whispered stories in my ear. You sang to me and held me as I slept. Your laugh chased me into waking.” “You always hated my laugh.” “I loved your laugh, Nina. And your fierce warrior’s heart. I might have loved you, too.” Might have. Once. Before she had betrayed him. Those words carved an ache into her chest. She

Here you are. Still standing. Fierce with the reality of love and loss. Wearing the truth of our hearts on your tattered sleeves. And yes, this one very nearly took you out. And yes, there were days when the darkness was heavy and the climb out of that rabbit hole required you to mine your depths for strength you didn’t even know you had. But here you are. Broken open by hope. Cracked wide by loss. Full of longing and grief and the burn of that phoenix fire. Warrior painted with ashes. Embers from the blaze still clinging to your newborn skin, leaving you forever marked with scars of rebirth. And just look at you. Heart broken but still beating. Arms empty but still open. Face raised to the sky and giving thanks for the light, even when it hurts your eyes. My god, you are beautiful.

Lilac fiercely battled and fought off the demons that were on a mission to diminish her inner light, to the point of exhaustion, preventing the negative energy from dragging her and her sister into the dark abyss.

Oh no,” I breathed. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” My hands flapped as I bounced from foot to foot. I imagined something exploding from my ribcage. Something with tentacles and acid spit. “Babe, I should not have drank that water.” Venomous moved to stand just out of reach on the other side of the haze. Tremors wracked his frame, and he looked desperately like he wanted to snatch me up then run. “Fix her,” Fiercely snapped as he loomed over the a’Rä. “Fix her now.” I clutched my chest. “I feel it moving.” Venomous paled. “Oh, no, that’s a necklace, but it’s only a matter of time.

This determination is my bushido. It’s my “way of the warrior.” It’s palpable, a fierceness I possess, a beautiful stubbornness and unwillingness to give up.

What a brave little psycho she was. What a reckless woman. What a fierce and sensitive warrior.

Brave cubs become fierce lions.

How do you set a Phoenix free? You find its light. You open its ribcage. You let it sing and watch it rise. @reenadossauthor

She didn't know why being near him made the beast inside her go away, and she didn't care. She was Minka in his arms and a monster out of them. That was all that mattered to her.

…having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes into the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength—there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilzie him of the sin of bloodshed! It is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds.

This book is dedicated to all the women on this beautiful planet. May we reclaim the fierce love of the warrior and embody the wisdom of the goddess to bring balance and harmony to the Earth.

Do the kits have names?” Bluefur asked. “The she-kits are Mistkit and Nightkit, and the tom is Tigerkit.” “Tigerkit?” Leopardfoot had chosen a fierce name. “He’s the weakest of the three,” Featherwhisker mewed bleakly. “I suppose she hopes he’s a fighter from the start.” His eyes darkened. “He’ll need to be.

Since I’d left Blue with Darius, the lasting imprint of her ashen cheeks and wide eyes were burned into my retinas. She’d fought at my side tonight with the fierceness of a warrior. And she’d saved my fucking life.

Ragnall Ivarson. I had never met him, but I knew him. I knew his reputation. No man sailed a ship better, no man fought more fiercely, no man was held in more fear. He was a savage, a pirate, a wild king of nowhere.

How brave you are for building paths out of the wreckages. How strong you are for standing in the midst of a greater collapse. How wise you are the expand your spirit beyond human limitations and continue becoming more of yourself, every single time. The world won't make you a battle cry, you're a warrior who learnt to shine.

You're a brave warrior, Fireheart." Yellowfang suddenly opened her eyes wide and stared fiercely at him. "I could not be prouder of you if you were my own son. And StarClan knows how many times I have wished that you were, instead of

Did you know ‪#‎Leprechauns‬ didn't start out in Ireland as those short little redheaded guys sporting green felt suits? #Leprechauns were once fierce warriors who protected the coast from marauders and defended the land. Then Christianity showed up and decided to do away with all that, and they downplayed the heroic actions of those warriors to the extent that we see them as the iconic little guys with pots of gold today. Nothing quite like a group of gossiping Christians to turn the tide on historical events, huh? Have a look at my story and see how magic reveals the true nature of one Michael McKnight, the ‪#‎Leprechaun‬ of Three Wishes. Treat yourself to a St. Patrick's Day Lunchbox Romance

At the mention of children, Connor halted his steps. For a moment Beatrice thought he was going to storm off, turn away from her and never look back. Instead he fell to one knee before her. Time went momentarily still. In some dazed part of her mind Beatrice remembered Teddy, kneeling stiffly at her feet as he swore to be her liege man. This felt utterly different. Even kneeling, Connor looked like a warrior, every line of his body radiating a tensed power and strength. "It kills me that I don't have more to offer you," he said roughly. "I have no lands, no fortune, no title. All I can give you is my honor, and my heart. Which already belongs to you." She would have fallen in love with him right then, if she didn't already love him so fiercely that every cell of her body burned with it. "I love you, Bee. I've loved you for so long I've forgotten what it felt like not to love you." "I love you, too." Her eyes stung with tears. "I get that you have to marry someone before your dad dies. But you can't marry Teddy Eaton." She watched as he fumbled in his jacket for something - had he bought a ring? She thought wildly - but what he pulled out instead was a black Sharpie. Still kneeling before her, he slid the diamond engagement ring off Beatrice's finger and tucked it in the pocket of her jacket. Using the Sharpie, he traced a thin loop around the skin of Beatrice's finger, where the ring had been. "I'm sorry it isn't a real ring, but I'm improvising here." There was a nervous catch to Connor's voice that Beatrice hadn't heard before. But when he looked up and spoke his next words, his face glowed with a fierce, fervent hope. "Marry me.

