Heart Breakers Quotes

I'd made the vampire cry. Great. I felt like a real superhero. Harry Dresden, breaker of monsters' hearts.

We are the breakers of our own hearts

Vengeance burns,Torak." said Fin-Kedinn as the river bore him away. "It burns your heart. It makes the pain worse. Dont let that happen to you.

The brittle bones beneath my chest cracked, piercing my heart. It was you who breathed new life into my lungs and it was you who would later syphon the life you had given so as to feed your selfish desires

The sound of distant breakers made her heart ache with melancholy. She was in the mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we are very happy that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating monotony to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness and to speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.

A cold word from a cold man sends shivers throughout my body but my heart remains warm

I encased my heart in stone so as to stop it from beating

The thought burrowed into her heart as darkness fell. It coiled in her guts as she wedged herself amongst the boughs of a tree to sleep. And in the morning, it woke with her and clung to her back, riding on her shoulders as she climbed down, hungry and exhausted from nightmares.

Often misunderstood, Dionysus is far more than a wine deity. He is the Breaker of Chains, who rescues not only the flesh but the heart and spirit from too much of worldly regulations and duties. He is a god of joy and freedom. Any uncultivated, tangled, and primal woodland is very much his domain.

You reached into my chest with your words. When you spoke, my heart danced. Love muddled thoughts based in reason. Interest withered like a flower in dry heat then your words wrapped themselves around my heart and yanked it from my body. Now I stand bewildered by the sight of my heart beating on the cold concrete floor.

The clouds wept when my heart sang a song of sorrow

Don’t you understand? You’re already in… you’re… inside my skin. Inside my chest. Inside my lungs. Deep within my bones, my heart, my soul. I fucking love you, Sidney.

Moth, breaker of flowers, spy glasses, pitchers, and hearts," Max mused, shaking his head. "He is your apprentice after all, Sammerin." "He's a little smitten, I think. But I suppose it can't be helped." And I tried not to notice how Sammerin's gaze slid to Max as he said, "When I saw that red dress, I knew we were all in trouble.

I feel something snap and settle in me. It's the last piece of my heart, falling for him without any input from me at all.

Moon River Moon river, wider than a mile I'm crossing you in style some day Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker Wherever you're goin', i'm goin' your way Two drifters, off to see the world There's such a lot of world to see We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me (moon river, wider than a mile) (i'm crossin' you in style some day) Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker Wherever you're goin', i'm goin' your way Two drifters, off to see the world There's such a lot of world to see We're after that same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me

This week in live current events: your eyes. All power can be dangerous: Direct or alternating, you, socket to me. Plugged in and the grid is humming, this electricity, molecule-deep desire: particular friction, a charge strong enough to stop a heart or start it again; volt, re-volt-- I shudder, I stutter, I start to life. I've got my ion you, copper-top, so watch how you conduct yourself. Here's today's newsflash: a battery of rolling blackouts in California, sudden, like lightning kisses: sudden, whitehot darkness and you're here, fumbling for that small switch with an urgent surge strong enough to kill lesser machines. Static makes hair raise, makes things cling, makes things rise like a gathering storm charging outside our darkened house and here I am: tempest, pouring out mouthfulls of tsunami on the ground, I've got that rain-soaked kite, that drenched key. You know what it's for, circuit-breaker, you know how to kiss until it's hertz.

This level reach of blue is not my sea; Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun, Whose quiet ripples meet obediently A marked and measured line, one after one. This is no sea of mine. that humbly laves Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm. I have a need of wilder, crueler waves; They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm. So let a love beat over me again, Loosing its million desperate breakers wide; Sudden and terrible to rise and wane; Roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide That casts upon the heart, as it recedes, Splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.

what does being a dragonheart mean to you?   surviving / having flames in your veins / never-ending loyalty / powerful alone & with like-hearted people / loving fiercely / strong-spined / dangerous / celebrating yourself / celebrating others / magic even without spells / protective / gentle but armored / light-giver / reigning supremely / what fairy tales are made of / queen of your own life / no doubts about your own worth / forever valiant / tower-breaker / kingdom-shaker / standing up for others / resisting over & over / taking charge of your narrative / bravery beyond measure / not giving negativity a seat at your table / facing the fire head-on / prioritizing yourself / story-hungry / made of gold / dream-chaser / sea storm courage / voice-reclaimer / war-hearted / flower-hearted / RELENTLESS

Oaths be of the heart, and he that breaketh them in open fact is oft, as now, no breaker in truth, for already were they scorned and trampled on by his opposites.

