Fighting Silent Battles Quotes

He glares at me as if he already hates it. “What is it?” I consider lying but what’s the point? I clear my throat. “Pooky Bear." He’s silent for so long I’m beginning to think he didn’t hear me when he finally says, “Pooky. Bear.” “It was just a little joke. I didn’t know.” “I’ve mentioned that names have power, right? Do you realize that when she fights battles, she’s going to have to announce herself to the opposing sword? She’ll be forced to say something ridiculous like, ‘I am Pooky Bear, from an ancient line of archangel swords.’ Or, ‘Bow down to me, Pooky Bear, who has only two other equals in all the worlds.’ ” He shakes his head. “How is she going to get any respect?

All too often, when we see injustices, both great and small, we think, That's terrible, but we do nothing. We say nothing. We let other people fight their own battles. We remain silent because silence is easier. Qui tacet consentire videtur is Latin for 'Silence gives consent.' When we say nothing, when we do nothing, we are consenting to these trespasses against us.

They want us to be afraid. They want us to be afraid of leaving our homes. They want us to barricade our doors and hide our children. Their aim is to make us fear life itself! They want us to hate. They want us to hate 'the other'. They want us to practice aggression and perfect antagonism. Their aim is to divide us all! They want us to be inhuman. They want us to throw out our kindness. They want us to bury our love and burn our hope. Their aim is to take all our light! They think their bricked walls will separate us. They think their damned bombs will defeat us. They are so ignorant they don’t understand that my soul and your soul are old friends. They are so ignorant they don’t understand that when they cut you I bleed. They are so ignorant they don’t understand that we will never be afraid, we will never hate and we will never be silent for life is ours!

What did she say?” asked Matthias. Nina coughed and took his arm, leading him away. “She said you’re a very nice fellow, and a credit to the Fjerdan race. Ooh, look, blini! I haven’t had proper blini in forever.” “That word she used: babink,” he said. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?” Nina directed her attention to a stack of paper-thin buttered pancakes. “It means sweetie pie.” “Nina—” “Barbarian.” “I was just asking, there’s no need to name-call.” “No, babink means barbarian.” Matthias’ gaze snapped back to the old woman, his glower returning to full force. Nina grabbed his arm. It was like trying to hold on to a boulder. “She wasn’t insulting you! I swear!” “Barbarian isn’t an insult?” he asked, voice rising. “No. Well, yes. But not in this context. She wanted to know if you’d like to play Princess and Barbarian.” “It’s a game?” “Not exactly.” “Then what is it?” Nina couldn’t believe she was actually going to attempt to explain this. As they continued up the street, she said, “In Ravka, there’s a popular series of stories about, um, a brave Fjerdan warrior—” “Really?” Matthias asked. “He’s the hero?” “In a manner of speaking. He kidnaps a Ravkan princess—” “That would never happen.” “In the story it does, and”—she cleared her throat—“they spend a long time getting to know each other. In his cave.” “He lives in a cave?” “It’s a very nice cave. Furs. Jeweled cups. Mead.” “Ah,” he said approvingly. “A treasure hoard like Ansgar the Mighty. They become allies, then?” Nina picked up a pair of embroidered gloves from another stand. “Do you like these? Maybe we could get Kaz to wear something with flowers. Liven up his look.” “How does the story end? Do they fight battles?” Nina tossed the gloves back on the pile in defeat. “They get to know each other intimately.” Matthias’ jaw dropped. “In the cave?” “You see, he’s very brooding, very manly,” Nina hurried on. “But he falls in love with the Ravkan princess and that allows her to civilize him—” “To civilize him?” “Yes, but that’s not until the third book.” “There are three?” “Matthias, do you need to sit down?” “This culture is disgusting. The idea that a Ravkan could civilize a Fjerdan—” “Calm down, Matthias.” “Perhaps I’ll write a story about insatiable Ravkans who like to get drunk and take their clothes off and make unseemly advances toward hapless Fjerdans.” “Now that sounds like a party.” Matthias shook his head, but she could see a smile tugging at his lips. She decided to push the advantage. “We could play,” she murmured, quietly enough so that no one around them could hear. “We most certainly could not.” “At one point he bathes her.” Matthias’ steps faltered. “Why would he—” “She’s tied up, so he has to.” “Be silent.” “Already giving orders. That’s very barbarian of you. Or we could mix it up. I’ll be the barbarian and you can be the princess. But you’ll have to do a lot more sighing and trembling and biting your lip.” “How about I bite your lip?” “Now you’re getting the hang of it, Helvar.

You never know the silent battles people are fighting, even the people you think you’re closest to. You’ll never walk in my shoes, and I’ll never walk in yours.

Have you named her yet?” he asks. “She likes powerful names so maybe you could appease her by giving her a good one.” I bite my lip as I remember telling Dee-Dum what I named my sword. “Um, I could rename her anything she likes.” I give him a cheesy smile. He looks like he’s bracing himself for the worst. “She gets named once by each carrier. If you’ve named her, she’s stuck with it for as long as she’s with you.” Damn. He glares at me as if he already hates it. “What is it?” I consider lying but what’s the point? I clear my throat. “Pooky Bear.” He’s silent for so long I’m beginning to think he didn’t hear me when he finally says, “Pooky. Bear.” “It was just a little joke. I didn’t know.” “I’ve mentioned that names have power, right? Do you realize that when she fights battles, she’s going to have to announce herself to the opposing sword? She’ll be forced to say something ridiculous like, ‘I am Pooky Bear, from an ancient line of archangel swords.’ Or, ‘Bow down to me, Pooky Bear, who has only two other equals in all the worlds.’ ” He shakes his head. “How is she going to get any respect?

Sometimes the strongest among us are the ones who smile through silent pain, cry behind closed doors, and fight battles nobody knows about. —Unknown Author

No one sees your strength, do they? No one sees the silent battle you fight against your overprotective mind that’s trying to keep you safe from harm by keeping you safe from risk, safe from connection, safe from honesty. Maybe others don’t see, but you see it sometimes, don’t you? In the mirror, in those eyes, begging for someone to notice. You have noticed. It is real. You are strong. You are fighting for something incredible. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise—especially not your thoughts.

Peter had spent his whole life in a town where fights were either drunken and friendly, or silent and petty. True war was foreign to him. He thought of how scared and confused he had been when the battle broke out in the Nest; he was in a different world now.

She has a quiet confidence that screams loud. She is humble, but strong. She is stable, but rebellious. She is giving, but not naive. She chooses her battles wisely. She'll stay silent until it's time to fight...and when that time comes; FIGHT, she does.

We will not die cornered and cowering in the ruins of a dead city.

That's kind of the point – you never know everything, even when you think you might. You never know the silent battles people are fighting, even the people you think you're closest to. You'll never walk in my shoes, and I'll never walk in yours. And we shouldn't have to in order to empathise with each other.

There is never a guarantee of survival, no matter your strength or skill or wit. There is only the day you are conceived and the day you die, and all else is a series of moments you either embrace or endure.

It’s almost deafening silence is the anchor to those who take shelter in its wake. It’s a war within the mind ,the battle with in the heart. Take shelter in your war you can almost hear the silent cries. Be gentle, be kind because even in silence everyone is fighting.

true hero is one who smiles through silent pain and fights battles nobody knows about.