Or imagine him in the middle of a battle coming upon a soldier cowering behind a tree and loudly proclaiming his intention to desert—prompting Sherman to shower the tree with rocks, convincing the reluctant warrior he was under even heavier fire.

A man is supposed to be fierce. A man is a hunter and a warrior. A MAN beats his mate because she is smaller and gentler than he is (Okor scowled as he thought this). A man should not be gentle. All other creatures on earth walk in fear of the one called Man.

Instead he felt only love. And that was the miracle. The surge in hatred since the war began had created more love around it. It was indomitable, mad, and everlasting, scattered through the rich and the poor, deep and calm in the Quakers, hot and fierce in the mothers, faithful in the warriors, wistful in the pets, seeping its way into mercy and atrocity, destroying things, rebuilding them.

love, be patient with me as i shed this skin as i lie old patterns at these feet as i burn and sweat as i'm fed by this stream i can be fierce while this vulnerable i can seem far away as these wounds i lick as i writher, moan, cry and hiss, and awaken within this river carrying me home as i take in this last breath generous was this passing death praise be the person i was as i gasp life into the warrior i am now.

To be a good man, you must become a paradox: strong but self-controlled, violent but gentle, ready to go to war one minute and prepared to give piggyback rides the next. This kind of man is fierce in word and deed while remaining compassionate and humble. He is fully soldier, fully lover, whole man.

Look how you’ve grown. I remember the day you were born. I could hold you with one hand. You were the world’s best thing. The most precious.” Aren’t I now, to you? she wanted to say. Instead, she whispered, “Tell me how I was.” “You had a warrior’s heart, even then.” “I was just a baby.” “No, you did. Your cry was so fierce. You held my finger so tightly.” “All babies cry. All babies hold on tight.” He let go of her hand to lift his, and brush his knuckles across her cheek. “Not like you.” *

When I think of you, Esha, I imagine the monsoon. Warm and life-giving. Fierce and powerful. A contradiction, just like a warrior poet.

You did not love a person to change them. You loved their weakness as fiercely as you loved their strength. He

Make no mistake about it, a perfect storm is forming, and it's coming our way. Its sudden onset and fierce intensity will surprise even its most vocal proponents and cheerleaders. Many people who are now in the fetish lifestyle will vainly leap into the fray, foolishly thinking that this will be an orderly battle of opposing ideas that can be fought civilly and rationally. They will quickly learn that they are tragically wrong in this assumption, and many of them will pay a terrible price emotionally, socially, and financially as a result.

Did you see that bison on the wall there? He’s so big. And so cute.” Angelo grinned. “I thought you might say that. That’s why I got a smaller version.” He took the plush animal from inside his jacket, where he’d been hiding it, and placed it on the table. “This is Ted.” Minka’s eyes glistened with tears as she stared at it. Crap, what had he done wrong? He’d thought she’d love it. But then she grabbed the toy in one hand, threw her arms around Angelo, and squeezed him so hard his ribs creaked. “Thank you,” she said against his chest. “He’s perfect.

To My Priestess Sisters To my priestess sisters: the keepers of mysteries, the medicine women, the story keepers and story tellers, the holy magicians, the wild warriors, the original ones, the ones who carry the ancients within the marrow of your bones, the ones forged in the fires, the ones who have bathed in thier own blood, the heroines who wear thier scars as stars, the ones who give birth to their visions and dreams, the ones who weep and howl upon the holy altars, the avatars, the mothers, maidens and crones, the mystics, the oracles, the artists, the musicians, the virgins, the sensual and sexual, the women of our world- I honor you. I stand for you and with you. I celebrate both your autonomy and our sisterhood of One. We are many. We are fierce. We are tender. We are the change agents and we are radically holding and clearing space for the bursting forth of the holy seeds of the collective conscience and consciousness. We are manifestors and flames of purification and transformation. We are living our lives in authenticity, vulnerability, transparency and unapologetically. We are committed to integrity, impeccability, accountability, responsibility and passionate love. We are here on purpose, with purpose and give no energy to conformity, acceptance or approval. We are the daughters of the earth and the courageous of the cosmos. Priestess, keep living your life passionately, raising the cosmic vibrations and lowering your standards for no one. You are brazenly blessed and a force of nature. Nurture yourself and one another. You are a crystalline bridge between realms and uniting heaven and earth. You are a priestess and you are divinely anointed, appointed and unstoppable.

