Forged In Hell Quotes

The strongest steel is forged by the fires of hell. (Savitar)

Strength through adversity. The strongest steel is forged by the fires of hell. It is pounded and struck repeatedly before it’s plunged back into the molten fire. The fire gives it power and flexibility, and the blows give it strength. Those two things make the metal pliable and able to withstand every battle it’s called upon to fight. (Savitar)

Theirs was a bond forged from necessity, hurt, and a shared, intimate understanding of hell.

The strongest steel is forged by the fires of hell. It is pounded and struck repeatedly before it's plunged back into the molten fire. The fire gives it power and flexibility, and the blows give it STRENGTH. Those two thing make the metal pliable and able to withstand every battle it's called upon to fight.

Don’t push me, Savitar.(Apollymi) And don’t push me. You may be a goddess by birth, but I’m a lot more than just a Chthonian and you know that. I survived a hell you can’t even imagine and its fires forged a core of steel within me. You want to battle, pick up your sword. But remember the number of gods before you who sought to kill me and failed. (Savitar)

Maybe that brought us together, but it didn't make us who we are. It didn't make you the girl who could get me to laugh when I had nothing. It sure as hell didn't make me the idiot who took that for granted. Whatever there is between us, we forged it. It belongs to us.

God. He was beautiful. A beautiful, troubled man forged by the fires of hell, ravaged by monsters.

I dropped a kiss on her shoulder and wondered if anyone had ever done this before. Wondered if any fucker out there had this with his girl. A woman who was handcrafted for him. Perfection, forged in hell

We must be bound to one another then," Elric murmured despairingly. "Bound by hell-forged chains and fate-haunted circumstance. Well, then—let it be thus so—and men will have cause to tremble and flee when they hear the names of Elric of Melinbone and Stormbringer, his sword. We are two of a kind—produced by an age which has deserted us. Let us give this age cause to hate us!

Forged in the fires of human passion, choking on the fumes of human rage, with these out hells and our heavens, so few inches apart, we must be awfully small, and not as strong as we think we are.

The door to Blay's room opened wide without a knock, a hello, a hey-are-you-decent. Qhuinn stood in between the jambs, breathing hard, like he’d run down the hall of statues. Sh**, had Layla lost the pregnancy after all? Those mismatched eyes searched around. “You by yourself?” Why the hell would— Oh, Saxton. Right. “Yes—” The male took three strides forward, reached up . . . and kissed the ever-loving crap out of Blay. The kiss was the kind that you remembered all your life, the connection forged with such totality that everything from the feel of the body against your own, to the warm slid of another’s lips on yours, to the power as well as the control, was etched into your mind...

My soul was made in heaven, but my spirit has been forged in hell.

Perverse? Fuck yes. Do I give a damn? Hell no

The two most basic goals of social utopias are to eliminate deprivation—hunger, ignorance, homelessness—and to forge a society in which no one is an outsider, no one is alienated.

The door to Blay's room opened wide without a knock, a hello, a hey-are-you-decent. Qhuinn stood in between the jambs, breathing hard, like he’d run down the hall of statues. Sh**, had Layla lost the pregnancy after all? Those mismatched eyes searched around. “You by yourself?” Why the hell would— Oh, Saxton. Right. “Yes—” The male took three strides forward, reached up . . . and kissed the ever-loving crap out of Blay. The kiss was the kind that you remembered all your life, the connection forged with such totality that everything from the feel of the body against your own, to the warm slid of another’s lips on yours, to the power as well as the control, was etched into your mind... Lover at Last, MS pg. 449

Your past makes you who you are, even if you have lived through hell. It can either break you or forge you.

When he dragged his attention back to my face, something dark lurked in his gaze, forged deep in the pits of Hell.

Of course, interacting with others isn’t always easy or fun. As philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre wrote in his play No Exit, “Hell is other people.” But what he failed to mention is that heaven is other people, too. The loving relationships we forge with others make our lives worth living. So, we owe it to ourselves and to our loved ones to nurture those relationships with kindness.

He drew away, his brows drawn together as he stared at her in question. “What’s wrong?” She would have laughed but she was too unhinged to do more than just stand there gaping at him. “You just kissed me and then you ask me what’s wrong?” He frowned. “Was it that bad?” This time she did laugh. “I think you know it wasn’t bad. Why did you kiss me, Steele? What the hell is going on here?” “I want us to have sex,” he said bluntly.

Religion as we know it, Spinoza argues in the work’s preface, is nothing more than organized superstition. Power-hungry ecclesiastics prey on the naïveté of citizens, taking advantage of their hopes and fears in the face of the vicissitudes of nature and the unpredictability of fortune to gain control over their beliefs and their daily lives. The preface of the Treatise both makes clear Spinoza’s contempt for sectarian religions and opens the way for his reductive and naturalistic explanations of central doctrinal and historical elements of the Judeo-Christian traditions.

