Harrow Faire Quotes

Stay here,' I said. 'Get fucked,' she said thickly. 'I absolutely did not become the eighth saint to serve the King Undying so Gideon Nav could play hero for me.' 'Why did you ascend to be a Lyctor?' 'Ultimate power - and posters of my face.' Fair.

You’re insane!” “You keep saying that. It isn’t news.” He chuckled and rested his cheek on her temple

He was a covetous creature. And Cora Glass was his. And he would burn down the world to protect her.

Death is the inevitable consequance of having lived

Human souls are worthless. If souls are the currency of hell then the devil himself has become the victim of inflation.

There was no better way to convince a righteous man to do the unrighteous thing than by using his own words against him.

I will follow you to the ends of the Earth. I will stay at your side until we crumble to dust. I will protect you as best I can, even from myself. And when I cannot, I can only pray you rip what’s left of me apart. Because I never, ever wish to hurt you. And I never, ever wish to fail you.

A hand settled on her shoulder. "It's so easy to convince mortals that what they've seen is false. They'd rather ignore the impossible than rethink their understanding of reality. Isn't that true, Cora dear?

Say it again, Simon. Say you love me.” “Say what?” He blinked, then frowned. “Why?” “I like the sound of it.” He pulled in a breath, held it, and let out his words in a long rush. “Why-do-you-have-to-delight-in-debasing-me?

I could describe the way the smells of brine and sun have permeated every stone of every street, or the way the tide callers stand at their watchtowers and cry out the hour for their Cities. I could tell you of the many-shaped ships that crisscross the seas with careful writing stitched on their sails praying for good fortune and fair winds. I could tell you of the squid-ink tattoos that adorn the hands of every husband and wife, and of the lesser word-workers who prick words into flesh.

Simon Waite. What an odd, tragic, terrible man. He was a monster, no doubt about it. He was a vicious, cruel, evil, and sadistic thing. Because he’d taken his heart and cast it into his shadow. Because if he hadn’t, there’d be nothing left of him to salvage.

We live all our lives in cages. Each of us, be we a slave or be we a king, call a prison our home. The prison is that which gives us shelter. It is our society.

Hell spat you back out. Fair enough.

Tell people when they matter to you. Because someday, when you least expect it, they might be gone.

Ringmaster rubbed his hand over his face. “Why do you have to be so difficult, Simon?” “See previous comment about hatred.” He smiled sweetly.

She rounded on him. Harrowhark knew that she was being unfair; she knew that she was being petulant - had been scared into it, and could not soothe herself, and was using any means fair and foul to try to do so now. But when she was scared, she was a child again, and she was more afraid of being a child again than anything else in her life. Almost.

The most to which we can ever aspire is not to break free from the cage that sits around us as some may believe, but that instead we might choose one that best suits our needs. A home for a captive lizard is not suitable for a bird. A gorilla is displeased by an environment that would be bliss for a snake. Do not mistake me—it is better to hate your cage and search for something more than to be complacent. That we might find our cage a Heaven or a Hell is far more preferable to wanting nothing at all. Ants care not whose dirt they dwell in. Hate your cage. Find another. Build it with your own bare hands if you must—but understand that it is a cage all the same. Embrace it. Fashion it with pride. Make it your home. There is no such thing as freedom for our species.