Please,” she cried. “Please.” A fierce roar split the night, shaking the ground, rattling the trees. Suddenly Maddox was beside her again, drowning out the voices. “Foolish Bait,” he spat. More to himself, he added, “Foolish warrior.” Crying

These two Kings and two Queens governed Narnia well, and long and happy was their reign. At first much of their time was spent in seeking out the remnants of the White Witch's army and destroying them, and indeed for a long time there would be news of evil things lurking in the wilder parts of the forest- a haunting here and a killing there, a glimpse of a werewolf one month and a rumor of a hag the next. But in the end all that foul brood was stamped out. And they made good laws and kept the peace and saved good trees from being unnecessarily cut down, and liberated young dwarfs and young satyrs from being sent to school, and generally stopped busybodies and interferers and encouraged ordinary people who wanted to live and let live. And they drove back the fierce giants (quite a different sort from Giant Rumblebuffin) in the North of Narnia when these ventured across the frontier. And they entered into friendship and alliance with countries beyond the sea and paid them visits of state and received visits of state from them. And they themselves grew and changed as the years passed over them. And Peter became a tall and deep-chested man and a great warrior, and he was called King Peter the Magnificent. And Susan grew into a tall and gracious woman with black hair that fell almost to her feet and the kings of the countries beyond the sea began to send ambassadors asking for her hand in marriage. And she was called Queen Susan the Gentle. Edmund was a graver and quieter man than Peter, and great in council and judgement. He was called King Edmund the Just. But as for Lucy, she was always gay and golden-haired, and all the princes in those parts desired her to be their Queen, and her own people called her Queen Lucy the Valiant.

He felt heavy and light at the same time, and the world seemed sharp and beautiful even in a way that jade senses could not improve. There was an ache in his chest—some of the grief that had been arriving in pieces—but also relief, and love. Love for the life pumping through his heart and veins, love for those dear to him—the ones who were gone and the ones who remained, and love also for his city, for Janloon—a place as fierce and honest, as messy and proud and enduring as its Green Bone warriors.

Horrible things. The worst kinds of torture. You drowned me slowly. You burned my heart from my chest. You blinded me.” “I was a monster.” “A monster, a maiden, a sylph of the ice. You kissed me, whispered stories in my ear. You sang to me and held me as I slept. Your laugh chased me into waking.” “You always hated my laugh.” “I loved your laugh, Nina. And your fierce warrior’s heart. I might have loved you, too.” Might have. Once. Before she had betrayed him. Those words carved an ache into her chest.

The Warrior energy also shows what we can call a transpersonal commitment. His loyalty is to something—a cause, a god, a people, a task, a nation—larger than individuals, though that transpersonal loyalty may be focused through some important person, like a king. In the Arthurian stories, Lancelot, though fiercely devoted to Arthur and to Guinevere, is ultimately committed to the ideal of chivalry and to the God who lies behind such things as noble quests, “might for right,” and the lifting up of the oppressed.

The fierce fighting at Fallujah attested to the stalwart nature of the American soldier. In The Iliad a warrior in the front ranks turned to his companion and said, “Let us win glory for ourselves, or yield it to others.” For Greek warriors, there was no true glory if they were not remembered afterward in poem or in song. There will be no true glory for our soldiers in Iraq until they are recognized not as victims, but as aggressive warriors. Stories of their bravery deserved to be recorded and read by the next generation. Unsung, the noblest deed will die.

Belît sprang before the blacks, beating down their spears. She turned toward Conan, her bosom heaving, her eyes flashing. Fierce fingers of wonder caught at his heart. She was slender, yet formed like a goddess: at once lithe and voluptuous. Her only garment was a broad silken girdle. Her white ivory limbs and the ivory globes of her breasts drove a beat of fierce passion through the Cimmerian's pulse, even in the panting fury of battle. Her rich black hair, black as a Stygian night, fell in rippling burnished clusters down her supple back. Her dark eyes burned on the Cimmerian. She was untamed as a desert wind, supple and dangerous as a she-panther. She came close to him, heedless of his great blade, dripping with blood of her warriors. Her supple thigh brushed against it, so close she came to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she stared up into his somber menacing eyes.

I need to see Inej," she said, eager to have him gone. He didn't leave. Instead he said, "Did you think of me at all, Nina? Did I trouble your sleep?" She shrugged. "A Corporalnik can sleep whenever she likes." Though she couldn't control her dreams. "Sleep is a luxury at Hellgate. It's a danger. But when I slept, I dreamed of you." Her head snapped up. "That's right," he said. "Every time I closed my eyes." "What happened in the dreams?" she asked, eager for an answer, but fearing it, too. "Horrible things. The worst kinds of torture. You drowned me slowly. You burned my heart from my chest. You blinded me." "I was a monster." "A monster, a maiden, a sylph of the ice. You kissed me, whispered stories in my ear. You sang to me and held me as I slept. Your laugh chased me into waking." "You always hated my laugh." "I loved your laugh, Nina. And your fierce warrior's heart. I might have loved you, too." Might have. Once. Before she had betrayed him. Those words carved an ache into her chest. She knew she shouldn't speak, but she couldn't help herself. "And what did you do, Matthias? What did you do to me in your dreams?" The ship listed gently. The lanterns swayed. His eyes were fire blue. "Everything," he said, as he turned to go. "Everything.