I need to talk to one of the Zuulaman Blood," Andulvar said. "They are gone," Draca replied. "From Terreille, yes. But there must be some who are demon-dead. You could arrange this." "They are gone," she repeated. "The Dark Realm wass purged of Zuulaman Blood." Andulvar grabbed one of the chairs that surrounded the table to keep himself upright. "You purged Hell ?" "No." "Then... ?" "The Prince of the Darknesss. The High Lord of Hell." Draca stared at him. "Grief wass the hammer they ussed to break hiss control. Rage wass the forge in which he sshaped hiss power into a weapon." "So there's no one left." "There's no one left," Geoffrey agreed. He looked at Draca. "If Saetan did what we think he did, there isn't a shard of pottery, a scrap of cloth, or a line from a poem, story, or song left that came from the Zuulaman people. There isn't any trace of them in any of the Realms." Including the islands they came from, Andulvar thought, feeling sick. "It's as if they never existed," Geoffrey said.

Bet they’ll change their minds when they meet the right woman,” she murmured. “A few months ago I would have disagreed,” he said ruefully. “Now, not so much.” She smiled at him. He was cute in his befuddlement. But she had to hand it to him. He was taking their relationship—or whatever the hell it was they had—very well. He hadn’t seemed to fight it at all, though she had no idea what had gone on in his mind, especially when she’d been missing for so many weeks. Maybe in that time he’d come to terms with his feelings for her. It had definitely solidified things in her mind. But then she’d already fallen hard and fast from the very first night they’d spent together.

He decided to go over a couple of blocks to Michael’s Tavern for something cold, and as he walked beside the road he felt his anger burning up in the heat of noon, and saw himself, as he often did when he was outdoors on hot days, being forged in enormous fires for some purpose beyond his imagining. He was only walking down a street toward a barroom, and yet in his own mind he took his part in the eternity of this place. It seemed to him—it was not the first time—that he belonged in Hell, and would always find himself joyful in its midst. It seemed to him that to touch James Houston was to touch one iota of the vast grit that made the desert and hid the fires at the centre of the earth.

The door to heaven is open to us at any time we are willing to accept that we are of absolutely no importance. The bars of our own hell - the “mind-forged manacles” as Blake put it - are our attempts to justify ourselves or prove our self-worth. Accept that none of this matters and we can see that heaven is all around us. It is there in a child’s smile, in the rain that waters the earth, even in the maggots that rise in new life from dead meat. All around us is evidence that life and love are eternal and unbroken by strife and suffering.

You didn't deserve that. No one does. And just because we are in Hell doesn't mean we can't create our own rays. No one is destined to be evil or to be a shadow, just because someone said so. As much as fate has a role in our lives, I refuse to believe that we aren't capable of forging our own destinies.

I fucked it up. Give me another chance. Please.” If we’d reached the begging stage, I’d drop to my knees this second. “Why?” Time to lay it all out there. “Because I fell in love with you this summer.” I framed her face in my hands as she gasped. “Because you fell in love with me too. And because he’ll never kiss you like this.” Then I crushed my mouth to hers.

For the first time I understood the dogma of eternal pain -- appreciated "the glad tidings of great joy." For the first time my imagination grasped the height and depth of the Christian horror. Then I said: "It is a lie, and I hate your religion. If it is true, I hate your God." From that day I have had no fear, no doubt. For me, on that day, the flames of hell were quenched. From that day I have passionately hated every orthodox creed. That Sermon did some good. In the Old Testament, they said. God is the judge -- but in the New, Christ is the merciful. As a matter of fact, the New Testament is infinitely worse than the Old. In the Old there is no threat of eternal pain. Jehovah had no eternal prison -- no everlasting fire. His hatred ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his enemy was dead. In the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning of punishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of God is infinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal. The orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told his disciples not to resist evil, to love their enemies, and when smitten on one cheek to turn the other, and yet we are told that this same God, with the same loving lips, uttered these heartless, these fiendish words; "Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." These are the words of "eternal love." No human being has imagination enough to conceive of this infinite horror. All that the human race has suffered in war and want, in pestilence and famine, in fire and flood, -- all the pangs and pains of every disease and every death -- all this is as nothing compared with the agonies to be endured by one lost soul. This is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the justice of God -- the mercy of Christ. This frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the implacable enemy of Christianity. The truth is that this belief in eternal pain has been the real persecutor. It founded the Inquisition, forged the chains, and furnished the fagots. It has darkened the lives of many millions. It made the cradle as terrible as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed the blood of countless thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest and the best. It subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the heart, changed men to fiends and banished reason from the brain. Like a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in every orthodox creed. It makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is the one infinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a public curse. Every preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind. Below this Christian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite of malice, hatred, and revenge. Nothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence of its creator, God. While I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with all my strength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this infinite lie.

What is he like?” “Logan?” “He is the kind of man you pray to be able to serve—he’s like a great king from olden times.” “Who always does what’s right,” Andrian chimed in. “Yes,” Artem agreed. “He can always be counted on to make the best choice.” “And he normally does it, except where you’re concerned.” Crane cackled. “With you, he has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

In modern street-English, we use “hell” as a catchall term to describe the bad place (usually red hot) where sinful people are condemned to punishment and torment after they die. This simplistic, selective, and horrifying perception of hell is due in large part to nearly 400 years of the King James Version’s monopoly in English-speaking congregations (not to mention centuries of imaginative religious art). Rather than acknowledge the variety of terms, images, and concepts that the Bible uses for divine judgment, the KJV translators opted to combine them all under the single term “hell.” In truth, the array of biblical pictures and meanings that this one word is expected to convey is so vast that they appear contradictory. For example, is hell a lake of fire or a place of utter darkness? Is it a purifying forge or a torture chamber? Is it exclusion from God’s presence or the consuming fire of God’s glory? While modern scholarship acknowledges the mis- or over-translation of Sheol, Hades, and Gehenna as “hell” - especially if by “hell” we refer automatically to the eternal punishment of the wicked in conscious torment in a lake of fire - the thoroughly discussed limitations of hell language and imagery have been slow to permeate the theology of pulpits and pews in much of the church. Why the reluctance? Do we resist out of ignorance? Or are we afraid that abandoning infernalism implies abandoning faithfulness to Scripture and sound doctrine? After all, for so long we were taught that to be a Christian - especially an evangelical - is to be an infernalist. And yet, not a few of my friends have confessed that they have given up on being “good Christians” because they can no longer assent to the kind of God that creates and sends people to hell as they imagine it.