You cannot bargain with me. My heart is the clock. Find medicine before it ticks dry, and buy your friend’s life. Fail and his corpse is all you will find here.

Fond as he was of Pongo, Lord Ickenham could not see him as a breaker of hearts. Yet it appeared plain that his loss had left a large gap in this girl's life.

But drunkenly, or secretly, we swore, Disciples of that astigmatic saint, That we would never leave the island Until we had put down, in paint, in words, As palmists learn the network of a hand, All of its sunken, leaf-choked ravines, Every neglected, self-pitying inlet Muttering in brackish dialect, the ropes of mangroves From which old soldier crabs slipped Surrendering to slush, Each ochre track seeking some hilltop and Losing itself in an unfinished phrase, Under sand shipyards where the burnt-out palms Inverted the design of unrigged schooners, Entering forests, boiling with life, Goyave, corrosol, bois-canot, sapotille. Days! The sun drumming, drumming, Past the defeated pennons of the palms, Roads limp from sunstroke, Past green flutes of the grass The ocean cannonading, come! Wonder that opened like the fan Of the dividing fronds On some noon-struck sahara, Where my heart from its rib cage yelped like a pup After clouds of sanderlings rustily wheeling The world on its ancient, Invisible axis, The breakers slow-dolphining over more breakers, To swivel our easels down, as firm As conquerors who had discovered home.

This kiss is a gold medal winner, a heart breaker, a soul stealer, a dream. This kiss is everything I never knew I needed. This is the kiss that will ruin me, I know it is, but because it’s so brain-meltingly decadent, I don’t care. I’ll worry about my ruination later.

The only person that should wear your ring is the one person that would never… 1. Ask you to remain silent and look the other way while they hurt another. 2. Jeopardize your future by taking risks that could potentially ruin your finances or reputation. 3. Teach your children that hurting others is okay because God loves them more. God didn’t ask you to keep your family together at the expense of doing evil to others. 4. Uses religious guilt to control you, while they are doing unreligious things. 5. Doesn't believe their actions have long lasting repercussions that could affect other people negatively. 6. Reminds you of your faults, but justifies their own. 7. Uses the kids to manipulate you into believing you are nothing. As if to suggest, you couldn’t leave the relationship and establish a better Christian marriage with someone that doesn’t do these things. Thus, making you believe God hates all the divorced people and will abandon you by not bringing someone better to your life, after you decide to leave. As if! 8. They humiliate you online and in their inner circle. They let their friends, family and world know your transgressions. 9. They tell you no marriage is perfect and you are not trying, yet they are the one that has stirred up more drama through their insecurities. 10. They say they are sorry, but they don’t show proof through restoring what they have done. 11. They don’t make you a better person because you are miserable. They have only made you a victim or a bitter survivor because of their need for control over you. 12. Their version of success comes at the cost of stepping on others. 13. They make your marriage a public event, in order for you to prove your love online for them. 14. They lie, but their lies are often justified. 15. You constantly have to start over and over and over with them, as if a connection could be grown and love restored through a honeymoon phase, or constant parental supervision of one another’s down falls. 16. They tell you that they don’t care about anyone other than who they love. However, their actions don’t show they love you, rather their love has become bitter insecurity disguised in statements such as, “Look what I did for us. This is how much I care.” 17. They tell you who you can interact with and who you can’t. 18. They believe the outside world is to blame for their unhappiness. 19. They brought you to a point of improvement, but no longer have your respect. 20. They don't make you feel anything, but regret. You know in your heart you settled.

I had treated my temporary earthly problems so emotionally and seriously that they became major energy zappers, brain drains, and heart breakers. I knew I was a Christian living in this world, but things didn’t really sink in until the concept of the purple wedge made me ‘see’ it and put things into perspective.

It is difficult to describe how it feels to gaze at living human beings whom you’ve seen perform in hard-core porn. To shake the hand of a man whose precise erectile size, angle, and vasculature are known to you. That strange I-think-we’ve-met-before sensation one feels upon seeing any celebrity in the flesh is here both intensified and twisted. It feels intensely twisted to see reigning industry queen Jenna Jameson chilling out at the Vivid booth in Jordaches and a latex bustier and to know already that she has a tattoo of a sundered valentine with the tagline HEART BREAKER on her right buttock and a tiny hairless mole just left of her anus. To watch Peter North try to get a cigar lit and to have that sight backlit by memories of his artilleryesque ejaculations.13 To have seen these strangers’ faces in orgasm—that most unguarded and purely neural of expressions, the one so vulnerable that for centuries you basically had to marry a person to get to see it.