All too often, when we see injustices, both great and small, we think, That’s terrible, but we do nothing. We say nothing. We let other people fight their own battles. We remain silent because silence is easier. Qui

My name is CRPS, or so they say But I actually go by; a few different names. I was once called causalgia, nearly 150 years ago And then I had a new name It was RSD, apparently so. I went by that name because the burn lived inside of me. Now I am called CRPS, because I have so much to say I struggle to be free. I don't have one symptom and this is where I change, I attack the home of where I live; with shooting/burning pains. Depression fills the mind of the body I belong, it starts to speak harsh to self, negativity growing strong. Then I start to annoy them; with the issues with sensitivity, You'd think the pain enough; but no, it wants to make you aware of its trembling disability. I silently make my move; but the screams are loud and clear, Because I enter your physical reality and you can't disappear. I confuse your thoughts; I contain apart of your memory, I cover your perspective, the fog makes it sometimes unbearable to see. I play with your temperature levels, I make you nervous all the time - I take away your independance and take away your pride. I stay with you by the day & I remind you by the night, I am an awful journey and you will struggle with this fight. Then there's a side to me; not many understand, I have the ability to heal and you can be my friend. Help yourself find the strength to fight me with all you have, because eventually I'll get tired of making you grow mad. It will take some time; remember I mainly live inside your brain, Curing me is hard work but I promise you, You can beat me if you feed love to my pain. Find the strength to carry on and feed the fears with light; hold on to the seat because, like I said, it's going to be a fight. But I hope to meet you, when your healthy and healed, & you will silenty say to me - I did this, I am cured is this real? That day could possibly come; closer than I want- After all I am a disease and im fighting for my spot. I won't deny from my medical angle, I am close to losing the " incurable " battle.

I’ve spent hours and hours with women who suffer from an array of mental illnesses, and there’s a common thread that runs through all of them. They’re strong and incredibly resilient people. They battle an invisible and silent disease every single day of their lives, and they fight hard.

Peter, Adam's Son," said Father Christmas. "Here, sir," said Peter. "These are your presents," was the answer, "and they are tools, not toys. The time to use them is perhaps near at hand. Bear them well." With these words he handed to Peter a shield and a sword. The shield was the color of silver and across it there ramped a red lion, as bright as a ripe strawberry at the moment when you pick it. The hilt of the sword was of gold and it had a sheath and a sword belt and everything it needed, and it was just the right size and weight for Peter to use. Peter was silent and solemn as he received these gifts, for he felt they were a very serious kind of present. "Susan, Eve's Daughter," said Father Christmas. "These are for you," and he handed her a bow and a quiver full of arrows and a little ivory horn. "You must use the bow only in great need," he said, "for I do not mean you to fight in the battle. It does not easily miss. And when you put this horn to your lips and blow it, then, wherever you are, I think help of some kind will come to you." Last of all he said, "Lucy, Eve's Daughter," and Lucy came forward. He gave her a little bottle of what looked like glass (but people said afterwards that it was made of diamond) and a small dagger. "In this bottle," he said, "there is a cordial made of the juice of one of the fire-flowers that grow on the mountains of the sun. If you or any of your friends is hurt, a few drops of this will restore them. And the dagger is to defend yourself at great need. For you also are not to be in the battle." "Why, sir?" said Lucy. "I think- I don't know- but I think I could be brave enough." "That is not the point," he said. "But battles are ugly when women fight.

The strongest among us are the ones who cry behind closed doors, have the ability to smile through silent pain, and fight battles that are obscured by shame.

If she captured Tamlin’s power once, who’s to say she can’t do it again?” It was the question I hadn’t yet dared voice. “He won’t be tricked again so easily,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “Her biggest weapon is that she keeps our powers contained. But she can’t access them, not wholly—though she can control us through them. It’s why I’ve never been able to shatter her mind—why she’s not dead already. The moment you break Amarantha’s curse, Tamlin’s wrath will be so great that no force in the world will keep him from splattering her on the walls.” A chill went through me. “Why do you think I’m doing this?” He waved a hand to me. “Because you’re a monster.” He laughed. “True, but I’m also a pragmatist. Working Tamlin into a senseless fury is the best weapon we have against her. Seeing you enter into a fool’s bargain with Amarantha was one thing, but when Tamlin saw my tattoo on your arm … Oh, you should have been born with my abilities, if only to have felt the rage that seeped from him.” I didn’t want to think much about his abilities. “Who’s to say he won’t splatter you as well?” “Perhaps he’ll try—but I have a feeling he’ll kill Amarantha first. That’s what it all boils down to, anyway: even your servitude to me can be blamed on her. So he’ll kill her tomorrow, and I’ll be free before he can start a fight with me that will reduce our once-sacred mountain to rubble.” He picked at his nails. “And I have a few other cards to play.” I lifted my brows in silent question. “Feyre, for Cauldron’s sake. I drug you, but you don’t wonder why I never touch you beyond your waist or arms?” Until tonight—until that damned kiss. I gritted my teeth, but even as my anger rose, a picture cleared. “It’s the only claim I have to innocence,” he said, “the only thing that will make Tamlin think twice before entering into a battle with me that would cause a catastrophic loss of innocent life. It’s the only way I can convince him I was on your side. Believe me, I would have liked nothing more than to enjoy you—but there are bigger things at stake than taking a human woman to my bed.” I knew, but I still asked, “Like what?” “Like my territory,” he said, and his eyes held a far-off look that I hadn’t yet seen. “Like my remaining people, enslaved to a tyrant queen who can end their lives with a single word. Surely Tamlin expressed similar sentiments to you.” He hadn’t—not entirely. He hadn’t been able to, thanks to the curse. “Why did Amarantha target you?” I dared ask. “Why make you her whore?” “Beyond the obvious?” He gestured to his perfect face. When I didn’t smile, he loosed a breath. “My father killed Tamlin’s father—and his brothers.” I started. Tamlin had never said—never told me the Night Court was responsible for that. “It’s a long story, and I don’t feel like getting into it, but let’s just say that when she stole our lands out from under us, Amarantha decided that she especially wanted to punish the son of her friend’s murderer—decided that she hated me enough for my father’s deeds that I was to suffer.” I might have reached a hand toward him, might have offered my apologies—but every thought had dried up in my head. What Amarantha had done to him … “So,” he said wearily, “here we are, with the fate of our immortal world in the hands of an illiterate human.

Philip was silent. These discussions of personal relations always made him uncomfortable. They threatened his solitude - that solitude which, with a part of his mind, he deplored (for he felt himself cut off from much he would have liked to experience), but in which alone he felt himself free. At ordinary times he took this inward solitude for granted, as one accepts the atmosphere in which one lives. But when it was menaced, he became only too painfully aware of its importance to him; he fought for it, as a choking man fights for air. But it was a fight without violence, a negative battle of retirement and defence.