There are no accidents. Everything that happens in our individual world, just as every occurrence in the material universe, is brought about by the operation of law. The person who is constantly meeting unhappiness, poverty, disease and failure in his life is creating these things for himself. He may be ever so well-meaning. Personal hells too are often “paved with good intentions.” We make or unmake ourselves. In the great subconscious armory we forge the weapons that destroy us or the tools by which we build palaces of peace, power and prosperity.

I lifted my chin, meeting the eyes of the woman who’d become the living embodiment of my totem, my bright phoenix, and forged ahead. “But I live with the wrong choices, the paths untraveled, the lives lost, and I never hold those regrets against anyone but myself. So, if you have some reason that you think I’ll regret getting in that car or not getting in that car, then tell me. Because I won’t have anything between us, either.” My mind flashed to an hourglass, grains of sand trickling away, carrying my life with them. “At least, nothing that we can avoid...like the fear of unspoken words.

- Surly clouds blacken to make fire rims at that forge where night’s being hammered, crazed mountains march to the sunset like drunken cavaliers in Messina when Ursula was fair, I would swear that Hozomeen would move if we could induce him but he spends the night with me and soon when stars rain down the snowfields he’ll be in the pink of pride all black and yaw-y to the north where (just above him every night) North Star flashes pastel orange, pastel green, iron orange, iron blue, azurite indicative constellative auguries of her makeup there that you could weigh on the scales of the golden world - The wind, the wind -

You'll pray for us sinners; we have sinned too much here. I've always been thinking who would pray for me, and whether there's any one in the world to do it. My dear boy, I'm awfully stupid about that. You wouldn't believe it. Awfully. You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking--from time to time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then I wonder--hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? The monks in the monastery probably believe that there's a ceiling in hell, for instance. Now I'm ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And, after all, what does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn't? But, do you know, there's a damnable question involved in it? If there's no ceiling there can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks down, which is unlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me down to hell, and if they don't drag me down what justice is there in the world? Il faudrait les inventer, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for if you only knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am.

The people came to Samuel and said: Place a King over us, to guide us. And Samuel said to them: This is what a King will do if he reigns over you: he’ll take your sons and make them run with his chariots and horses. He’ll dispose them however he wants: he’ll make them commanders of thousands or captains of fifties, he’ll send them to plough, to reap, to forge his weapons and his chariots. He’ll take your daughters to make perfume for him, or cook his food or do his baking. He’ll take your fields and your vineyards and your olive groves – oh, he’ll take the very best of those and give them to his cronies. He’ll take much more. A tenth of your grain and your wine – those will go to his favourite aristocrats and faithful servants. Your manservants and your maidservants, your best men, your donkeys – yes, he’ll take those for his own use. He’ll take one tenth of your flocks “and you yourselves will become his slaves. On that day, believe me, you will cry out for relief from this King, the King you asked for, but the Lord will not answer you on that day. But the people would not listen to Samuel. They said: No. Give us a King over us. So that we can be like all the other nations. Give us a King to guide us and lead us into battle. When Samuel heard what the people said, he told it to the Lord. The Lord answered, Give them a King.

They're really going to mash the world up this time, the damn fools. When I read that description of the victims of Nagasaki I was sick: "And we saw what first looked like lizards crawling up the hill, croaking. It got lighter and we could see that it was humans, their skin burned off, and their bodies broken where they had been thrown against something." Sounds like something out of a horror story. God save us from doing that again. For the United States did that. Our guilt. My country. No, never again. And then one reads in the papers "Second bomb blast in Nevada bigger than the first! " What obsession do men have for destruction and murder? Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled "enemy?" Weren't the Russians communists when they helped us slap down the Germans? And now. What could we do with the Russian nation if we bombed it to bits? How could we "rule" such a mass of foreign people - - - we, who don't even speak the Russian language? How could we control them under our "democratic" system, we, who even now are losing that precious commodity, freedom of speech? (Mr. Crockett," that dear man, was questioned by the town board. A supposedly "enlightened" community. All he is is a pacifist. That, it seems, is a crime.) Why do we send the pride of our young men overseas to be massacred for three dirty miles of nothing but earth? Korea was never divided into "North" and "South." They are one people; and our democracy is of no use to those who have not been educated to it. Freedom is not of use to those who do not know how to employ it. When I think of that little girl on the farm talking about her brother - "And he said all they can think of over there is killing those God-damn Koreans." What does she know of war? Of lizard-like humans crawling up a hillside? All she knows is movies and school room gossip. Oh, America's young, strong. So is Russia. And how they can think of atom-bombing each other, I don't know. What will be left? War will come some day now, with all the hothead leaders and articles "What If Women are Drafted?" Hell, I'd sooner be a citizen of Africa than see America mashed and bloody and making a fool of herself. This country has a lot, but we're not always right and pure. And what of the veterans of the first and second world wars? The maimed, the crippled. What good their lives? Nothing. They rot in the hospitals, and we forget them. I could love a Russian boy - and live with him. It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all. My three best friends are Catholic. I can't see their beliefs, but I can see the things they love to do on earth. When you come right down to it, I do believe in the freedom of the individual - but to kill off all the ones who could forge a strong nation? How foolish! Of what good - living and freedom without home, without family, without all that makes life?