She tasted blood too. The blood of Gallish soldiers, the blood of sea serpents from another realm. And, of course, her own blood. So much blood Corayne felt she might drown in it. But I am a pirate’s daughter, she thought, heart pounding. Her mother, the bronzed and beautiful Meliz an-Amarat, grinned in her mind’s eye. We do not drown.

Is this what mortality means? Is this how I know my body is of the sort that can stop, that can feed crabs, that will someday be placed in a box and dropped in a hole? I have a need to stand near the edge, to feel this small risk, to feel my heart beat. If I were not the dying sort, I would be standing closer, beneath the full blow of each breaker.

heart wishes could become heart breakers if you clung to them even when there was no hope they would come true.

The Worst Part In Your Story Is The Presence Of A Heart Breaker.

All's ringing, roaring, grinding, breakers' crash - and silence all at once, release: it means he is tiptoeing over pine needles, so as not to startle the light sleep of space. And it means he is counting the grains in the blasted ears; it means he has come again to the Daryal Gorge, accursed and black, from another funeral. And again Moscow, where the heart's fever burns. Far off the deadly sleighbell chimes, someone is lost two steps from home in waist-high snow. The worst of times...

I can’t believe,” he went on, “that you would besmirch my good name by implying that I’m an oath-breaker-” “I would have to know your name in order to besmirch it, would I not?” “You’re besmirching the idea of my good name.” “The idea of your name itself, or the idea that it’s a good name?” He blinked at her and mouthed the word Oh.

She tried not to think of the men she’d killed. Their faces came anyway, haunting in her memory. “How many?” she said, her voice trailing off. Corayne didn’t expect Andry to understand the broken musings of her mind. But pain crossed his face, a pain she knew. He looked beyond her, to the bodies in green and gold. He shut his eyes and bowed his head, hiding his face from the desert sun. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I will not count.” I have never seen a heart break before, Corayne thought, watching Andry Trelland. He wore no wounds, but she knew he bled within. Once he was a squire of Galland who dreamed of becoming a knight. And now he is a killer of them, a killer of his own dreams.

a heart wish that his brain rejected. Heart wishes were a good thing if maybe they could be made real, if you could work hard to make them real, but heart wishes could become heart breakers if you clung to them even when there was no hope they would come true.

We are all made up of the heart broken or the heart breakers and sometimes you break your own heart for the pain you caused to someone else. The only way to mend is to open your heart and swim deep into the waters of forgiveness, pacifying like a band aid to your heart.

If you sit in the darkness, nobody can see the tears stripping away at your bright smile. They won't even know you're there, and even if they did they would ignore you, because who cares, my love? If it does not affect us, then why should we do anything? It'd be just as easy not to. Well, sweet, if someone sticks a knife in your back, you are going to want someone to pull it out, and bandage it, right? You and I must be the ones to pull them out and bandage them up. And, sweet, we must do it for each other as well, because I'd sooner go down than let someone who does not care pull out the thorns. And because I am sure that you wouldn't like a heart breaker coming and pulling off the weight from your shoulders, because they will only give back a heavier load. If you sit in the darkness, no-one can see the tears stripping away at your smile... Except for me.

I thought I loved Daren, and I did in a butterfly-and-hearts kind of way, but it was nothing like this. This is an asteroid shower on a summer night. A tidal wave crashing onto the breakers. Falling over the edge of Niagara Falls in an inner tube. Because I have fallen, irreparably for Gavin Murphy

bitch that I am, vicious, scheming- horror to freeze the heart oh how I wish that first day my mother brought me into the light some black whirlwind had rushed me out to the mountains or into the surf where the roaring breakers crash and drag and the waves had swept me off before all this had happened

Moon river, wider than a mile I'm crossing you in style some day Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way Two drifters, off to see the world There's such a lot of world to see We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me

[Robert's eulogy at his brother, Ebon C. Ingersoll's grave. Even the great orator Robert Ingersoll was choked up with tears at the memory of his beloved brother] The record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower. Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the west. He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest point; but, being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust. Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For whether in mid sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower. He was the friend of all heroic souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning, of the grander day. He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshipper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote these words: 'For Justice all place a temple, and all season, summer!' He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, 'I am better now.' Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved, to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

And the speck of my heart, in my shed of flesh and bone, began to sing out, the way the sun would sing if the sun could sing, if light had a mouth and a tongue, if the sky had a throat, if god wasn’t just an idea but shoulders and a spine, gathered from everywhere, even the most distant planets, blazing up. Where am I? Even the rough words come to me now, quick as thistles. Who made your tyrant’s body, your thirst, your delving, your gladness? Oh tiger, oh bone-breaker, oh tree on fire! Get away from me. Come closer.