Dagon studied her, trying to ignore the unconsciously smooth sway of her hips and focus instead on the myriad of questions that mentally bombarded him. She glanced up and caught him staring. “What?” “You aren’t at all intimidated by my soldiers, are you?” “No. Should I be?” “They are all fierce warriors.” She grinned. “I am, too.” Had she been another, he might have laughed. She seemed so small and delicate. But he knew what she had been through, what she had suffered and survived. He’d read the accounts of the Lasarans who credited her with saving their lives. And she had incapacitated Adaos while so weak she could barely stand. He thought fierce an apt description for her.

she said, when I wear these boots no one fucks with me when I tie my past like a scarf around my throat I can freeze the blood of every naive and unabashed up-and-comer when I slide on my desire like glowing black stockings I can make the uninitiated beg for the feel of raw and stinging wood and when I slip my angry black leather belt from its rusty hook the ambitious and guileless cower like a thousand condemned souls when I close my fist, my rings golden with a youth well spent the warriors of Gilead surrender with a breathless whimper and when my shoulders feel the rough comfort of my serape woven with the fibers of a fierce and relentless vengeance you will soon realize these are not my clothes after all, she says, they are warning signs

The woman tensed. As anger and fear ricocheted across her face, her eyes changed from red to green to brown in a dizzying display like nothing he’d ever seen. Every instinct in Angelo’s body screamed at him to lunge for his weapon. Instead he set his feet for impact, blocking her slashing claws. Unbelievably, after a few moments of struggling, she went still, all the fight gone… Minka isn’t sure she should trust the sexy Special Forces soldier who found her. Subjected to horrors, on the run from scientists set on locking her in a cage, Minka is terrified of the monster she’s becoming…and somehow, Angelo is the only one who can calm the beast inside her and make her feel safe. But can she trust the way he makes her feel when she’s not even sure she can trust herself?

That’s because you are a warrior queen, made to shed the blood of our enemies,” he tells me, a fierce pride in his tone as one hand comes up to stroke down the side of my face. “And you are perfect, Lilly Vanderbilt. Just right for us.” A shiver runs down my spine at his words, my inner demon preening at his praise and acceptance. After all, what better way to defeat the monsters that plague us than by becoming monstrous ourselves?

It was raining and I had to walk on the grass. I’ve got mud all over my shoes. They’re brand-new, too.” “I’ll carry you across the grass on the return trip, if you like,” Colby offered with twinkling eyes. “It would have to be over one shoulder, of course,” he added with a wry glance at his artificial arm. She frowned at the bitterness in his tone. He was a little fuzzy because she needed glasses to see at distances. “Listen, nobody in her right mind would ever take you for a cripple,” she said gently and with a warm smile. She laid a hand on his sleeve. “Anyway,” she added with a wicked grin, “I’ve already given the news media enough to gossip about just recently. I don’t need any more complications in my life. I’ve only just gotten rid of one big one.” Colby studied her with an amused smile. She was the only woman he’d ever known that he genuinely liked. He was about to speak when he happened to glance over her shoulder at a man approaching them. “About that big complication, Cecily?” “What about it?” she asked. “I’d say it’s just reappeared with a vengeance. No, don’t turn around,” he said, suddenly jerking her close to him with the artificial arm that looked so real, a souvenir of one of his foreign assignments. “Just keep looking at me and pretend to be fascinated with my nose, and we’ll give him something to think about.” She laughed in spite of the racing pulse that always accompanied Tate’s appearances in her life. She studied Colby’s lean, scarred face. He wasn’t anybody’s idea of a pinup, but he had style and guts and if it hadn’t been for Tate, she would have found him very attractive. “Your nose has been broken twice, I see,” she told Colby. “Three times, but who’s counting?” He lifted his eyes and his eyebrows at someone behind her. “Well, hi, Tate! I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” “Obviously,” came a deep, gruff voice that cut like a knife. Colby loosened his grip on Cecily and moved back a little. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. Tate moved into Cecily’s line of view, half a head taller than Colby Lane. He was wearing evening clothes, like the other men present, but he had an elegance that made him stand apart. She never tired of gazing into his large black eyes which were deep-set in a dark, handsome face with a straight nose, and a wide, narrow, sexy mouth and faintly cleft chin. He was the most beautiful man. He looked as if all he needed was a breastplate and feathers in his hair to bring back the heyday of the Lakota warrior in the nineteenth century. Cecily remembered him that way from the ceremonial gatherings at Wapiti Ridge, and the image stuck stubbornly in her mind. “Audrey likes to rub elbows with the rich and famous,” Tate returned. His dark eyes met Cecily’s fierce green ones. “I see you’re still in Holden’s good graces. Has he bought you a ring yet?” “What’s the matter with you, Tate?” Cecily asked with a cold smile. “Feeling…crabby?” His eyes smoldered as he glared at her. “What did you give Holden to get that job at the museum?” he asked with pure malice. Anger at the vicious insinuation caused her to draw back her hand holding the half-full coffee cup, and Colby caught her wrist smoothly before she could sling the contents at the man towering over her. Tate ignored Colby. “Don’t make that mistake again,” he said in a voice so quiet it was barely audible. He looked as if all his latent hostilities were waiting for an excuse to turn on her. “If you throw that cup at me, so help me, I’ll carry you over and put you down in the punch bowl!” “You and the CIA, maybe!” Cecily hissed. “Go ahead and try…!” Tate actually took a step toward her just as Colby managed to get between them. “Now, now,” he cautioned. Cecily wasn’t backing down an inch. Neither was Tate.