The logic of hell is nothing other than the logic of human free will, in so far as this is identical with freedom of choice. The theological argument runs as follows: “God, whose being is love, preserves our human freedom, for freedom is the condition of love. Although God’s love goes, and has gone, to the uttermost, plumbing the depth of hell, the possibility remains for each human being of a final rejection of God, and so of eternal life.” Let us gather some arguments against this logic of hell. The first conclusion, it seems to me, is that it is inhumane, for there are not many people who can enjoy free will where their eternal fate in heaven or hell is concerned. Anyone who faces men and women with the choice of heaven or hell, does not merely expect too much of them. It leaves them in a state of uncertainty, because we cannot base the assurance of our salvation on the shaky ground of our own decision. Is the presupposition of this logic of hell perhaps an illusion—the presupposition that it all depends on the human beings’ free will? The logic of hell seems to me not merely inhumane but also extremely atheistic: here the human being in his freedom of choice is his own lord and god. His own will is his heaven—or his hell. God is merely the accessory who puts that will into effect. If I decide for heaven, God must put me there; if I decide for hell, he has to leave me there. If God has to abide by our free decision, then we can do with him what we like. Is that “the love of God?” Free human beings forge their own happiness and are their own executioners. They do not just dispose over their lives here; they decide on their eternal destinies as well. So they have no need of any God at all. After God has perhaps created us free as we are, he leaves us to our fate. Carried to this ultimate conclusion, the logic of hell is secular humanism, as Feuerbach, Marx and Nietzsche already perceived a long time ago. The Christian doctrine of hell is to be found in the gospel of Christ’s descent into hell. In the crucified Christ we see what hell is, because through him it has been overcome. Judgment is not God’s last word. Judgment established in the world the divine righteousness on which the new creation is to be built. But God’s last word is “Behold I make all things new” (Rev 21: 5). From this no one is excluded. Love is God’s compassion with the lost. Transforming grace is God’s punishment for sinners. It is not the right to choose that defines the reality of human freedom. It is the doing of the good.

In the same Mahabharata where the protagonists go variously to heaven or hell, Krishna preaches the centrality of rebirth and the system of justice associated with

In the same Mahabharata where the protagonists go variously to heaven or hell, Krishna preaches the centrality of rebirth and the system of justice associated with it. The

In the same Mahabharata where the protagonists go variously to heaven or hell, Krishna preaches the centrality of rebirth and the system of justice associated with it.

But sometimes hell forges the way for heaven, and the angels are only called upon when demons rise.

Then say it was me. I got drunk. Came out here and was messing around. Started the fire on accident. Consider this my official confession.” “Hell, Emmett,” Luke muttered. Maybe I wasn’t going to ask him to ignore this, but I was still going to ask for a favor. And if I had to play all my chips as his friend, then so be it. “Is she worth it?” “Yes.” To save Nova this trouble, I’d take the fall.

You are the pit hell forged from heaven’s fall. The shadows carved by dying stars. The ghost of a people who once sang, who once danced, reduced to ash, an ember in the dust.

Aren't you going to get yourself burnt?" "I don't burn easy." "Forged in the fires of hell and all that?" "Something like that.

But here is a truth of Warriordom. Pain makes the Warrior stronger, not weaker. It is the anvil on which all true Warriors are forged, whether it is the muscle burn, sleep deprivation, and cold of Hell Week, the Marine Corps crucible, Ranger training, Delta Force selection—or the kind of life-and-death struggle in which I was now engaged. The ordinary person gets hurt—and he retreats to deal with his pain. The Warrior takes in all that pain, all that hurt, all that agony, and metamorphoses it, transmogrifies it, channels it, into pure, unadulterated, kinetic strength, electric energy, and pure will to win.

I’ll make your life a living hell,” she said matter-of-factly. “Kiddo.” I flashed her an impatient smile. “I was forged in hell. I’ll feel right at home. You, however, are in for a challenging few months.

I hated and loved understanding this is what happens, love gave way to hatred, forging love always meant forging hatred, fucking hell, but it isn’t so simple to differentiate the two in this amalgam, you get lost.

We must be bound to one another then. Bound by hell-forged chains and fate-haunted circumstance. Well, then - let it be thus so - and men will have cause to tremble and flee when they hear the names of Elric of Melnibone and Stormbringer, his sword. We are two of a kind - produced by an age which has deserted us. Let us give this age cause to hate us.