Something creaked beneath me! A soft step on rotting wood! I jumped startled, scared, and turned, expecting to see-God knows what! Then I sighed, for it was only Chris standing in the gloom, silently staring at me. Why? Did I look prettier than usual? Was it the moonlight, shining through my airy clothes? All random doubts were cleared when he said in a voice gritty and low, "You look beautiful sitting there like that." He cleared the frog in his throat. "The moonlight is etching you with silver-blue, and I can see the shape of your body through your clothes." Then, bewilderingly, he seized me by the shoulders, digging in his fingers, hard! They hurt. "Damn you, Cathy! You kissed that man! He could have awakened and seen you, and demanded to know who you were! And not thought you only a part of his dream!" Scary the way he acted, the fright I felt for no reason at all. "How do you know what I did? You weren't there; you were sick that night." He shook me, glaring his eyes, and again I thought he seemed a stranger. "He saw you, Cathy-he wasn't soundly asleep!" "He saw me?" I cried, disbelieving. It wasn't possible . . . wasn't! "Yes!" he yelled. This was Chris, who was usually in such control of his emotions. "He thought you a part of his dream! But don't you know Momma can guess who it was, just by putting two and two together-just as I have? Damn you and your romantic notions! Now they're on to us! They won't leave money casually about as they did before. He's counting, she's counting, and we don't have enough-not yet!" He yanked me down from the widow sill! He appeared wild and furious enough to slap my face-and not once in all our lives had he ever struck me, though I'd given him reason to when I was younger. But he shook me until my eyes rolled, until I was dizzy and crying out: "Stop! Momma knows we can't pass through a looked door!" This wasn't Chris . . . this was someone I'd never seen before . . . primitive, savage. He yelled out something like, "You're mine, Cathy! Mine! You'll always be mine! No matter who comes into your future, you'll always belong to me! I'll make you mine . . . tonight . . . now!" I didn't believe it, not Chris! And I did not fully understand what he had in mind, nor, if I am to give him credit, do I think he really meant what he said, but passion has a way of taking over. We fell to the floor, both of us. I tried to fight him off. We wrestled, turning over and over, writhing, silent, a frantic strug- gle of his strength against mine. It wasn't much of a battle. I had the strong dancer's legs; he had the biceps, the greater weight and height . . . and he had much more determination than i to use something hot, swollen and demanding, so much it stile reasoning and sanity from him. And I loved him. I wanted what he wanted-if he wanted it that much, right and wrong. Somehow we ended up on that old mattress-that filthy, smelly, stained mattress that must have known lovers long before this night. And that is where he took me, and forced in that swollen, rigid male sex part of him that had to be satisfied. It drove into my tight and resisting flesh which tore and bled. Now we had done what we both swore we'd never do.

It’s a silent war that hits the poor hardest but also hammers the middle class. Its victims, for the most part, lack economic power, access to lawyers, or well-funded political organizations to fight their battles. The result is widespread damage that all too often passes for inevitability.

him." "Oh, I wish we had the old days back again," exclaimed Jem. "I'd love to be a soldier—a great, triumphant general. I'd give EVERYTHING to see a big battle." Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater battle than had ever been fought in the world; but that was as yet far in the future; and the mother, whose first-born son he was, was wont to look on her boys and thank God that the "brave days of old," which Jem longed for, were gone for ever, and that never would it be necessary for the sons of Canada to ride forth to battle "for the ashes of their fathers and the temples of their gods." The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet made felt any forerunner of its chill. The lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall, on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli and Palestine, were still roguish schoolboys with a fair life in prospect before them: the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes and dreams. Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave up their crimson and gold; slowly the conqueror's pageant faded out. Twilight crept over the valley and the little group grew silent. Walter had been reading again that day in his beloved book of myths and he remembered how he had once fancied the Pied Piper coming down the valley on an evening just like this. He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrill his companions a little, partly because something apart from him seemed to be speaking through his lips. "The Piper is coming nearer," he said, "he is nearer than he was that evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes—he pipes—and we must follow—Jem and Carl and Jerry and I—round and round the world. Listen— listen—can't you hear his wild music?" The girls shivered. "You know you're only pretending," protested Mary Vance, "and I wish you wouldn't. You make it too real. I hate that old Piper of yours." But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood up on a little hillock, tall and splendid, with his open brow and his fearless eyes. There were thousands like him all over the land of the maple. "Let the Piper come and welcome," he cried, waving

Hubris you say, brother? Please, tell us the nature of the prince's actions against you. Let everyone know exactly how Prince Styxx offended you." Bethany Disguised as Athena "He has held himself up as a god. His arrogance and pride are an affront to us all." Apollo "Held himself up as a god? Pray tell, when was this? .... Ah, yes, I remember... It was when he dared to slay your Atlantean grandson during battle. Is that not right, brother? I'm sure, like me, you remember that day well. The Atlanteans, led to our shores by your own blood kin, were slaughtering hundreds of Greeks until the beach sands turned red from good Greek blood. The onslaught was so fierce that entire veteran regiments fled from the Atlanteans and cowered. Even the brave, noble Dorians pulled back in fear. But not Prince Styxx. He rode in like a lion and jumped from his horse to save the life of a young shield-bearer who was about to be killed by one of the Atlantean giants." Bethany/Athena Bethany swept her gaze around the people there, who were completely silent now. "And with reckless disregard for his own life and limb, this prince picked the boy up and put him on the back of his royal steed and told him to ride to safety. He spent the rest of the day fighting on foot. Not as a prince or a god, but as a mere, heroic Greek soldier." She turned back to Apollo. "His actions so enraged the Atlantean gods that they turned all of their animosity toward him. And still Prince Styxx fought on for his people, wounded, bloody, and tired. He never backed off or backed down. Not even when your own grandson almost buried his axe through the prince's skull. He hit Styxx's hoplon so hard, it splintered a portion of it off. And as Xan held the prince down, the prince, who was barely more than a child, managed to stab him through the ribs. But now that I think about it, you don't remember that day, do you, Apollo? You weren't even there when it was fought, but later that very night-

Because the thing is that it’s not my fault either. That I was born this way. It’s not my fault that sometimes things get just a little bit harder. It’s not my fault that every day I fight a silent battle. I implode. I don’t make a sound. I don’t say a word. I don’t let anyone know what I’m going through. It’s like I’m blaming myself. And I don’t want to do that anymore. I told you because it’s not my fault. It’s not my fault that some days my goal is just to make it through the day. While others make plans to ace an interview or a test or go see a movie or for a walk, I make plans to just get through the day. It’s not my fault. It’s my achievement. It’s my strength that I fight. Someone told me that I’m a warrior, and that I’m ashamed of it. So this is me…” I nod, unfisting my hands. “Not being ashamed. This is me asking for help.

Lad, the Fish-Suit was one of the Special Forces during Corp Wars. They don't give off much electromagnetic radiation and they are quiet to move about in, if the user chooses. They were the sabotage units. Not much use in a fight, but they'd go in and wreck the enemies capability before the battle even started. More civilians died to them than were collateral damage in any battle," he said. "There was a time when they weren't liked by any side.