One who has a deaden conscience can never live within the confinements of the law.

Well, you see, Ben, there are more than two votes involved here. The third vote, the tie-breaker, is my heart. And this is something I am very sure of. My heart votes for you.

My heart is in the stars, Beyond reach and reason. He will never be mine, And I will never love another. —Sutton Olsen

Mr Goulding chuckled. “Lizzy Bennet, breaker of hearts and hope. Yet another would-be husband you have not given the answer he seeks.

Of course, I fucking love you. I fucking breathe because of you. And my heart beats because of her. You never have to doubt that. This. Us. We’re everything.

Piper placed her hand over my heart. “I could never hate you. I’ve loved you since I was seven.

If we are pack, then conquest is our sustenance, sister. He plunged his hand into the coywolv’s frame. With a wet tearing, the heart came out, glistening and full of blood, veins and arteries torn. The muscle of life. Tool held it out to her. “Our enemies give us strength.” Blood ran from his fist. Mahlia saw the challenge in the half-man’s eye. She limped over to the battle-scarred monster and held out her hand. The heart was surprisingly heavy as Tool poured it into her palm. She lifted the muscle to her lips and bit deep. Blood ran down her chin.

Someday she would be able to deal with all the pain that loomed in her heart, but until that day came, she'd have these moments where she would have to absorb it all and wait for the storm to pass.

You could do worse than him. He’s Hayden Bennett of House Judicial, the First of His Name, King of the Law, Wrecker of Pussies, the Father of Calista Baristas, the Attorney of the Great Courtroom, the Breaker of Hearts.

When you find the person you are supposed to love, you will know by staring deeply into her eyes. Well, that's a deal breaker for me. It is hard for me to explain why it is so difficult to look into people's eyes. Imagine what it would be like if someone sliced your chest with a scalpel and rummaged around inside you, squeezing your heart and lungs and kidneys. That level of complete invasion is what it feels like when I make eye contact.

The island. As I tally my losses, it figures large there. If God takes a beloved one unto himself, we feel that loss in our heart. Yet we know well enough that nowt will quicken the dead, and so we must strive to be reconciled. But the island—its briny air, its ever changing light—these things yet exist. There, the clean and glassy breakers still beat upon the sands, the clay cliffs still flare russet and purple each sunset. All of this goes on, but I am not there to rejoice in it. It is a loss I feel on my very skin.

Last-Minute Message For a Time Capsule I have to tell you this, whoever you are: that on one summer morning here, the ocean pounded in on tumbledown breakers, a south wind, bustling along the shore, whipped the froth into little rainbows, and a reckless gull swept down the beach as if to fly were everything it needed. I thought of your hovering saucers, looking for clues, and I wanted to write this down, so it wouldn't be lost forever - - that once upon a time we had meadows here, and astonishing things, swans and frogs and luna moths and blue skies that could stagger your heart. We could have had them still, and welcomed you to earth, but we also had the righteous ones who worshipped the True Faith, and Holy War. When you go home to your shining galaxy, say that what you learned from this dead and barren place is to beware the righteous ones.

You don't even have a cross," he said. His beloved was silent. "You don't even have any candles, no face of Christ, no tears. What can I say?" Then she began to murmur and he was astonished. "I'm sorry. I will believe in the eternity of souls, I am bereaved. I will see those places where death talks solemnly to the years, where the breakers roll over their sins and their regrets, where the valley of Heaven lies before the crag of immortality, and I will believe my mother has gained peace. I have lost her. Has anyone felt such terrible grief, known that for all earthly time the eyes shall never see, the heart never beat except with her shadow? What an unhappy loss, the candles are gutted, and the face wanes for this immortality. I have lost my mother." This was her only glimpse of Heaven, and she wept so much that he was afraid. Finally she held his hand. The two brothers fired the cannon at the burial.