Now, I’ve got a few things to say. You’re on your way to First Phase, so make me proud of you. After Hell Week, those of you who survive will still have to face the scuba pool comps in Second Phase and weapons practicals in Third Phase. I’ll want to shake your hand at graduation. When you get there, I want to think of you as one of Reno’s warriors.” There’s another roar from the class. Reno is very popular with Class 228. While he has frequently made them suffer, the trainees know that Reno and the other Indoc instructors have tried to give them what they need to survive in First Phase. “Be on time. Be alert. Be accountable for your actions in and out of uniform. You officers, look out for your men and your men will look out for you. Your reputation is everything in the teams. Remember this if you remember nothing else. For each of you, a chance to build on that reputation begins on Monday morning at zero five hundred in First Phase.” He looks around the class; every eye is on him. “For those of you who do get to the teams, I want you to take this on board. The guys in the teams are a brotherhood. You’ll be closer to them than you ever were to your friends in high school or college. You’ll live with them on deployment and some of you may even die with them in combat. But never, ever forget your family. Family comes before teammates. Most of us will grow old and die in bed, and the only people who will be there to help us die will be our family. Put your family first. I want you to never forget that.

Our sexuality is indeed a powerful force. It can lead us to something of an experience of either heaven or hell, depending on our ability to orient it toward God or not.

He does have more than his share of bad habits. You’ll need to give him extra attention for a while in order to break him of them.” Gabe opened his mouth to protest, but she forged ahead. “Wow, just look at this house. I admit I was happy to have the excuse to come up here. I’ve always wanted to see it. I hope you’ll give me the grand tour.” “Whoa. Wait one minute. What do you mean, I’ll need to give the dog extra attention?” She smiled sheepishly but didn’t respond. “Explain something to me, Dr. Sullivan. What is it you don’t understand about the sentence ‘He is not my dog’?” “I’m not the person you need to convince,” Nic shot back. She gave a significant look toward the boxer, who had plopped down beside Gabe. Actually, plopped down on top of his right foot. Gabe glared down at the dog. “He’s not a person.” “True, but apparently he considers you his person.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Actually, it’s not uncommon at all. I see it all the time in my practice.” “Well, then, he’ll just have to reconsider.

The seals I told you about in the book. They were forged from iron. God created a substance toxic to anything not of earth and used it to make the seals. He also placed iron in the blood of man to help prevent evil from inhabiting us.

Anything can happen in the blink of an eye. Anything at all. One. Two. Three. Blink. A girl is laughing with her friends. Suddenly, a crater splits apart the earth. Through it bursts a man in an ink black chariot forged in the deepest pits of hell, drawn by stallions with hooves of steel and eyes of flame.

This is a woman made of steel and forged in Hell.

A child born in hell,” the white-haired prisoner said. “A child forged by suffering. Hardened by pain.” He shook his head sadly at Bruce. “Not a child of privilege.

Many myths were forged on truth. Christianity attempted to reveal the veil, but they mixed the message up with too much of the divine. There is no divine entity, no good versus evil, no heaven or hell. It’s all part of the netherworld, hidden just out of sight in the corners of your vision. That flicker of movement at the end of a poorly lit street, the tingling across your flesh as you sense you’re being watched. The demons are right there, with us, and yet just out of reach. Some tinker on this side of the veil, some prefer the netherworld.

What are you doing here, Kiernan?” I asked dully. His eyes crinkled up for a second in surprise at my tone. “I came to see you. I know it’s been too long, that I took too long, but…” Two spots of color blossomed on his cheeks, like he didn’t want to go on, but then he forged ahead. “But there were all sorts of ceremonies and things, to welcome her. Everyone was called to court. They even made sure that the Baroness of Mossfeld came,” he added with a puff of laughter and a hopeful glance at me. The holdings of Mossfeld were in the most northern reaches of Thorvaldor and the woman who held them was so eccentric that she had not been seen in court since the crowning of the king. Kiernan and I had spent many hours lying on the grass of the palace gardens, wondering exactly what she was like and what she did with herself stuck out on the boggy, sodden land that was Mossfeld. But I didn’t smile, and I saw Kiernan swallow before he continued. “Anyway, I couldn’t leave. My father, he said that it would be an insult to--to Nalia--if I left to find you while they were still welcoming her. He finally gave me permission yesterday, and I started out this morning.” “I see that. But why?” I asked. There was a tone in my voice I didn’t recognize, as two-edged and keen as a sword blade. It would cut Kiernan, yes, but it would also cut me where I held it. I didn’t care. “This,” I said, throwing my arm out to indicate the cottage and the tub of dye, “isn’t exactly what you’re used to.” He glanced to where I had gestured, blinking and off balance. I shook my head. “No. You’re all fun, all froth and silliness and jokes.” He blanched, hurt, and I almost did myself. It wasn’t true; there was more to Kiernan than that, and we both knew it. Still, I didn’t stop. “There aren’t any pretty women to kiss here, Kiernan, or games to play or pranks to set. No plays to see, no music halls to go to. There aren’t even any libraries for you to run away from.” I laughed, and it was a high, shrill sound, one I didn’t recognize. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s not just you. Look around. There’s nothing here anyone sane would want anything to do with.” “There’s you,” he said quietly. “I came here to find you. I would have gone anywhere,” he added more stridently. “To Two Copper district in Vivaskari or the boggy reaches of Mossfeld or the Nameless God’s frozen hell. You’re my friend. I came to find you.