There is no other way," she insisted. "Nothing else but to use you as bait? Madness!" "Don't make me say it." "Say what?" Wolf asked. He was leaning against a pillar, Cymbra close by, observing his brother with the air of a man torn between sympathy and amusement. Gritting his teeth,Dragon said, "That I used her as such to lure out Magnus. It almost got her killed." "Me? What about you?" Rycca demanded, momentarily forgetting her purpose. That night of terror still lived too vividly in her memory. "It almost got you killed. You're the one who had to fight him, naked, unarmed, and him having your Moorish sword." Hawk and Wolf exchanged a look. "That's how Magnus died?" Wolf asked. He grinned. "Pretty damn good,brother." The women looked to the ceiling and sighed in exasperation. It was left to Hawk to break the deadlock. "I hate to say this, but Rycca has a point. Unless Wolscroft is lured out,this can't be resolved." "So you would use my wife-" Dragon challenged. "Fully protected," Hawk hastened to add, "surrounded by all our might. There is only one road and the forest on both sides is very thick.We could hide a hundred men within a few feet of that road and no one could detect them." Dragon was silent for a moment. He gave every appearance of waging a battle within himself. Finally,he said, "A hundred men isn't enough." Rycca's heart leaped,for she recognized that as just the tiniest concession to the plan they were discussing. "Don't forget Krysta's friends," she said quickly. "They will help too." Her husband scowled. "What friends?" "It's a little complicated," Hawk replied. "Let's just say my wife has friends in high places...and low ones. Wolscroft won't be able to belch without our knowing it." "I still don't like it..." Rycca took her husband's hand in hers. She looked up into his eyes. Gently, with all the confidence and courage she coud muster,she said, "We will never be free until this is over.

When a man seats before his eyes the bronze face of his helmet and steps off from the line of departure, he divides himself, as he divides his ‘ticket,’ in two parts. One part he leaves behind. That part which takes delight in his children, which lifts his voice in the chorus, which clasps his wife to him in the sweet darkness of their bed. “That half of him, the best part, a man sets aside and leaves behind. He banishes from his heart all feelings of tenderness and mercy, all compassion and kindness, all thought or concept of the enemy as a man, a human being like himself. He marches into battle bearing only the second portion of himself, the baser measure, that half which knows slaughter and butchery and turns the blind eye to quarter. He could not fight at all if he did not do this.” The men listened, silent and solemn. Leonidas at that time was fifty-five years old. He had fought in more than two score battles, since he was twenty; wounds as ancient as thirty years stood forth, lurid upon his shoulders and calves, on his neck and across his steel-colored beard. “Then this man returns, alive, out of the slaughter. He hears his name called and comes forward to take his ticket. He reclaims that part of himself which he had earlier set aside. “This is a holy moment. A sacramental moment. A moment in which a man feels the gods as close as his own breath. “What unknowable mercy has spared us this day? What clemency of the divine has turned the enemy’s spear one handbreadth from our throat and driven it fatally into the breast of the beloved comrade at our side? Why are we still here above the earth, we who are no better, no braver, who reverenced heaven no more than these our brothers whom the gods have dispatched to hell? “When a man joins the two pieces of his ticket and sees them weld in union together, he feels that part of him, the part that knows love and mercy and compassion, come flooding back over him. This is what unstrings his knees. “What else can a man feel at that moment than the most grave and profound thanksgiving to the gods who, for reasons unknowable, have spared his life this day? Tomorrow their whim may alter. Next week, next year. But this day the sun still shines upon him, he feels its warmth upon his shoulders, he beholds about him the faces of his comrades whom he loves and he rejoices in their deliverance and his own.” Leonidas paused now, in the center of the space left open for him by the troops. “I have ordered pursuit of the foe ceased. I have commanded an end to the slaughter of these whom today we called our enemies. Let them return to their homes. Let them embrace their wives and children. Let them, like us, weep tears of salvation and burn thank-offerings to the gods. “Let no one of us forget or misapprehend the reason we fought other Greeks here today. Not to conquer or enslave them, our brothers, but to make them allies against a greater enemy. By persuasion, we hoped. By coercion, in the event. But no matter, they are our allies now and we will treat them as such from this moment. “The Persian!

Think of the people you love,” said Jem, and Kit startled. “It doesn’t matter if they didn’t love you back, or if they did. You keep them here.” Jem reached out and laid his hand against Kit’s chest, felt it beating too swiftly beneath his palm. “Do you want to keep them somewhere small and mean, with the walls closing in?” Kit shook his head silently, lips pressed tight together. “No,” Jem said softly. “You won’t. You choose to be yourself, your best self. You can be descended from gods and monsters. You can take the light they left you and be a lamp shining out all their light made new. You can battle the darkness. You can choose always to fight and hope. That is what it means to have a great heart. Don’t be afraid of being yourself.

Gift am I, of Ferrol’s hand these laws to halt the chaos be, No king shall die, no tyrant cleaved save by the perilous sound of me. Cursed the silent hand that strikes forever to his brethren lost, Doomed of darkness and of light so be the tally and the cost. Breath upon my lips announce the gauntlet loud so all may hear, Thine challenge for the kingly seat so all may gather none need fear. But once upon a thousand three unless by death I shall cry, No challenge, no dispute proceed a generation left to die. Upon the sound, the sun shall pass and with the rising of the new, Combat will begin and last until there be but one of two. A bond formed betwixt opponents protected by Ferrol’s hand, From all save the blade, the bone, and skill of the other’s hand. Should champion be called to fight evoked is the Hand of Ferrol, Which protects the championed from all and champion from all—save one—from peril. Battle is the end for one for the other all shall sing. For when the struggle at last is done the victor shall be king

H-22: Father Corby Monument 39º48.205’N, 77º14.063’W This monument honors the hundreds of chaplains present on the field in 1863. As chaplain of the Eighty-eighth New York Infantry of the famed Irish Brigade, Father William Corby, twenty-nine years old, has become as famous as many of those who actually bore arms those three fateful days. As the Irish Brigade formed up to enter the fight, Father Corby stepped onto a boulder—some historians believe the very boulder on which the monument stands—and raised his hand. Three hundred soldiers drew silent, many of them dropping to their knees, as the battle raged around them. The priest blessed them, prayed for their safety, and granted a general absolution, after which the troops marched into the fight. Corby’s admonition that the church would refuse a Christian burial for any man who failed to do his duty that day rang in their ears as they headed off. Following the war, Father Corby became president of the University of Notre Dame. A replica of this monument stands on the university’s campus, marking his grave. Years after the war, veterans of the Irish Brigade petitioned to have the Medal of Honor awarded to Corby, a request that was ultimately denied.

It is recorded that during the long winter after the Battle of Fredericksburg, when the two rival armies were camped on opposite sides of the Rappahannock, with the boys on the opposing picket posts daily swapping coffee for tobacco and comparing notes on their generals, their rations, and other matters, and with each camp in full sight and hearing of the other, one evening massed Union bands came down to the river bank to play all of the old songs, plus the more rousing tunes like "John Brown's Body," "The Battle Cry of Freedom," and "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are Marching." Northerners and Southerners, the soldiers sang those songs or sat and listened to them, massed in their thousands on the hillsides, while the darkness came down to fill the river valley and the light of the campfires glinted off the black water. Finally the Southerners called across, "Now play some of ours," so without pause the Yankee bands swung into "Dixie" and "The Bonnie Blue Flag" and "Maryland, My Maryland," and then at last the massed bands played "Home, Sweet Home," and 150,000 fighting men tried to sing it and choked up and just sat there, silent, staring off into the darkness; and at last the music died away and the bandsmen put up their instruments and both armies went to bed. A few weeks later they were tearing each other apart in the lonely thickets around Chancellorsville.