You sure? Even after all those things you said about her being a heart-breaker, a manipulator and that she cut your heart into millions of little pieces and blew them in the wind like a dandelion ...” “Hey!” Jason shrieked. “Artists,” he said sheepishly. “We’re overly sensitive. And apparently can’t keep our mouths shut.

At the root of the tree at the heart of the world, With a chain round his neck, the Wolf lies curled. His gleaming teeth and jaws are furled, And the sun shall rise in the morning. His chain, it is forged of the nerve of a bear, Of the voice of a fish, and a girl's chin-hair. His chain, it is light and strong and fair, And the sun shall rise in the morning. With a mountain's root, and a cat's foot-fall, And the spit of a bird, he is held in thrall, Though iron could bind him never at all, And the sun shall rise in the morning. The sun shall rise, the stars shall fade, For the binding which the good gods made Still loops the Wolf in its lovely braid, And the sun shall rise in the morning.

This is Thackeray’s first full-length novel, which appeared in serialised instalments in Fraser’s Magazine between May 1839 and February 1840. Thackeray’s original intention was to criticise the Newgate school of crime fiction, exemplified by Bulwer-Lytton and Harrison Ainsworth, whose works Thackeray felt glorified criminals. Thackeray even accused Dickens of this in his portrayal of the good-hearted prostitute Nancy and the charming pickpocket, the Artful Dodger, in Oliver Twist.  The appearance of the first instalments of Ainsworth’s novel Jack Sheppard at the beginning of 1839 seems to have been what spurred Thackeray into action. Ainsworth’s novel portrayed a real life prison breaker and thief from the eighteenth century in flattering terms. In contrast, Thackeray sought out a real life criminal whom he could portray in as unflattering terms as possible.

Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the believers in the orthodox belief. Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker:--he, however, is the creator. Behold the believers of all beliefs! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker--he, however, is the creator. Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses--and not herds or believers either. Fellow-creators the creator seeketh--those who grave new values on new tables. Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: for everything is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh the hundred sickles: so he plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed. Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as know how to whet their sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, and despisers of good and evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers. Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do with herds and herdsmen and corpses! And thou, my first companion, rest in peace! Well have I buried thee in thy hollow tree; well have I hid thee from the wolves. But I part from thee; the time hath arrived. 'Twixt rosy dawn and rosy dawn there came unto me a new truth. I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a grave-digger. Not any more will I discourse unto the people; for the last time have I spoken unto the dead. With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will I associate: the rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to the Superman. To the lone-dwellers will I sing my song, and to the twain-dwellers; and unto him who hath still ears for the unheard, will I make the heart heavy with my happiness. I make for my goal, I follow my course; over the loitering and tardy will I leap. Thus let my on-going be their down-going!

we step onto the beach, and Alessia can contain herself no more. She releases my hand and runs toward the raging sea, her hat flying off and her hair whipping in the wind. “The sea, the sea!” she cries, and twirls around, her arms in the air. Her earlier pique is forgotten, her smile is wide and her face bright, lit from within by her joy. I stride across the coarse sand and rescue her discarded woolly hat. “The sea!” she shouts again above the roar of the water, and she gesticulates wildly, her arms like a crazy windmill, welcoming each wave as it crashes to the shore. It’s impossible not to smile. Her unbridled enthusiasm for this first-time event is too appealing and too affecting. I grin as she squeals and dances back to avoid the breakers on the shoreline. She looks ridiculous, dressed in oversize Wellingtons and an oversize coat. Her face is flushed, her nose pink, and she is utterly breathtaking. My heart clenches. She runs toward me with childish abandon and grabs my hand. “The sea!” she cries once more, and drags me to the crashing waves. And I go willingly, surrendering myself to her joy.

The Duration Here they are are on the beach where the boy played for fifteen summers, before he grew too old for French cricket, shrimping and rock pools. Here is the place where he built his dam year after year. See, the stream still comes down just as it did, and spreads itself on the sand into a dozen channels. How he enlisted them: those splendid spades, those sunbonneted girls furiously shoring up the ramparts. Here they are on the beach, just as they were those fifteen summers. She has a rough towel ready for him. The boy was always last out of the water. She would rub him down hard, chafe him like a foal up on its legs for an hour and trembling, all angles. She would dry carefully between his toes. Here they are on the beach, the two of them sitting on the same square of mackintosh, the same tartan rug. Quality lasts. There are children in the water, and mothers patrolling the sea's edge, calling them back from the danger zone beyond the breakers. How her heart would stab when he went too far out. Once she flustered into the water, shouting until he swam back. He was ashamed of her then. Wouldn't speak, wouldn't look at her even. Her skirt was sopped. She had to wring out the hem. She wonders if Father remembers. Later, when they've had their sandwiches she might speak of it. There are hours yet. Thousands, by her reckoning.