You have never accepted anything in your life,” Rowan snarled, shooting to his feet and bracing his hands on the table. “And now you are suddenly willing to do so?” “What am I supposed to do, Rowan?” “You damn it all to hell!” He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “You say to hell with their plans, their prophecies, and fates, and you make your own! You do anything but accept this!” “The people of Erilea have spoken.” “To hell with that, too,” he growled. “You can start your free world after this war. Let them vote for their own damned kings and queens, if they want to.” She let out a growl of her own. “I do not want this burden for one second longer. I do not want to choose and learn I made the wrong choice in delaying it.” “So you would have voted against it, then. You would have gone to Terrasen.” “Does it matter?” She shot to her feet. “The votes weren’t in my favor anyway. Hearing that I wanted to go to Orynth, to fight one last time, would have only swayed them.” “You’re the one who’s about to die. I’d say you get to have a voice in it.” She bared her teeth. “This is my fate. Elena tried to get me out of it. And look where it landed her—with a cabal of vengeful gods swearing to end her eternal soul. When the Lock is forged, when I close the gate, I will be destroying another life alongside my own.” “Elena had a thousand years of existence, either living or as a spirit. Forgive me if I don’t give a shit that her time has now come to an end, when you only received twenty years.” “I got to twenty years because of her.” Rowan began pacing, his stalking steps eating up the carpet. “This mess is because of her, too. Why should you bear its weight alone?” “Because it was always mine to begin with.” “Bullshit. It could have as easily been Dorian. He’s willing to do it.” Aelin blinked. “Elena and Nehemia said Dorian wasn’t ready.” “Dorian walked into and out of Morath, went toe to toe with Maeve, and brought the whole damn place crashing down. I’d say he’s as ready as you are.” “I won’t allow him to sacrifice himself in my stead.” “Why?” “Because he is my friend. Because I won’t be able to live with myself from the honors he endured.” “And you aren’t?” Rowan challenged, wholly unfazed. “He’s a grown man. He can make his own choices—we can make choices without you lording over them.

She bared her teeth. “It’s been decided.” He crossed his arms. “Then you and I will do it. Together.” Her heart stopped in her chest. He went on, “You are not forging the Lock alone.” “No.” Her hands began shaking. “That is not an option.” “According to whom?” “According to me. If it was possible, Elena would have told me. Someone with my bloodline has to pay.” “I promised you we’d find a way to pay this debt—together. Let me find another way.” His voice broke, but his pacing didn’t falter. “I will find another way, Aelin—” “There is no other way. Don’t you understand? All of this,” she hissed, arms splaying. “All of this has been to keep you alive. All of you.” “With you as the asking price. To atone for some lingering guilt.” “Do you think I want to die? Do you think any of this is easy, to look at the sky and wonder if it’s the last I’ll see? To look at you, and wonder about those years we don’t have?” “I don’t know what you want, Aelin,” Rowan snarled. “You haven’t been entirely forthcoming.” Her heart thundered. “I want it to be over, one way or another.” Her fingers curled into fists. “I want this to be done.” “I know. And I know what you went through, that those months in Doranelle were hell, Aelin. But you can’t stop fighting. Not now.

The breeze grew into a wind, and she closed her eyes, letting it sweep away the ashes of that dead world—of that dead girl. And then there was nothing left except something new, something still glowing red from the forging. Celaena opened her eyes. She would go into Endovier. Go into Hell. And she would not crumble.

Your very existence is remarkable. Born of fire and blood. I always wondered how your breeding would manifest. You carry the blood of an original vampire and of a dragon. You were not bitten and made, nor even forged in Hell. You were grown like any child.

Suddenly the faith of her childhood struck her as comical: the idea that hell boiled away under the tarmac and pavements of Beechwood Avenue, that if she put her ear to the carpet she'd hear the ringing of pitchforks forged on devils' anvils, the hissing of embers on penitent flesh - how ridiculous it was, how evidently only nightmares to frighten children!

I had had lingering doubts: was it to forge my own approach to life? I had been taught that there was one way — the revealed truth — and to believe otherwise was arrogant and risky. My unconscious conflict between safety and integrity had been resolved by an unspoken agreement that if I chose to live in the way I thought best I would have to take the risk of going to hell.

I slammed my mouth down on hers. Oh, hell. I never made the first move on a woman. My seduction technique was shit. But I couldn’t resist that mouth, and I had to taste it. I slid my hand up her face, my thumb resting on that perfect chin.

Someday, years from now, I’m going to remember that time the gorgeous movie star kissed the hell out of me in my kitchen on my birthday.” And any time I thought of Montana, I’d remember the woman with eyes bluer than the big sky. Or maybe I’d just think of her, no trigger needed. Maybe when it was time to go, there’d be no leaving her behind.

Time to lay it all out there. “Because I fell in love with you this summer.” I framed her face in my hands as she gasped. “Because you fell in love with me too. And because he’ll never kiss you like this.” Then I crushed my mouth to hers, hoping to erase every lick of Luke Rosen with every sweep of my tongue.

What is David without Goliath? What is Jesus without the Cross? What is destiny without the journey? On the other side of struggle is fortune. To pick and choose which battles one is willing to fight or let go before ultimately traversing the uncertain realm of nonexistence is the ultimate war. We must run through life’s troubles, not from them, because smooth seas do not make great sailors and the strongest steel is forged by the fires of Hell. Carry the Cross toward immortality. Embrace the challenge.