He looks forlornly ahead of him, gazing at the road but looking at nothing in particular. The whole world is one big giant ball of light to him, and he feels like a bug inside it, waiting to be squashed. He feels like there is no sense of purpose, no direction. There is nothing waiting for him at the end of the rainbow. No pot of gold for all the pain he is feeling now, or the pain he has felt before. He just feels empty and lost, as if he is looking for something that can never be found. He feels lost that he can’t explain it to anyone and that no one will understand. He feels left out, standing alone, waiting endlessly for a ray of hope which never comes. He has suffered through this before, lurking in the shadows of his own despair, fighting for his life and losing the battle. But nothing ever makes this pain go away. Or the fear. He doesn’t fear what people fear. Not the loss of life or riches—Roman fears losing himself in this swamp called existence. He fears becoming the person he doesn’t want to become, and most of all, he fears himself. Fears his own potential to destroy and destruct. To obliterate. To suffocate his own life. He fears all that and he is afraid no one will ever know what his heart aches for, or how bad he has it. At times he feels the urge to tell this to someone, but other times he just enjoys being silent, watching on like a passerby at his own life, an observer rather than someone who’s actually living it.

You see, I suffer from a disease that you cannot see; a disease that there is no cure for and that keeps the medical community baffled at how to treat and battle this demon, who’s[sic] attacks are relentless. My pain works silently, stealing my joy and replacing it with tears. On the outside we look alike you and I; you won’t see my scars as you would a person who, say, had suffered a car accident. You won’t see my pain in the way you would a person undergoing chemo for cancer; however, my pain is just as real and just as debilitating. And in many ways my pain may be more destructive because people can’t see it and do not understand....” “Please don’t get angry at my seemingly [sic] lack of interest in doing things; I punish myself enough, I assure you. My tears are shed many times when no one is around. My embarrassment is covered by a joke or laughter…” “I have been called unreliable because I am forced to cancel plans I made at the last minute because the burning and pain in my legs or arms is so intense I cannot put my clothes on and I am left in my tears as I miss out on yet another activity I used to love and once participated in with enthusiasm.” “And just because I can do a thing one day, that doesn’t mean I will be able to do the same thing the next day or next week. I may be able to take that walk after dinner on a warm July evening; the next day or even in the next hour I may not be able to walk to the fridge to get a cold drink because my muscles have begun to cramp and lock up or spasm uncontrollably. And there are those who say “But you did that yesterday!” “What is your problem today?” The hurt I experience at those words scars me so deeply that I have let my family down again; and still they don’t understand….” “On a brighter side I want you to know that I still have my sense of humor….I love you and want nothing more than to be a part of your life. And I have found that I can be a strong friend in many ways. Do you have a dream? I am your friend, your supporter and many times I will be the one to do the research for your latest project; many times I will be your biggest fan and the world will know how proud I am at your accomplishments and how honored I am to have you in my life.” “So you see, you and I are not that much different. I too have hopes, dreams, goals… and this demon…. Do you have an unseen demon that assaults you and no one else can see? Have you had to fight a fight that crushes you and brings you to your knees? I will be by your side, win or lose, I promise you that; I will be there in ways that I can. I will give all I can as I can, I promise you that. But I have to do this thing my way. Please understand that I am in such a fight myself and I know that I have little hope of a cure or effective treatments, at least right now. Please understand….

There are many levels to the Silent City, interjected Jeremiah. And not all the dead are buried here. There is another ossuary in Idris, of course, much larger. But on this level are the mausoleums and the place of burning. “The place of burning?” Those who die in battle are burned, their ashes used to make the marble arches that you see here. The blood and bone of demon slayers is itself a powerful protection against evil. Even in death, the Clave serves the cause. How exhausting, Clary thought, to fight all your life and then be expected to continue that fight even when your life was over.

How did you become a vampire?” She turned away from his piercing gaze and bent to pluck a blade of new grass from the ground. He was silent for a long moment before at last he replied, “I was a knight in King Henry’s army, and I fell on the field during what is now known as the Battle of Ancrum Moor in the year 1545, during the ‘rough wooing.’ Do you know much about it?” “That was back when Henry the Eighth was attacking Scotland in an effort to force them to make an alliance with England.” Angelica sneered. “What a tyrant! I am glad the Scots won.” The duke chuckled. “Careful, my sweet, you come close to speaking treason.” She blushed as she realized that he had been fighting on Henry’s side. “I did not mean—” “You are right, Angel,” he said, still laughing. “He was a tyrant, indeed. Anyway, my horse was hit with an arrow, and I was thrown and knocked unconscious. When I awoke, night had fallen, and a lone Scotsman approached me. I thought he was a soldier until I saw his glowing green eyes and bared fangs. In a trice, he was upon me, tearing my throat with his fangs and gulping my blood. I would have died if another vampire had not stopped him.” The duke took a deep breath and continued. “The Scots vampire fled and my rescuer Changed me. He taught me what I needed to know about being a vampire. He then told me to return to my home and live among the mortals. King Henry thought that I had been taken prisoner and escaped. He was so impressed with my ‘bravery’ that he made me the Duke of Burnrath the moment I finished my lie. I became Lord of London only fifty years ago. So, there you have it.” “That

Only Cassie had remained silent. She was looking dreamily off over the heads of the mall crowd. "You know, back in the old says - I mean, the real, real old days - the Africans, the early Europeans, the Native Americans... they all believed animals had spirits. And they would call on those spirits to protect them from evil. They would ask the spirit of the fox for his cunning. They'd ask the spirit of the eagle for his sight. They would ask the lion for his strength. I guess what we're doing is sort of basic. Even though it was Andalite technology that made it possible. We're still just scared little humans, trying to borrow the mind of the fox, and the eyes of the eagle... or the hawk," she added, smiling at Tobias. "And the strength of the lion. Just like thousands of years ago, we're calling on the animals to help protect s from evil." "Will their strength be enough?" wondered. "I don't know," Cassie admitted solemnly. "It's like all the basic forces of planet Earth are being brought into the battle." Marco rolled his eyes. "Nice story, Cassie. But we're five normal kids. Up against the Yeerks. If it was a football game, who would you bet on? We're toast." Don't be so sure," Cassie said. "We're fighting for Mother Earth. She was some tricks up her sleeves." "Good grief," Marco said. "Let's all buy Birkenstocks and go hug some trees." -Animorphs #1, The Invasion page 66

We seem, however, to be drawing up our forces on both sides. — One struggle for my dying liberty, my dear! — The success of one pitched battle will determine which is to be the general, which the subaltern, for the rest of the campaign. To dare to be sullen already! — As I hope to live, my dear, I was in high good humour within myself; and when he was foolish, only intended a little play with him; and he takes it in earnest. He worships you: So I shall railly him before you: But I charge you, as the man by his sullenness has taken upon him to fight his own battle, either to be on my side, or be silent. I shall take it very ill of my Harriet, if she strengthen his hands. Well, but enough of this husband — HUSBAND! What a word!