You want to know who the strongest man in the Kabuki District is? You must be new in town. You won't last long with that attitude. Forget it. This town is on a whole different level. You got thugs, brawlers, vigilantes and rogue warriors from all over Edo here. It's like a haven for hooligans. This is for your own good. Have a drink and go back to the countryside. What's that? You want me to tell you about the top dogs before you go? You really like this stuff. First, there are four monsters on a level of their own: The Fierce and Divine Madamoiselle Saigo, Doromizu Jirocho the Gallant, Peacock Princess Kada and Empress Otose. The four factions are in a standoff which preserves a fragile balance of power. Who would be the strongest in a fight? You wouldn't be able to even scratch those beasts. Saigo and Jirocho in particular, were heroes during the Joui War. Well, they're too old to go on a tear now. If you want someone who's currently active, there's Katsuro Kuroguma, a young leader in the Doromizu Faction. He's the most feared man in Kabuki District right now. You'll also find a few former Joui in Saigo's Faction. There are rumours about Kada's Faction having ties to some crazy folk. Otose's Faction? It's just a bar, really. She's just an old lady with a soft heart. But if you try any funny business on her turf, you'll run into a certain guy. A guy who holds his own against the Big Three by himself. One hell of a monster, with hair that's completely white. A demon...

I am Myra Breckinridge whom no man will ever possess. Clad only in garter belt and one dress shield, I held off the entire elite of the Trobriand Islanders, a race who possess no words for "why" or "because." Wielding a stone axe, I broke the arms, the limbs, the balls of their finest warriors, my beauty blinding them, as it does all men, unmanning them in the way that King Kong was reduced to mere simian whimper by beauteous Fay Wray whom I resemble left three-quarter profile if the key light is no more than five feet high during the close shot.

Angelo pulled his uniform overshirt over his head without undoing the buttons, which she thought was a pretty impressive feat. Then she saw what he was hiding under there and decided the view was much more impressive. Technically, he was still clothed, but the light tan T-shirt was really tight, and she didn’t have to use her imagination very much to figure out there were a lot of muscles under it. Just the sight of his big arms rippling as he moved was enough to make Minka catch her breath. When he reached behind his head to pull off his T-shirt, Minka found herself licking her lips in anticipation. She felt bad for watching him like this, but she couldn’t help herself. Then she looked up and saw Angelo regarding her with an amused expression on his handsome face. “I understand why you want to keep the door open, and I’m okay with that,” he said. “But you might want to look the other way for this part.” Minka felt heat rush to her face. She nodded and stepped out of the doorway, turning to sit down on the floor beside the bathroom like Angelo had done. Her fingers dug into the stuffed sloth’s fur. She was glad he couldn’t see her face because it was probably bright red. Why had she been staring like that?

And what about your brother, Agus? Will he be entertaining us with his pipes?” “Agg,” Shanks rasped, wrinkling his nose. “I didn’t tell you? He ain’t with us no more.” A heavy fist slammed on the arm of the Viidun’s chair as he growled, “The idiot went off and got himself killed!” “What?” Derian and Eena replied in unison, both horrified by the news. “You heard me!” Shanks bellowed. “The crazy fool should’ve known when to duck. He died in a bloody challenge with some brainless Deramptium! A downright disgraceful way to die! I’m ashamed to say he was my brother!” “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” Eena muttered, mostly speaking to Derian. “What was that?” the Viidun demanded. Derian whispered a hush to Eena. Addressing Shanks, he expressed their condolences. “We are truly sorry for your loss. Your brother will be sorely missed. On the other hand, we look forward to welcoming you and your crew aboard the Kemeniroc.” Derian held up his right hand, extending his thumb and two adjoining fingers. “Strength, truth, and honor, friend,” he said, ending their conversation. “Strength, truth, and honor,” Shanks repeated. The screen went black. The captain turned to Eena who was still in shock. “You have to understand,” he explained, “the Viiduns are a fiercely competitive people with proud, warring ways. Their culture doesn’t call for much sympathy, especially when it appears one of their own has failed to live up to expectations.” Eena was still disturbed by the lack of compassion. “But that was his brother.” “I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Shanks and Agus were very close. They traveled everywhere together. All I can figure is it’s easier for Shanks to express his anger than his anguish.” “After all that, I’m not sure I want to meet him in person. He scares me,” she admitted. Derian laughed. “He scares everyone. That’s why you want to keep him as an ally and not make him an enemy.