Anything can happen in the blink of an eye. Anything at all. One. Two. Three. Blink. A girl is laughing with her friends. Suddenly, a crater splits apart the earth. Through it bursts a man in an ink black chariot forged in the deepest pits of hell, drawn by stallions with hooves of steel and eyes of flame. Before anyone can shout a warning, before the girl can turn and run, those thundering hooves are upon her. Now the girl isn't laughing anymore. Instead, she's screaming. It's too late. The man has leaned out of his ink black chariot to seize her by the waist and pull her back down into that crater with him. Life as she once knew it will never be the same.

Did you buy the swagger, the arrogance?" she demanded, voice breaking. "Did the others? Because I've been trying to. I've been trying like hell to convince myself that it's real, reminding myself I only need to pretend to be how I was just long enough." Long enough to forge the lock and die. He said softly, "I know Aelin." He hadn't bought the winks and smirks for a hearbeat.

Zade is Hades, stepping out from the underworld and wreaking havoc on my quiet little life. The wicked scar cutting through his nearly-white eye, with his other nearly-black eye is a combination that could only be forged in Hell.

Surely, when I’m dead, there’s no chance the devils will fail to drag me down with their hooks. So that gets me thinking: hooks? Where do they get them from? What are they made of? Iron? And where do they forge them? Have they got their own works down there, or what? The monks in your monastery probably suppose that hell comes with a roof, for instance. Now I’m ready to believe in hell, but it shouldn’t have a roof: it’s in better taste without one, more enlightened, Lutheran-like,* if you see what I mean. But really and truly, what does it matter, roof or no roof? But then, that’s what the whole damned question is all about! For if there’s no roof, it follows there can’t be any hooks either. And if there aren’t any hooks, then it’s all a sham, and it’s even harder to swallow: who’s going to drag me down with hooks then,

Out of his mouth was coming a sound that could only have been forged in hell; the sound of a million pieces that had been individually buried and hammered into compression for four long years; it was the sound of pain and agony and death and terror and sadness and starvation and boredom and fear and despair that had been compressed that was now escaping with the terrible admission of what he’d had to do to save his brother.

When humans go through something hard, they react in one to two ways. They come out on the other side either better or worse. It's impossible to walk through hell and leave it the same way you went in. Nobody walks through fire unscathed. You either burn up into ashes or you get forged in the flames and emerge as something new.

I blinked. And then couldn't. Let me be a little more explicit: "We have invented happiness," and I am lost. Hell is heaven forged by mankind and populated by mankind convinced of it . . . Hell is, because "I am".

If you want me to do something you must be literal, or your request is only a suggestion that is open to my personal interpretation of what exactly you might mean.

His gaze softened. Of course he wouldn’t rise to that bait. Not his style. “No.” He climbed out of bed, his broad chest shirtless, and stood towering over me. He gripped my arms, holding me close. “I won’t take you. Not alone.” “Why the hell not?” “Do you recall when Aethelred the Seer predicted that I would lose what I loved most?” My extremities tingled. Slowly, I nodded. “That’s you, Nix.” His gaze turned fierce. “You are what I love most. I can’t lose you.” My heart felt like it cracked in two. The ache was fierce. Tears stung my eyes. Ares really loved me. I’d believed it before when I’d told him, but somehow—this was worse. It was so real. What could we have had, if I didn’t have to do what I had to do?

Chapter Six: Mistress of Red From underneath from hellish bowels, She lives the torment she shrieks and howls. A damned flame of volcanic intent, Seeks a city where her hatred may vent. Underneath the bow of vaulted earth, This spirit breaks from infernoed perch. Circles the span of inward woe, From beneath the caverns does she go. She seeks the city she may destroy, To lie in ruins for her ploy. From lofty plume of sordid ash, She delights to see her cuts and gash. Vulcania Draconis, spirit of bitter ’ire, Rings the earth with her dredful fires. Horrendous demon from Vulcan’s forge, Lays waste to the earth, her inhabitants engorged. Mighty Pompeii knew her ways, Scoffed at her threats and would not pay. In vindiction’s rage hissed she their doom, Cast them alive within their tombs. And Krakatoa and Mycenae, They would not yield, she laid them waste. An extortioness, royal supreme, To conquer or destroy, her consummate dream. How this evil one sets her pace, Rings sweet earth in her death’s nec-lace. Far from below she blasts her smoke, To cover their eyes until they choke. At her command cities fall and swell, Earthquake, tidal wave, gives masses to hell. This spirit from the blackest pit, Broods deep on those she kiss. She comes to seek those to enslave, To fuel her bowels, her booty in trade. The pride and ruination of nations and men, Seeks souls and bodies to ambition her ends. Now this licking creature of red-hot glow, Sends her heat to make fumerals. Damns the many and damns the one, As empires burn when her rage is done. A vengeful spirit, Draconis is, Smiles so pleasant as victims drop in. Opens her shotted eyes in mirth, To hear the screams of their heated death lurch. This diabolic holds much potent sway, Seeks for victims as ground gives way. She holds the riddle to the land, And holds it she must for her time is at hand. Had learned she now that Kari had come, That timeless conflict again begun. “Never did I see one I could not coerce, But now a convolcation of power, a tour de force.” Suppressed regret ruminated throughout, Yet shreds of fear left no doubt. “I will finish what was started here in mmy land, Beyond records treatise once we did stand. Past all memories, hmm, even so, Before myth began and Rome’s trumpets blowed. I will shatter her like earthenware because I mmust, She tasks mme this creature, mmy hate it is just. Wounded mme she did, her preysence calls, If nothing else, ha I will hurt her if I faullt.” On Vulcania Draconis, Kari's Diabolical Enemy Cold Steel Eternity Vol. ii

What the fuck just happened? As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes. After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame. I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story. And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker. How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I? Because I was out of touch. Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life. I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down. And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck. “Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention. I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?” “What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?” “Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.” Presley scowled but stayed quiet. “She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?” Yeah. “She said murder.” Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.