There’s a great parable called “The Tale of Two Wolves.” It’s about a conversation between a wise old man and his inquisitive young granddaughter. The girl listens eagerly as her grandfather tells her: “There is a fight going on inside me. It is a terrible fight between two wolves. “One is evil. He is fear, envy, regret, greed, guilt, inferiority, shame, resentment, and lies. “The other is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, compassion, and truth. “The same fight is going on inside of you. This battle rages inside every person on earth.” The granddaughter’s eyes get big as the old man falls silent. She finally asks, “But, Grandpa, which wolf will win?” “The one you feed,” he replies. I love

Why do you think I'm doing this?' He waved a hand to me. 'Because you're a monster.' He laughed. 'True, but I'm also a pragmatist. Working Tamlin into a senseless fury is the best weapon we have against her. Seeing you enter into a fool's bargain with Amarantha was one thing, but when Tamlin saw my tattoo on your arm... Oh, you should have been born with my abilities, if only to have felt the rage that seeped from him.' I didn't want to think much about his abilities. 'Who's to say he won't splatter you as well?' 'Perhaps he'll try- but I have a felling he'll kill Amarantha first. That's what it all boils down to, anyway: even your servitude to me can be blamed on her. So he'll kill her tomorrow, and I'll be free before he can start a fight with me that will reduce our once-sacred mountain to rubble.' He picked at his nails. 'And I have a few other cards to play.' I lifted my brows in silent question. 'Feyre, for Cauldron's sake. I drug you, but you don't wonder why I never touch you beyond your waist or arm?' Until tonight- until the damned kiss. I gritted my teeth, but even as my anger rose, a picture cleared. 'It's the only claim I have to innocence,' he said, 'the only thing that will make Tamlin think twice before entering into a battle with me that would cause a catastrophic loss of innocent life. It's the only way I can convince him I was on your side. Believe me, I would have liked nothing more than to enjoy you- but there are bigger things at stake than taking a human woman to my bed.

Their sake It was meant to be so, Their lives were meant to be so, But then when it all began neither of them thought it would be so, They felt time lived for them and forever it shall be so, And they loved, they rejoiced, and they loved it so, Always together under all situations very sure that it will always be so, The woman loved the man and the man loved her equally so, Whether it was a sun kissed day or a moon lit night, it never felt so, Because during the day they experienced light of love and felt so, On silent nights they lit candles of desires and passions, and they obediently lit so, There was never a dark moment in their lives, at least for now it was so, In their lives existed no vitriolic moment because for now it was not meant to be so, They sought ratification from their hearts, and nothing else, and it was so, This agitated the fate, and chance too; and they ployed to not let it be so, They cast them in the world managed by predefined outcome of moments and now for them it was so, No matter what they did, how hard they tried, it was never like before, and how they longed for it to be so, Like before, like those sweet days, because fate and chance did not want it to be so, Maybe they were scared the two lovers would render their existence purposeless, and how could they afford it to be so, And to feed their pride they invented moments with predefined destinies, and made they fight a pre-determined battle, and for them it has been so, Even the bright days appear dark, the moonlit nights seem hopeless, and now for long it has been so, But they still love each other, they still hope, and with them it shall for eternity be so, This has left fate and chance wondering how to rob time of new moments everyday, so that the world of lovers remains so, Trapped in moments coded by malice and extreme cussedness of fate and chance, because they desperately want it to be so, It seems time has realised the evil intentions of the two conspirators and it doesnt want it to be so, Because then time will lose its purpose of existence and it ought not to be so, As it would lead the universe into an endless struggle where all shall be busy keeping the fate and chance pleased, and it cannot be so, For life to be organically progressive the two lovers should be free to desire anything and anytime, as and whenever they wish so, Fate‘s deliberate interference, and chance’s intentional disappearance, would steal from life it's every charm, and life isn't meant to be so, This is why time has stamped all its moments with emptiness that can never be filled by fate or chance, and now it is so, And now the two lovers romance like before, they love like always, and since it has been so, Fate and chance have been disenfranchised from free will, and now it shall be so, it has to be so, Otherwise not just the lovers, love will lose its existence across the universe, that cannot afford to be so, And now the two lovers love each other like before, only that now they respect time more, and what a great wonder it is to realise it and feel so! The lovers loving like before as it was always meant to be so, And now only for their sake the universe shall always be so, Happily existing because the universe is meant to be so!

I really have no experience,” he began. “No one has any experience,” said the other, “of the Battle of Armageddon.” “But I am really unfit—” “You are willing, that is enough,” said the unknown. “Well, really,” said Syme, “I don’t know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test.” “I do,” said the other—“martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day.” Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, “The Last Crusade,” and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists.

Just a line before I go to the office, I didn't mean to mention it (it has been choking me for 3 days), at least now while you're fighting that terrible battle there I meant to keep silent, but it's impossible, it's part of it, it is after all my battle.

You’ve seen a lot of death, then?” Logen winced. In his youth, he would have loved to answer that very question. He could have bragged, and boasted, and listed the actions he’d been in, the Named Men he’d killed. He couldn’t say now when the pride had dried up. It had happened slowly. As the wars became bloodier, as the causes became excuses, as the friends went back to the mud, one by one. Logen rubbed at his ear, felt the big notch that Tul Duru’s sword had made, long ago. He could have stayed silent. But for some reason, he felt the need to be honest. “I’ve fought in three campaigns,” he began. “In seven pitched battles. In countless raids and skirmishes and desperate defences, and bloody actions of every kind. I’ve fought in the driving snow, the blasting wind, the middle of the night. I’ve been fighting all my life, one enemy or another, one friend or another. I’ve known little else. I’ve seen men killed for a word, for a look, for nothing at all. A woman tried to stab me once for killing her husband, and I threw her down a well. And that’s far from the worst of it. Life used to be cheap as dirt to me. Cheaper. “I’ve fought ten single combats and I won them all, but I fought on the wrong side and for all the wrong reasons. I’ve been ruthless, and brutal, and a coward. I’ve stabbed men in the back, burned them, drowned them, crushed them with rocks, killed them asleep, unarmed, or running away. I’ve run away myself more than once. I’ve pissed myself with fear. I’ve begged for my life. I’ve been wounded, often, and badly, and screamed and cried like a baby whose mother took her tit away. I’ve no doubt the world would be a better place if I’d been killed years ago, but I haven’t been, and I don’t know why.” He looked down at his hands, pink and clean on the stone. “There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. None, that I know of. The Bloody-Nine they call me, my enemies, and there’s a lot of ’em. Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood. It follows me now, always, like my shadow, and like my shadow I can never be free of it. I should never be free of it. I’ve earned it. I’ve deserved it. I’ve sought it out. Such is my punishment.” And that was all. Logen breathed a deep, ragged sigh and stared out at the lake. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man beside him, didn’t want to see the expression on his face. Who wants to learn he’s keeping company with the Bloody-Nine? A man who’s wrought more death than the plague, and with less regret. They could never be friends now, not with all those corpses between them. Then he felt Quai’s hand clap him on the shoulder. “Well, there it is,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, “but you saved me, and I’m right grateful for it!” “I’ve saved a man this year, and only killed four. I’m born again.” And they both laughed for a while, and it felt good.