To his surprise, Sorasa moved with him. She looked straight ahead, refusing to meet his eye. Instead, she fussed with the chain mail beneath her jacket, trying to adjust the metal rings. Clearly she despised it, her usually fluid motions slower and more stilted. He opened his mouth to taunt her, to say anything, to grasp one more second at her side. “Thank you for wearing armor,” he growled. It was the only thing left to say. He expected a quick, poisonous retort. Instead, Sorasa looked up at him. Her copper eyes wavered, filled with all the emotion she no longer cared to hide. “Iron and steel won’t save us from dragon fire,” she said, all regret, her mouth barely moving. Again, Dom wanted to stay, lingering one last moment, his eyes locked on her own. “I know you don't believe in ghosts,” Sorasa murmured, holding her ground. She did not move closer, or move at all, letting the crowd of Elders break around her. A Vedera who falls in this realm falls forever, Dom thought, the old belief a sudden curse. Sorasa’s eyes shimmered, swimming with tears she would never allow herself to shed. She looked like she did on the beach after the shipwreck, torn apart by grief. “But I do,” she said. His chest filled with an unfamiliar feeling, an ache he could not name. “Sorasa,” he began, but the crowd surged around them, his Vederan soldiers too many to ignore. Every part of him wanted to stay rooted, though he knew he could not. She would not reach chin, her hands pressed to her sides, her chin raised and jaw set. Whatever tears she carried faded, pushed down into the unfeeling well of an Amhara heart. “Haunt me, Domacridhan.” The tide of the army swelled before he could muster an answer. While Sorasa stood against it, Dom let himself be carried. While his body marched, his heart stayed behind, broken as it was, already burning. Her last words followed him all the way down to the city gates.

We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying, In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done. They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising; They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going: But on one man's soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart; And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man's heart. And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day's late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted, And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass, as they may, In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday. But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die. Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers; And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more.

Idols are both material and nonmaterial forms. They are anything that becomes a God to us. The breaking of idols is not a dream breaker. It is a fear breaker. Getting rid of them is not to create pain. It is to take away pain. The spiritual path doesn’t annihilate the source of our happiness. It gives us the possibility of real happiness.

she will be the destroyer, the breaker of promises, hard-hearted, unkind, bringing corrosion and damage to an existence that has been underpinned with natural goodness. Love, marriage, children, a nest in which to nestle. The comfort of it, the natural curvature to which we cling.

His voice is equal parts calm and sinister and sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a threat, one delivered with a smile, and it makes me realize that underneath the charm and the heart-breaker good looks, Raphael Visconti is terrifying.

The Christian knows the truth about the non-Christian. He knows this because he is himself what he is by grace alone. He has been saved from the blindness of mind and the hardness of heart that marks the 'natural man.' The Christian has the 'doctor's book.' The Scriptures tell him the origin and of the nature of sin. Man is dead in trespasses and sins (Eph 2:1). He hates God. His ability to see the facts as they are and to reason about as he ought to reason about them is, at bottom, a matter of sin. He has the God-created ability of reasoning within him. He is made in the image of God. God's revelation is before him and within him. He is in his own constitution a manifestation of the revelation and therefore of the requirement of God. God made a covenant with him through Adam (Rom 5:12). He is therefore now, in Adam, a covenant-breaker. He is also against God and therefore against the revelation of God (Rom 8:6-8). This revelation of God constantly and inescapably reminds him of his creatural responsibility. As a sinner he has, in Adam, declared himself autonomous.

You’re a bit of a bitch, you know that?” The corners of her mouth quirked. “All the best girls are.

No one runs the place,” he said with an amused smile. “It just sort of sits here. I wanted to make it into a moving castle, but they said only eccentric, heart-eating wizards did that. I don’t think that’s true. I am not eccentric, and I detest cards.

You’re torturing yourself, Ayden,” Neave called, her voice low and desperate like the idea was hurting her personally. “We’re not you’re parents.” Ayden stumbled, her heart beating wildly. “But you can’t save everyone, and you’re just going to run yourself into the ground trying.