Poem of the Phalanx (Perception as Visual Personal Art) Memories, shard, intersect and twitch, Create images anew as they inter and switch. Amid blackness eternal, the ground breaks the day And the shape which cuts the ground— Phalanx in time—reapers way. 5 Thoughts as geometric planes galley the night mind, Images thoughted, float raging ever by. Comets to the mind–bolt outta the black they mortise and fly– Disappear they do–into their midnighted cry. (Yea, evil is wrought from the want of the want of Love’s lost ought. 10 Goodness wrights of the abundance of Love in blood ’twas bought. —Live the moment within God’s Mind too, For once missed she will pass by you. But He alone shall remember thy days, For in His Heart He will hold thy ways. 15 (. . . Surmount untold; reproaching its summits hidden self face, Can’t make for a daydrop of lost opportunity and regret’s disgrace. Yes, eternities of regrets can never create The day’s bested instance that was forsaked). Fleets of illusion harbor and snag, 20 Bristled spears impale with emotive jags. Willish anvil beaten and enhammored in bers red embs, Guards the hellgates unhinged in forged remembered contems. (Aye, the anvil of will beaten and wrought Sentinels the gate ripped in forged oughts). 25 Phalanx of dreams penetrate they deep, Guard thy soul they do lest the enemy storms thy keep. They rancor and barb thyself under penalty of arms, And kill the dragons that would do thee most harm. Yea, in the Belly of the Beast thy wounds do feel pierced, 30 For Love Eternal must cut darkness as the Spirit is so fierce. The hour of shadows exalt—! ’Gainst the Christ in His plain splin‴try array– Yet curshed in a moment on that ill-fated day. The way of caution doth forbear to tread beyond the mire In those bleak hours when the ‘Powers that Be’ seek to solace thee in thy soulish desires. 35 Mercy travails deep upon the Fires of His Winds To heal by His cut; His own everlasting His– Is to die to Love Eternal with He, –as He now does and is . . . Hell for others, heaven for some, His work ’tis finished all given and in all thrust done. 40 As Love rejoices His shed blood run red for thee—, —Things Divined and precioius for you and for me forever in He (The spear that killed Him gave Him life –the enemy’s travesty). Phalanx comes, phalanx goes, Wither are thou—dost thousest know? 45 Are ye pierced through and through out within? Seek his face so life may begin Sharp keys to hell the warriors doth say, Yet unlock they the gate to heaven’s pathway. End

I'm coming Ace. Nothing is going to keep mr from you. Now, where the hell are you?

She stared at the bullwhip coiled Indiana Jones-style at his narrow waist, then at the black-handled dagger sheathed on his right hip. An obsidian rapier--Fae-forged and unbreakable--almost merged with one of the taped seams that ran down the sides of his pants. He even wore a dagger gunslinger-style at his hip. Dear Goddess, the man was a walking arsenal, but he was sexy as hell.

No more games. No more deals. We’re going to talk. Communicate. When things go wrong or something’s bothering you, you tell me. I tell you. No more surprises. We’re still going to fight, because we’re both hardheaded as hell, but then we’re going to make up, and it’s going to be fucking worth it.” “I like the sound of that.” “Good, because I’m not here to tell you how to live your life. I just want to be the lucky son of a bitch who gets to be part of it every day.

Feeling my stare burning into him, he twists his head until his gaze clashes with mine. I suck in a sharp breath, taken aback by the utter emptiness staring back at me. I’ve come across a lot of evil, rotten souls in my time. Souls I’m certain are burning in the depths of Hell. But this man… this man’s soul was forged in Hell. This… thing was never human. Not in this lifetime. A smile cocks on his saggy cheeks. He likes my attention. I may look like a demented, broken little doll, but underneath the makeup is a young girl. I think I’m in my twenties, but with the amount of makeup layered on my face, I could easily pass for sixteen. Sick, sick man. I smile at him, showing him my pretty smile. Mortis always says I have the smile of an angel. Demons love angels. They always want what they can never have. They love to taint what’s pure. Like picking up a white bunny with hands covered in blood. Angels are used and discarded to the side when they’ve served their purpose. Just like Lucifer with Eve. She didn’t eat an apple. Lucifer fucked her and ruined her for all men. And then tossed her aside because she could never be Lilith. The evil man responds in kind, his smile widening so big—even his wife takes notice. She glances at me, her gaze drifting away before snapping back to me, now wide with fear. Her rounded eyes bounce between me and her husband. She’s watching her husband prey on another woman, and instead of her burning up with jealously, she fears for me instead.

She had been through her own hells and was made stronger by its fires. Being forged from a few failures yields a different type of strength— the type which reminds you you can survive anything and are smart enough to not make the same mistakes twice. She was nothing, if not a force.