Chapter One: The Dawn and the Dread Heartbeat, heartbeat comes from Valhallan way, To meet down in judgment, to ply its trade. Two →swords← to join in worthy cross, Actions to be rendered, one to be lost. She did come now from ’yond northern slope, A day of reckoning did she again once hope. A devout meeting was her qwesterly bane, To stay her hand was to go insane. St. Kari of the Blade to meet her past, A wicked enemy, peerless of match. Rode Kari she her charger on down, Past the Dead Land where Gaul sat crowned. A killing job, yea, she desired to lastly kill, To set things right so her heart might lie still. Upon the mist and roaring plain, She entered in, a soul uncontained. A fierce wind in deed, and forever freed, Enemies she annihilhates (’tis hur’ creed). Her own advanced guard of a sort, Multitudes to follow in her report. Know this Valkyrie from on cold, An ancient maiden soft and bold. A warrior spirit from Ages past, A fragmented mind like broken glass. Solid in stature this eternal framed being, Yet crippled within from internaled bleedings. A sword saint so refined in the poetic art, A noble character yet with a banshee’s heart. Rhythmed horse now to the beats, Kari emboldened amid the sleet. Beyond the mountain she does come, Unto southern fields wherein rules hot sun. Far from that murderous Deadlands ground, The land up swells; the dead still abound. Traverses she those bygones of leprous civilizations Those cities crumbled by the exhalted of oblivions. Stark traces etched now bare in the land, That are no more again, save dust in the hand. A cool stream now in desert sans (Does more good when one is damned). Stopped she her mount to admire the flow, A lovely stream with skeletons packed below. Blue air whisps; dragon flied motion. Flintsteel striking!!! Sparked of commotion. Cold water chortles rushtish with tint, Told of past carnage, it whetted her glint. Fallen warriors, they are no more, Swirls and eddies mark their discord. Gurgled shouts slung and gathered, Faces glazed while steel lathered. Refreshing though it was to her mouth, She smelled an air; she flared about. Came up that ridge of loud, sanded hill, Below a man and his half-score of kills. Kari’s eyes waxed in smug contempt, Possibilities ran deep with no repent . . . On Kari, Valkyrie, Cold Steel Eternity Vol. II

It’s only a region. A few scattered dwellings at most. We’re farmers there. Mostly farmers. And you? Where are you from?” A nameless region? Maybe. And he was strong, fit, tanned from the sun like a farmer might be, but there was also so much that seemed very unfarmerish about him—the way he spoke, even the way he carried himself—and especially his unnerving blue eyes. They were fierce, like a warrior’s. They weren’t the eyes of a content farmer passing his days turning the soil. I took the berry still poised in his fingers and popped it in my mouth. Where was I from? I narrowed my eyes and smiled. “A small town in the northernmost part of Morrighan. Mostly farmers. Only a region, really. A few scattered dwellings. At most. No name.” He couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Then we come from opposite but similar worlds, don’t we?” I

At the same moment a gasp came from Cinderpaw. To Fireheart’s amazement she shot forward, propelling herself over the snow as fast as her injured leg would allow. “No, Cloudkit!” she yowled. She barreled into the kit, bowling him over. Cloudkit squealed in shock and the two cats scuffled together on the ground. Fireheart bounded over, anxious that Cloudkit might hurt the injured Cinderpaw, but as he reached them she pushed the kit off her and sat up, panting. “Did you touch one?” she demanded. “N-No,” Cloudkit stammered, puzzled. “I was only—” “Look.” Cinderpaw shoved him around until his nose was a mouse-length from the bush. Fireheart had never heard her sound so fierce. “Look but don’t touch. That’s yew. The berries are so poisonous they are called deathberries. Even one could kill you.” Cloudkit’s eyes were round as the full moon. Speechless for once, he gazed, horrified, at Cinderpaw.

In a battle ‘Alī confronted a powerful enemy and after a fierce fight was able to throw the enemy to the ground and sit on his chest with his sword drawn. At this moment the enemy warrior spat in ‘Alī’s face, whereupon ‘Alī immediately disengaged himself and abstained from delivering a blow with his sword. The enemy warrior, who was an idol worshipper, had never seen such an event. He became agitated and asked ‘Alī why he had not killed him. The response of ‘Alī, which in the verses of the Mathnawī constitutes one of the masterpieces of Sufi poetry, was that ‘Alī was fighting at first for the preservation of the Truth, but once the enemy warrior spat in his face ‘Alī became angry, and he would never react on the basis of anger and certainly not get into a battle or slay someone for personal or selfish reasons. In Rūmī’s words, ‘Alī responded: Said he, “I wield the sword for the sake of the Truth, I am the servant of the Truth not the functionary of the body. I am the lion of the Truth, not the lion of passions, My action does witness bear to my religion.