There is about our house a need. The running, pulsating restlessness of the four boys as they struggle to learn and grow; the world embraces them….All this wonder needs a counterpart. We need some starched crisp frocks to go with all our torn-kneed blue jeans and helmets. We need some soft blond hair to off-set those crew cuts. We need a doll house to stand firm against our forts and rackets and thousand baseball cards. We need a cut-out star to play alone while the others battle to see who’s ‘family champ.’ We even need someone…who could sing the descant to “Alouette,” while outside they scramble to catch the elusive ball aimed ever roofward, but usually thudding against the screens. We need a legitimate Christmas angel—one who doesn’t have cuffs beneath the dress. We need someone who’s afraid of frogs. We need someone to cry when I get mad—not argue. We need a little one who can kiss without leaving egg or jam or gum. We need a girl. We had one once—she’d fight and cry and play and make her way just like the rest. But there was about her a certain softness. She was patient—her hugs were just a little less wiggly. Like them, she’d climb in to sleep with me, but somehow she’d fit. She didn’t boot and flip and wake me up with pug nose and mischievous eyes a challenging quarter-inch from my sleeping face. No—she’d stand beside our bed till I felt her there. Silently and comfortable, she’d put those precious, fragrant locks against my chest and fall asleep. Her peace made me feel strong, and so very important. “My Daddy” had a caress, a certain ownership which touched a slightly different spot than the “Hi Dad” I love so much. But she is still with us. We need her and yet we have her. We can’t touch her, and yet we can feel her. We hope she’ll stay in our house for a long, long time. Love Pop

I pushed away from the sturdy tree and stumbled forward. A hand caught my elbow. I cried out and looked up. Concern wrinkled Frank’s face, clear as the ticker tape on my telegram. “What’s wrong?” His forehead creased as his eyebrows drew together. “It’s Mama.” I croaked the words like an old bullfrog. His face crunched into deeper solicitude. I sucked in a deep breath of thick, cold air and blew it out again, long and slow. “She and Daddy arrive tomorrow.” “Your parents are coming?” “That’s what it says.” I read the telegram again. “Mama misses me, I guess.” “Did you ask them to come?” He said it like an accusation. “No.” And yet, why shouldn’t I have? We’d just lost my brother. Would it have been so terrible of me to ask them to visit? Frank paced in front of me, murmuring, raking his hands through his hair. “It’s just . . . It feels a bit . . . awkward. I mean, the two of us, here, and . . . ” He shrugged. I shoved my fists on my hips. “That hasn’t seemed to bother you until now. Besides, it isn’t as if either of us have any intentions toward the other.” Even if his touch did ignite a lightning bolt inside me. “No, no intentions.” He stood still now, not even a twitch of movement. “I just didn’t want them to misconstrue our current arrangement.” “Are you suggesting they’re coming to pressure you into marrying me?” I snorted out a laugh. “Don’t worry. I have very different plans for my life.” “Yes. You’ve made that very clear.” He towered over me, our eyes locked in silent battle. If only we were fighting on the same side.

Is it more virtuous, more noble, to suffer silently with brave, graceful dignity? Or is it preferable to fight an utterly hopeless battle against the inevitability of an insignificant, mediocre, obscure, mundane existence?

To self doubt is that evil voice within that must be silenced. It mocks your inner thoughts saying "you'll fail". It cages there inner light, there inner potential. That battle within out thoughts and in our minds is written upon the hosts face.No one can see the silent battle within ones self. You have to find that voice within and fight and eventually your light will shine. To doubt is "evil" turn it backwards into a positive and that's "live" - Moral of the story with a positive there is a negative if you look closely...

Fighting me would be an exercise in futility, Countess.” As if to assert his point, he reached out to grasp her jaw, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “As would trying to escape.” Narrowing her eyes, she held her voice firm. “Yet I am certain my attempts could be very vexing.” For an eternity, they stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Rafael’s scowl deepened before he released her.

Making brief eye contact with Tristan, Gabriel casually marched around the gazebo and yanked the Ashman back further into the shadowy cover of the dark trees. The Ashman struggled, but Tristan came up beside Gabriel and caught the Ashman’s hands behind his back. Another Ashman appeared in the darkness beyond Tristan. “Watch your back,” Gabriel said, and Tristan whipped around. In one fluid movement, Tristan pulled a dagger from his coat—because, apparently, Tristan carted bloody weapons around in his coat—and cut through the Ashman’s skull with forceful movement. Without missing a beat, Tristan turned back around and helped Gabriel pin the Ashman that was struggling beneath Gabriel’s grasp.Gabriel punched the Ashman in the face, giving Tristan an opportunity to restrain the Ashman’s hands behind his back. Gabriel pulled Scarlet’s butcher knife from his coat—okay, so maybe they both carted weapons around in their jackets—and with silent movement, he thrust the blade directly into the Ashman’s heart and twisted. Stiffness, cracking, crumbling…then ash. Murder accomplished. Gabriel tucked the blade back into his coat and dusted off his hands as he looked at the two piles of ash on the forest floor. “See how simple that was?” He looked at Tristan. “You hold him down, I stab him, end of threat. With Nate it’s all weird battle cries and plastic hammers.” Gabriel shook his head. “Fighting with you is much less dramatic.” “Yeah, well.” Tristan stretched his neck. “We make a good killing team.” Gabriel rolled his eyes as they headed out of the trees and back to the fair. “What is with everyone wanting to be on teams?

I sometimes wonder if their every moment is spent sharpening their tongues, silently accumulating resentments for later use… These three address each other indirectly - that is the prelude, the shot fired in the air to challenge an adversary to battle. The idea is to inquire if the enemy is prepared and willing to fight. If there’s enthusiasm on the other side, a reply is heard. That too is aimed at no one in particular

In the quiet of my room, where the shadows play, The sun's outside, but inside it's gray. The laughter's gone, the silence stays, Lost in a fog, in a heavy haze. I'm walking through the valley, the depths of despair, Sometimes it feels like I'm gasping for air. But I know deep down, beneath this stress, There's a light that shines, even in this depression. The world moves on, life's parade goes by, I'm standing still, with a tear in my eye. The colors have faded, it's all turned to blue, Trying to find the strength to start anew. I'm walking through the valley, the depths of despair, Sometimes it feels like I'm gasping for air. But I know deep down, beneath this stress, There's a light that shines, even in this depression. It's a battle every day, a silent fight, To reach for hope, to find the light. I may stumble, I may fall, But I'll stand again, I'll conquer it all. I'm walking through the valley, but I'm not alone, With each step, my courage has grown. And I know deep down, beyond this mess, There's a dawn that waits, after this depression. So here's to the hearts that are hurting tonight, Hold on to hope, hold on tight. The road is long, but it leads to a blessing, On the other side of this depression. This acknowledges the struggle of depression while also offering a message of hope and resilience.

Through His Eyes" In the quiet of dawn, a young boy stands alone, With questions unanswered, in a sorrowful tone. His mother's silent battle, a war she couldn't survive, Left a scar on his heart, questioning why she took her life. "Why, oh why?" was the question he cried, Underneath the open, endless sky. I was speechless, for the first time, I found, A shared pain where silence was the only sound. I've been to the edge, where hope seems to die, Never thinking of the ones I'd leave behind. But through his eyes, I saw the light, A reason to fight, to make it right. It's hard to explain why some stars have to go, Why we face storms that shake us so. But I told him, "Her love is a bond that won't sever, She's watching over you, now and forever." "Why, oh why?" still echoes inside, But now I know, it's not for us to decide. We're here for a reason, not just to survive, But to cherish each moment we're alive. So thank you, young man, for the tears we both shed, For the lesson of life, from the words left unsaid. We're more than our sorrows, more than our fears, We're the sum of our love, through all the years.

