Fragile Threads Of Power Quotes

A head gets lost, but a heart knows home.

As far as she was concerned, family had nothing to do with proximity or blood. Family was a chosen thing. A label earned.

She sighed in relief. "You came." Kell stepped into the room, the black ring's cord swinging from his fingers. "You called.

But Lila went to Kell’s side. She knelt beside his sleeping body, and whispered something in his ear, and if Tes had been standing farther back, she’d never have heard it. But she did. “There is nowhere you go,” said the Antari to her prince, “that I cannot follow.

A thing taken by force would always be a pale shadow of something given freely.

And that was the madness, the cruelty, that life was fragile, and he had so much to love, and spent all his time mourning the loss before he suffered it.

To Lila, Kell had always been a pane of glass tilted toward her just so, so that where others saw only colors and streaks, she saw the truth of it. Of him.

There is nowhere you go,” said the Antari to her prince, “that I cannot follow.

Is it possible to have a death wish when you know you cannot die?

We all don clothes that do not fit, and hope we will grow into them.

Caring could drown you, if you let it.

Why didn’t you stay on the ship?” he asked again, because now and then, it was not enough to dance around the truth. He wanted to hear her say it. Even if she did not wear the ring. He wanted to know that she chose to be here, with him. Lila held his gaze so long he could have counted the shards of light in her good eye. And then, at last, almost grudgingly, she said, “Because the bed would feel empty. Without you in it.

If you only think of the wrong hands magic can fall into, you forget that now and then there are right ones.

Please know my deep respect for humans and human life. Such beautiful, fragile animals, so fleeting and easily broken and yet powerful beyond anything faeries can ever hope to be. We cannot create but live forever, unchanging. You change with every breath, dying even as you live, but your thread to eternity and immortality is reborn with every new generation

Some people cannot see the need for change until it’s done.

Rhy lost the last dregs of his composure, and threw back his head and laughed, and then he was on his back, the night sky sliding in and out of focus. “I’m going to roll off,” he said, gasping for breath. “I’ll catch you,” said Kell without so much as a pause. Rhy’s laughter died away. “I know.

Rhy glanced over and caught his stare. “What are you thinking about?” “Your brother,” said Alucard, regretting the words as soon as they were out. Rhy raised a brow. “Should I be jealous?” He rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep.” “I knew all that loathing was a farce.

I have never pretended to be wise. Only old.

We all don clothes that do not fit, and hope we will grow into them. Or at least, grow used to them.

And then Rhy was there, pushing his lover aside, and flinging his arms around Kell’s shoulders. “Brother,” said Rhy, holding him tight. And unlike the coat, and all the other trappings of Kell’s old life, this one, at least, still fit.

He tries my patience every day, the king.” “He sounds maddening.” Rhy’s hand drifted lower, tracing the muscles of Alucard’s stomach. “And yet you stay. You must love him very much.” Alucard met the king’s gaze. “I do.” He let his weight sink onto Rhy, brought his mouth to his ear. “And he’s very good in bed.

And so what should have been the first trumpets of war had been allowed to quiet once again back into the whispers of strategy.

Brother,” said Rhy, holding him tight. And unlike the coat, and all the other trappings of Kell’s old life, this one, at least, still fit.

until the sculptor vanished inside her work.

but fools have voices, and voices carry.

She sighed in relief. 'You came.' Kell stepped into the room, the black ring's cord swinging from his fingers. 'You called.

She only got two kinds of looks: appraising, and skeptical. Those who saw her as a woman, and those who saw her as a girl. Both looks made her feel like a sack of grain being weighed, but she hated the latter more, that way it was meant to make her feel small. The fact, sometimes, it did.

Our stories are powerful. They teach, they speak, they inspire. They bring about change. But they are also fragile. Their threads are so easily broken by time, by lack of interest, by failure to understand the value that comes of knowing where we have been and who we have been. In this speed-of-light culture, our histories are fading more quickly than ever. Yet when we lose our stories, we lose ourselves. . . .

Instead he sent them skittering over the field, fragile tendrils of darkness, blindly seeking the power they recognized. Like calls to like. He released a shout as the shadows met the demon. They clung to its form. More. Aleksander's body shook as he fought to keep his sanity. that deafening, maddening vibration traveling through his skull. His threads of shadow wrapped around the demon's body, giving strength to its limbs, banding together and binding to its form. The creature shrieked. Aleksander felt the demon's mind, Nikolai's mind. The monster is me... The ghost of a thought.

Caring could drown you, if you let it. But it could also help you float.

Just because we do not carry on doesn't mean we haven't been. We live a life, we leave a legacy. But the river runs one way and we are carried on it.

Och ans, is farr, ins ol’ach, regh narr. There was no easy way to translate Veskan. It was the kind of language where every word could mean a dozen things, depending on their order and their context. It’s why he’d never managed more than a frail grasp on a handful of phrases. But this one he’d held on to. This one Alucard understood. A head gets lost, but a heart knows home.

It was ridiculous. Unfounded. A battle cry for the discontent, an excuse to cause chaos and call it change. But there were people—bitter, angry, powerless people—who were beginning to listen.

I have never returned to the mortal realms. Those who make frequent trips do so at great personal sacrifice.” I looked at Reth, who still stood next to me, had been standing next to me this entire time, silent and watching. Reth who never needed to come back to Earth after I freed him from IPCA. Reth who was looking dimmer by the hour after taking the midnight faerie’s attack in my place. The Light Queen followed my gaze. “My golden son has given much because of his love for you and his devotion to me. He may yet give up all.” Well, bleep. It was so much simpler to hate him. “I know you hold depths of anger and bitterness toward the fey, child, but please understand our desperation. And please know my deep respect for humans and human life. Such beautiful, fragile animals, so fleeting and easily broken yet powerful beyond anything faeries can ever hope to be. We cannot create but live forever, unchanging. You change with every breath, dying even as you live, but your thread to eternity and immortality is reborn with every new generation.” I was bust avoiding Reth’s eyes, not wanting to think that, as someone who was nobly sacrificing to be around me and protect me. Not wanting to accept that he really loved me the way he was always saying he did.

But Pocock’s influence didn’t end with his command of the technical side of the sport. It really only began there. Over the years, as he saw successive classes of oarsmen come and go, as he watched immensely powerful and proud boys strive to master the vexing subtleties of their sport, as he studied them and worked with them and counseled them and heard them declare their dreams and confess their shortcomings, George Pocock learned much about the hearts and souls of young men. He learned to see hope where a boy thought there was no hope, to see skill where skill was obscured by ego or by anxiety. He observed the fragility of confidence and the redemptive power of trust. He detected the strength of the gossamer threads of affection that sometimes grew between a pair of young men or among a boatload of them striving honestly to do their best. And he came to understand how those almost mystical bonds of trust and affection, if nurtured correctly, might lift a crew above the ordinary sphere, transport it to a place where nine boys somehow became one thing—a thing that could not quite be defined, a thing that was so in tune with the water and the earth and the sky above that, as they rowed, effort was replaced by ecstasy. It was a rare thing, a sacred thing, a thing devoutly to be hoped for. And in the years since coming to Washington, George Pocock had quietly become its high priest.

I always wanted one. I don't know why. It wasn't ego. Some women just want to see their own reflection. I wanted to know what it felt like. To make another person. And then, when she was here, I wanted to see what she would do. Who she would be. Every day, she is different. Every day, she is new". "You talk of her like she's an experiment." "I suppose she is," said Nadiya though there was dreamy quality to her voice when she said it, "A grand experiment.

I was fragile, a mortal body stitched together with divine thread. We weren’t supposed to make a habit of swimming in the power of a god.