Rhys looked them each in the eye, even my sisters, his hand brushing the back of my own. 'Do you want the inspiring talk or the bleak one?' he asked. 'We want the real one,' Amren said. Rhys pushed his shoulders back, elegantly folding his wings behind him. 'I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, of the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don't know. I don't really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn't... I might have become as awful as the price we're going to face today. If I had not met an Illyrian warrior-in-training,' he said to Cassian, 'I would not have known the true depth of strength, of resilience, of honour and loyalty.' Cassian's eyes gleamed bright. Rhys said to Azriel, 'If I had not met a shadowsinger, I would not have known that it is the family you make not the one you are born into, that matters. I would not have known what it is to truly hope, even when the world tells you to despair.' Azriel bowed his head in thanks. Mor was already crying when Rhys spoke to her. 'If I had not met my cousin, I would never have learned that light can be found in even the darkest of hells. That kindness can thrive even amongst cruelty.' She wiped away her tears as she nodded. I waited for Amren to offer a retort. But she was only waiting. Rhys bowed his head to her. 'If I had not met a tiny monster who hoards jewels more fiercely than a firedrake...' A quiet laugh from all of us at that. Rhys smiled softly. 'My own power would have consumed me long ago.' Rhys squeezed my hand as he looked to me at last. 'And if I had not met my mate...' His words failed him as silver lined his eyes. He said down the bond, I would have waited five hundred more years for you. A thousand years. And if this was all the time we were allowed to have... The wait was worth it. He wiped away the tears sliding down my face. 'I believe that everything happened, exactly the way it had to... so I could find you.' He kissed another tear away. And then he said to my sisters, 'We have not known each other for long. But I have to believe that you were brought here, into our family, for a reason, too. And maybe today we'll find out why.' He surveyed them all again- and held out his hand to Cassian. Cassian took it, and held out his other for Mor. Then Mor extended her other to Azriel. Azriel to Amren. Amren to Nesta. Nesta to Elain. And Elain to me. Until we were all linked, all bound together. Rhys said, 'We will walk out onto that field and only accept Death when it comes to haul us away to the Otherworld. We will fight for life, for survival, for our futures. But if it is decided by that tapestry of Fate or the Cauldron or the Mother that we do not walk off that field today...' His chin lifted. 'The great joy and honour of my life has been to know you. To call you my family. And I am grateful- more than I can possibly say- that I was given this time with you all.' 'We are grateful, Rhysand,' Amren said quietly. 'More than you know.' Rhys gave her a small smile as the others murmured their agreement. He squeezed my hand again as he said, 'Then let's go make Hybern very ungrateful to have known us, too.

Major General Leonard Wood Leonard Wood was an army officer and physician, born October 9, 1860 in Winchester, New Hampshire. His first assignment was in 1886 at Fort Huachuca, Arizona where he fought in the last campaign against the fierce Apache warrior Geronimo. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for carrying dispatches 100 miles through hostile territory and was promoted to the rank of Captain, commanding a detachment of the 8th Infantry. From 1887 to 1898, he served as a medical officer in a number of positions, the last of which was as the personal physician to President William McKinley. In 1898 at the beginning of the war with Spain, he was given command of the 1st Volunteer Cavalry. The regiment was soon to be known as the “Rough Riders." Wood lead his men on the famous charge up San Juan Hill and was given a field promotion to brigadier general. In 1898 he was appointed the Military Governor of Santiago de Cuba. In 1920, as a retired Major General, Wood ran as the Republican candidate for the presidency of the United States, losing to Warren Harding. In 1921 following his defeat, General Wood accepted the post of Governor General of the Philippines. He held this position from 1921 to 1927, when he died of a brain tumor in Boston, on 7 August 1927, at 66 years of age after which he was buried, with full honors, in Arlington National Cemetery.

She is also the power behind spiritual awakening, the inner force that unleashes spiritual power within the human body in the form of kundalini. And she is a guardian: beautiful, queenly, and fierce. Paintings of Durga show her with flowing hair, a red sari, bangles, necklaces, a crown—and eight arms bristling with weapons. Durga carries a spear, a mace, a discus, a bow, and a sword—as well as a conch (representing creative sound), a lotus (symbolizing fertility), and a rosary (symbolizing prayer). In one version of her origin, she appears as a divine female warrior, brought into manifestation by the male gods to save them from the buffalo demon, Mahisha. The assembled gods, furious and powerless over a demon who couldn’t be conquered, sent forth their anger as a mass of light and power. Their combined strength coalesced into the form of a radiantly beautiful woman who filled every direction with her light. Her face was formed by Shiva; her hair came from Yama, the god of death; her arms were given by Vishnu. Shiva gave her his trident, Vishnu his discus, Vayu—the wind god—offered his bow and arrow. The mountain god, Himalaya, gave her the lion for her mount. Durga set forth to battle the demon for the sake of the world, armed and protected by all the powers of the divine masculine.1 As a world protector, Durga’s fierceness arises out of her uniquely potent compassion. She is the deity to call on when you’re