I've come to realize that I don't need human friends to feel supported. God is my ultimate defender and confidant. While people may offer comforting words, I know that they can't be physically present to face life's challenges with me. It's a harsh truth that many individuals are deceitful and forgetful of our shared struggles. But I take comfort in knowing that God is always with me, never abandoning or forsaking me. In times of need, I'll remain silent and trust that He will fight my battles. As the scripture says, 'No weapon formed against me shall prosper' (Isaiah 54:17). I find solace in His unwavering presence and protection.

Lord, give me the strength to fight the battle ahead, she prayed silently, and then looked up at Ruth Ann. “He stormed out of the house, and I never got to tell him I was sorry. A mother never, ever gets over that kind of grief, and I will always blame Matilda for ruining my relationship with my only child.

Today I wish you to know that even in your silent battles, you’re not alone, God fights alongside you & for you. Also know that even though I may not always walk beside you, my prayers are always with you, whispering courage, hope & unwavering support. My mission isn’t to become a mythical hero, but to become a light house, a reliable source of inspiration & light for those I love. To all my loved ones, know this: even though I pray for you everyday & guide you towards your best version & goodness, your journey is your own. I can’t erase your challenges or make your choices. It will be up to you to live your own life & make your own choices knowing there are always rewards & consequences to every choice & action. Darling listen – I just wish to gently remind you that you hold the pen & sword, shaping your own epic tale. Let you dip your pen in courage & forge your sword with faith. Each choice is a vibrant stroke painting the world you call your own. Sweetheart, always remember, you are not just the recipient of my love & blessings, but the hero of your own story. I wish & hope that your light will soon shine in 2024, not just in reflection, but in your own vibrant & magnificent way.. Blessings!

Have I lost this battle? Am I still a worthy warrior, 
even though it seems like a never-ending war?  The war is between my mind
 and the truth of what I am. 
It’s a one-sided war that can not be won  until I lay down my weapons and realise  that we are on the same side.
 My war is in my head,
 and as long as the fighting is going on,  there will be no peace.  Truth is my ally.
 Truth is within me.  Truth is me. 
I am truth,
 I’m silence,
 I’m the silent warrior for peace.

A true hero is one who smiles through silent pain and fights battles nobody knows about.

Always have faith in yourself. "Even when no one sees the silent battle you fight against. "Or sees your strength. "Because you will find great strength in all your troubles.

One problem for the student of color is the feeling that if she is silent about a piece of writing that is racially problematic or insensitive or simply racist , she will be condoning such writing. Moreover, the student may believe that to be silent is to be a coward. At the same time, if the student of color persists in her critiques she will be increasingly attacked and begin to feel isolated and powerless. The student may feel then that to persist with her critiques is an attempt to maintain or regain power. But Sun Tzu teaches that to retreat or lay low in times when one does not have power or sufficient number is not weakness; it is wisdom. Sun Tzu teaches that taking time to build allies and gather forces is not weakness, but wisdom. ... Or as I wrote to one such student, being an activist artist is not a sprint. It is a marathon. Artists need to plan and strategize and build their forces for the larger battles to come, to fight from strength not weakness.

No one sees your strength. "No one sees the silent battle you fight. "No one sees you only struggle because you're ready to grow but aren't willing to let go.

To whoever is fighting a silent battle: I see you, you are not alone, your dreams are not dead, just different.

No one sees your strength, do they? No one sees the silent battle you fight against your overprotective mind that’s trying to keep you safe from harm by keeping you safe from risk, safe from connection, safe from honesty. Maybe others don’t see, but you see it sometimes, don’t you? You are strong. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise—especially not your thoughts.

THE WARRIOR CODE 1. Defend your Clan, even with your life. You may have friendships with cats from other Clans, but your loyalty must remain to your Clan, as one day you may meet them in battle. 2. Do not hunt or trespass on another Clan’s territory. 3. Elders and kits must be fed before apprentices and warriors. Unless they have permission, apprentices may not eat until they have hunted to feed the elders. 4. Prey is killed only to be eaten. Give thanks to StarClan for its life. 5. A kit must be at least six moons old to become an apprentice. 6. Newly appointed warriors will keep a silent vigil for one night after receiving their warrior name. 7. A cat cannot be made deputy without having mentored at least one apprentice. 8. The deputy will become Clan leader when the leader dies or retires. 9. After the death or retirement of the deputy, the new deputy must be chosen before moonhigh. 10. A gathering of all four Clans is held at the full moon during a truce that lasts for the night. There shall be no fighting among Clans at this time. 11. Boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats. 12. No warrior may neglect a kit in pain or in danger, even if that kit is from a different Clan. 13. The word of the Clan leader is the warrior code. 14. An honorable warrior does not need to kill other cats to win his battles, unless they are outside the warrior code or it is necessary for self-defense. 15. A warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet.

The greatest battles we fight are in the silent chambers of our own souls.

Then, UltimateSword5 told me a story of Skeleton Steve approaching him on his lonely, little island where he'd spent months barely surviving on mushroom soup in the middle of a vast, underground lake. He told me about a valiant and devoted skeleton swordsman, Skonathan, who'd been following me around. I remembered Ulti mentioning the name before. As he finished his food, he told me about when I found him trapped deep underground near the Sleeping City, a place that I'd apparently built back when I was a monstrous thing called 'the Skeleton King' before I transformed into what I was today. I'd convinced him to escape the depths together. Ulti told me about dodging malfunctioning iron golems in the streets of the huge, silent city, and searching its storage building for wood. We really needed wood to make pick axes in order to get back to the surface. The lack of wood down at the bottom of the world was crippling. Then, he told me about him, Skonathan, and me all running around in terrifying darkness, trapping Glitch mobs with cobblestone because we had no other way to fight them. The Glitch mobs were very scary creatures that attacked everything they saw. They couldn't be killed except by overwhelming damage; enough to drop them in a single blow. Whenever the Glitch mobs were injured, they replicated, and became one injured, one not. Ulti told me about a Glitch creeper almost blowing us all up. It blew one of Skonathan's arms clean off! He also told me about a crazy battle in the streets of the Sleeping City where we pitted the Glitch against the golems, then barely contained a massive Glitch outbreak. Then, we found a way out of the city through a tunnel that Ulti had remembered from back when he and his Minecraftian friends had found the Sleeping City the first time. Ulti told me about us journeying through long tunnels,

This place is astounding. Half palace, half home, but entirely a fortress. The thick stone walls are what saved it from its supposed demise six years ago. From what I’ve read, Riorson House has never been breached by any army, even during the three sieges that I know of. Stone doesn’t burn. That’s what Xaden told me. The city—now reduced to a town—has been silently, covertly rebuilding for years right under General Melgren’s nose. The relics, magical marks the children of the executed rebellion officers carry, somehow mask them from Melgren’s signet when they’re in groups of three or more. He can’t see the outcome of any battle they’re present for, so he’s never been able to “see” them organizing to fight here.