Such is the lot of the knight that even though my patrimony were ample and adequate for my support, nevertheless here are the disturbances which give me no quiet. We live in fields, forests, and fortresses. Those by whose labors we exist are poverty-stricken peasants, to whom we lease our fields, vineyards, pastures, and woods. The return is exceedingly sparse in proportion to the labor expended. Nevertheless the utmost effort is put forth that it may be bountiful and plentiful, for we must be diligent stewards. I must attach myself to some prince in the hope of protection. Otherwise every one will look upon me as fair plunder. But even if I do make such an attachment hope is beclouded by danger and daily anxiety. If I go away from home I am in peril lest I fall in with those who are at war or feud with my overlord, no matter who he is, and for that reason fall upon me and carry me away. If fortune is adverse, the half of my estates will be forfeit as ransom. Where I looked for protection I was ensnared. We cannot go unarmed beyond to yokes of land. On that account, we must have a large equipage of horses, arms, and followers, and all at great expense. We cannot visit a neighboring village or go hunting or fishing save in iron. Then there are frequently quarrels between our retainers and others, and scarcely a day passes but some squabble is referred to us which we must compose as discreetly as possible, for if I push my claim to uncompromisingly war arises, but if I am too yielding I am immediately the subject of extortion. One concession unlooses a clamor of demands. And among whom does all this take place? Not among strangers, my friend, but among neighbors, relatives, and those of the same household, even brothers. These are our rural delights, our peace and tranquility. The castle, whether on plain or mountain, must be not fair but firm, surrounded by moat and wall, narrow within, crowded with stalls for the cattle, and arsenals for guns, pitch, and powder. Then there are dogs and their dung, a sweet savor I assure you. The horsemen come and go, among them robbers, thieves, and bandits. Our doors are open to practically all comers, either because we do not know who they are or do not make too diligent inquiry. One hears the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, the barking of dogs, the shouts of men working in the fields, the squeaks or barrows and wagons, yes, and even the howling of wolves from nearby woods. The day is full of thought for the morrow, constant disturbance, continual storms. The fields must be ploughed and spaded, the vines tended, trees planted, meadows irrigated. There is harrowing, sowing, fertilizing, reaping, threshing: harvest and vintage. If the harvest fails in any year, then follow dire poverty, unrest, and turbulence.

Madness is an insidious disease. We do not see the danger until it is too late. It creeps into the cracks and crevices of the mind and makes itself at home, like carpenter ants in the framing of a home. We do not know the floor has rotted away until one ill-timed step destroys the façade of normalcy. But carpenter ants do not destroy a home. They change it. As matter cannot be destroyed, they consume the structures we have built and rearrange it for their own use. While a home beset by such insects might seem uninhabitable for those who look at the situation from the outside, to the ants it was the intended outcome. We might inspect the foundation and find it derelict and dilapidated. We might scoff and say that anyone who lives within such a place is idiotic, and that they should have not neglected it in such a way. And, in extreme cases, they should move. Consider this metaphor in relation to one’s mind. That place in which we spend the entirety of our mortal lives. What happens when your home is beset by insects then? One cannot move out of one’s own mind, try as we might. We are trapped within these structures of ours, for better or worse and come what may. We must make do with what we are given and what we have left. Whereas you or I in our daily lives might seek a new homestead in such an infestation, in this labyrinth of the psyche, we cannot. There are different ways that a consciousness, once gnawed and riddled with holes, might come to adapt to such a state of being. Consider three men with this dilemma, if you will. The first man may seek to repair the damage—replace the eaten portions and shore up the foundations. This man is pragmatic, but shortsighted. He treats the symptoms, but not the cause. The second may seek to exterminate the infestation—to seek the illness at the root and rip it out. This man is wise, but must need act quickly before the house collapses around him. The third man merely laughs—he accepts his new state of being and does nothing to repair his home. He declares himself King of the Ants, lifts up hammer and sledge, and tears the remaining walls apart with his own two hands. You might think that man the fool. You might think him a harmless, laughing lunatic. It is a mistake that leads to ruin. For that man is the most dangerous of them all. -M. L. Harrow

I am a witch.” Agnes shouts it a second time, louder, flinging her voice into the night. “And so are my sisters, and so will be my daughter and my daughter’s daughter.” Her voice roughens at the mention of Eve, as if the collar around her throat has constricted. Behind them comes the sound of footsteps, then the whisper of words and the sizzle of saltwater spat on hot iron. Their chains crackle with unnatural rust. Their collars boil at the touch of witchcraft. Bella bites her cheek until she tastes blood, but Agnes doesn’t seem to feel her collar at all. Her head is tilted back against the stake, her eyes closed, her voice strong. “And so is every woman who says what she shouldn’t or wants what she can’t have, who fights for her fair share.

Why did you ascend to be a Lyctor?" "Ultimate power – and posters of my face." Fair.

I think my whole soul was made for beauty, my whole desire born for fair and lovely things. You will smile at me for a dreamer, but often my thoughts seem to fly through forests - marvellous green glooms all drowned in moonlight. I love to hear the wind, to watch the great oaks battling, to see the sea one laugh of gold. Every sunset harrows me into a moan of woe. I can sing to the stars at night - songs such as the woods weave from the voice of a gentle wind, dew-ladened, green, and lovely. Sometimes I feel faint for sheer love of this fair earth.