Why didn’t they ask two of the guards to go with them?” Milo asked. “A soldier’s not a servant,” I told him. “The most loyal Spartan warrior would be insulted if he was asked to be a weapons bearer, even for a prince. It looks like Castor and Polydeuces will have to take care of themselves.” Milo looked away from me. I was puzzled by this sudden shyness and tried to catch his eye, but he deliberately avoided my gaze. He reeked of guilty secrets. “You’re the one,” I said. “You’re the scrawn--the boy Castor asked to go with him.” His silence was the same as shouting Yes! I knew it. “You just told me you wanted to join the quest for the fleece. You could have done it: Why didn’t you?” “I couldn’t,” he mumbled. “Why not? Because it’s safer to talk about dreams than to try making them real? What are you so afraid of?” “Nothing!” He yelled so fiercely that a pair of oxen grazing in a nearby field snorted and moved farther away from us. It was the first time I ever saw fire in Milo’s eyes. “I’m no coward. That’s not why I wouldn’t go with your brothers. I have to go with you.” “Who said so? You’re free now, Milo. Don’t you know what that means? You can come and go anywhere you like. You ought to appreciate it.” “I appreciate you, Lady Helen!” Once Milo raised his voice, he couldn’t stop. He shouted so loudly that the two oxen trotted to the far side of the pasture as fast as they could move their massive bodies. “You’re the one who gave me my freedom. If I love to be fifty, I’ll never be able to repay you!” Milo’s uproar attracted the attention of the two guards, but I waved them back when I saw them coming toward us. “Do you think you could be grateful quietly?” I asked. “This is between us, not us and all Delphi.

So what did you and Landon do this afternoon?” Minka asked, her soft voice dragging him back to the present. Angelo looked up to see that Minka had already polished off two fajitas. Damn, the girl could eat. “Landon gave me a tour of the DCO complex. I did some target shooting and blew up a few things. He even let me play with the expensive surveillance toys. I swear, it felt more like a recruiting pitch to get me to work there than anything.” Minka’s eyes flashed green, her full lips curving slightly. Damn, why the hell had he said it like that? Now she probably thought he was going to come work for the DCO. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, not after just reenlisting for another five years. The army wasn’t the kind of job where you could walk into the boss’s office and say, “I quit.” Thinking it would be a good idea to steer the conversation back to safer ground, he reached for another fajita and asked Minka a question instead. “What do you think you’ll work on next with Ivy and Tanner? You going to practice with the claws for a while or move on to something else?” Angelo felt a little crappy about changing the subject, but if Minka noticed, she didn’t seem to mind. And it wasn’t like he had to fake interest in what she was saying. Anything that involved Minka was important to him. Besides, he didn’t know much about shifters or hybrids, so the whole thing was pretty damn fascinating. “What do you visualize when you see the beast in your mind?” he asked. “Before today, I thought of it as a giant, blurry monster. But after learning that the beast is a cat, that’s how I picture it now.” She smiled. “Not a little house cat, of course. They aren’t scary enough. More like a big cat that roams the mountains.” “Makes sense,” he said. Minka set the other half of her fourth fajita on her plate and gave him a curious look. “Would you mind if I ask you a personal question?” His mouth twitched as he prepared another fajita. He wasn’t used to Minka being so reserved. She usually said whatever was on her mind, regardless of whether it was personal or not. “Go ahead,” he said. “The first time we met, I had claws, fangs, glowing red eyes, and I tried to kill you. Since then, I’ve spent most of the time telling you about an imaginary creature that lives inside my head and makes me act like a monster. How are you so calm about that? Most people would have run away already.” Angelo chuckled. Not exactly the personal question he’d expected, but then again Minka rarely did the expected. “Well, my mom was full-blooded Cherokee, and I grew up around all kinds of Indian folktales and legends. My dad was in the army, and whenever he was deployed, Mom would take my sisters and me back to the reservation where she grew up in Oklahoma. I’d stay up half the night listening to the old men tell stories about shape-shifters, animal spirits, skin-walkers, and trickster spirits.” He grinned. “I’m not saying I necessarily believed in all that stuff back then, but after meeting Ivy, Tanner, and the other shifters at the DCO, it just didn’t faze me that much.” Minka looked at him with wide eyes. “You’re a real American Indian? Like in the movies? With horses and everything?” He laughed again. The expression of wonder on her face was adorable. “First, I’m only half-Indian. My dad is Mexican, so there’s that. And second, Native Americans are almost nothing like you see in the movies. We don’t all live in tepees and ride horses. In fact, I don’t even own a horse.” Minka was a little disappointed about the no-horse thing, but she was fascinated with what it was like growing up on an Indian reservation and being surrounded by all those legends. She immediately asked him to tell her some Indian stories. It had been a long time since he’d thought about them, but to make her happy, he dug through his head and tried to remember every tale he’d heard as a kid.

I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noonday prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members. They fought with more pertinacity than bulldogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was "Conquer or die." In the meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hillside of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from afar—for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red—he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick—"Fire! for God's sake fire!"—and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.