[...] I am filled with humanity - so much of it - and yet it doesn't make me more human. I want to feel close to all of you. I don't want to be your god." "That's good, but not really human of you." She chuckled. "Most of us want to play god for others." "Do you?" "No. Not at all. I saw what happened when I played The Sims . I'd be a shit god.

I am a witch.” Agnes shouts it a second time, louder, flinging her voice into the night. “And so are my sisters, and so will be my daughter and my daughter’s daughter.” Her voice roughens at the mention of Eve, as if the collar around her throat has constricted. Behind them comes the sound of footsteps, then the whisper of words and the sizzle of saltwater spat on hot iron. Their chains crackle with unnatural rust. Their collars boil at the touch of witchcraft. Bella bites her cheek until she tastes blood, but Agnes doesn’t seem to feel her collar at all. Her head is tilted back against the stake, her eyes closed, her voice strong. “And so is every woman who says what she shouldn’t or wants what she can’t have, who fights for her fair share.

That is the untold exchange of our world. That is the true cost of death. To die is to lose your hammer and chisel. Your opportunity to mark the world is over. You slide your cards away and leave the table.

He was clever, witty, and wicked. His sadistic grin sent shivers up her spine in ways that it shouldn’t. He bullied her, but he relished being teased in return. And most of all, it was the look in his freakish eyes when she asked him to stay with her. Like he had been stuck outside in a storm, and she had opened her door and asked if he wanted shelter. Even if he dragged the storm inside with him, it was worth it.

I learned then that your kind are capable of handling power like this—like mine—after all. Not always. Maybe not for long. But at times, maybe once in a while, you choose peace. You choose just to live.

Simon? If you didn’t want to get in my pants, would I also be on your shit list?” “Oh, cupcake. I don’t have a list. It’d be too long to track. I keep a list of the people I don’t despise. Much easier that way.

She sighed. “I’m just tired.” “I know. You stayed awake at my side. I thought for a moment it was out of concern for me, but it was out of your own internal strife. For shame.” “I have to keep your ego in check somehow.” “A fruitless pursuit.

Power is a strange drug. It does unpredictable things to those who taste it. Picture power as a sword—there is no coincidence that swords are the symbol of authority and control for humanity for…what…thousands of years, now? Power is a weapon. It can be used to defend or to protect. It can be a symbol of tyranny or nobility. The warlord and the king. And you never know quite what a person is going to do with it until it’s handed to them. Until they’re told it belongs to them, and the countryside is theirs to keep or raze. I think one of my favorite things about humanity is how unpredictable you all are with such a gift

She went about her life trying to be a good person not because God told her to, but because it was just the right thing to do anyway. She never could quite wrap her head around why some people felt they needed the threat of an afterlife of torture to not be complete jackasses to the people around them.

The thought of slain bodies and of murdered men must always harrow up the soul; but because we hear of these things in the distance, there are few Englishmen who can truly enter into their horrors. If we should hear the booming of cannon on the deep which girdles this island; if we should see at our doors the marks of carnage and bloodshed; then should we more thoroughly appreciate what war means. If our country has been fairly depicted by the advocates for war, its condition is disappointing to the believer in progress, and alarming to the patriot who gazes into the future. We are still pugnacious, still believers in brute force, still ready to shed blood, still able to contemplate ravaged lands and murdered thousands without horror, still eager to test our ability to kill our fellow men. What pride flushes the patriot’s cheek when he remembers that his nation can murder faster than any other people. Ah, foolish generation, ye are groping in the flames of hell to find your heaven, raking amid blood and bones for the foul thing which ye call glory.

It hadn’t been anyone else here in the boxcar with Cora. It had been himself. He’d been betrayed by his own shadow. He never did cease to disappoint himself.

You’ve got a vile mind, Cora. I like it.

We’re going to be late to dinner.” “Does it look like I care? Say it, Cora.” She sighed. He was impossible. “I love you, Simon Waite.” One of these days, she was going to learn not to try to predict what Simon was going to do next. Because he laughed.

Snarling, he threw on his clothing. They were in a precarious scenario, and now was not the time to go wandering off on her own! She should know the danger they were in! No, she has no reason to know. She’s still a child here. And now I’m going to ruin my nice coat!