The Christian knows the truth about the non-Christian. He knows this because he is himself what he is by grace alone. He has been saved from the blindness of mind and the hardness of heart that marks the 'natural man.' The Christian has the 'doctor's book.' The Scriptures tell him the origin and of the nature of sin. Man is dead in treaspasses and sins (Eph 2:1). He hates God. His ability to see the facts as they are and to reason about as he ought to reason about them is, at bottom, a matter of sin. He has the God-created ability of reasoning within him. He is made in the image of God. God's revelation is before him and within him. He is in his own constitution a manifestation of the revelation and therefore of the requirement of God. God made a covenant with him through Adam (Rom 5:12). He is therefore now, in Adam, a covenant-breaker. He is also against God and therefore against the revelation of God (Rom 8:6-8). This revelation of God constantly and inescapably reminds him of his creatural responsibility. As a sinner he has, in Adam, declared himself autonomous.

changed, but what she said next fucking broke me. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her lips trembled. “You broke number five. Shattered it into a million little pieces I’ll never be able to put back together.”  It was like a shotgun to the chest, sending pain radiating from my heart out through my body, and my lungs collapsed as I processed her words. She loved me. She fucking loved me. “I can fix this.

It’s not going to be enough, Jax. Your life will be full of amazing things, but it’s not the life I want to live.” I shook my head in frustration, needing to make her understand. “I want all of those things too. We can make it work. You said you’d try.” My hands tightened at my sides. “Don’t you understand? You’re already in… you’re… inside my skin. Inside my chest. Inside my lungs. Deep within my bones, my heart, my soul. I fucking love you, Sidney.

The sun crept into my room when I woke, still tangled with her. Her soft hair was wrapped around us, and my heart ached in my chest. I could never ask Sid to give up her dreams, but I would try my fucking hardest to convince her to take a chance on me. That we were worth everything. Sidney, with her contagious laugh and sassy mouth, had created a gravitational pull that I never wanted to escape. The way she laughed, how she tilted her head when she pieced something together, and now the way she cuddled into my arms. All of it reminded me of home, one that I wanted to keep coming back to. I could feel the void filling up, and I was petrified of the downturn coming toward us. She was worth any compromise or sacrifice. Now I had to prove to her I was worth the same. I had her, she had me, and that was enough. Nothing else mattered. We could make everything work, right? There had to be a way. If she wasn’t so freaking stubborn, maybe we could.

Sidney had a soft blush across her cheeks as she took a small piece of paper from Mia. I gave her an encouraging smile as she read. Her voice started soft but grew with confidence with each word. “With all my heart, I, Sidney King, take you, Jaxton Ryder, to be my husband. I promise to cherish and love you, Your partner in parenthood, Your ally in conflict, Your greatest fan, I will be your sidekick adventure, Your comfort in sorrow, Your accomplice in mischief, Your strength when you need. I want to play this game with you all the days of my life.” I leaned in and captured her mouth in a deep but quick kiss. “Sorry, I had to do that.

We have a long road ahead of us, Dom. Make ready for it.” Much as she tried to hide it, Dom saw the exhaustion creep over her. He felt it too, heavier than anything he’d ever carried. It ran bone-deep now, after so many months. Only moving forward kept it at bay. Dom did not know what to do now, when he could run no further, and do nothing but wait. “Where does that road go?” he asked bitterly. Slowly, he unbuckled the belt around his hips, and laid down the greatsword among Sorasa’s things. She sat on the cramped bed, if only to give him room to move around the narrow cabin. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she huffed. “Better, probably.” He quirked a blond brow at her. “How so?” “You have good hearts, you and Corayne. You think differently than I can.” “Is that a compliment?” he asked, confused. Her laugh was menacing as she leaned back against a meager pillow, her eyes half-lidded. “No.

There is much I cannot say, Bella,” she muttered. Harrsing touched her gently. “You are afraid.” Blinking, Erida weighed her response. The candles flickered and she sighed. There was no use in lying. “I am,” she admitted. For so many reasons. To her surprise, Harrsing only shrugged, her narrow shoulders rising and falling beneath the swoop of her nightgown. “That is necessary.” Erida could not help but balk. “What?” The old woman shrugged again. “Fear is not so terrible as we make it out to be,” she said. “Fear means you have a head on your shoulders, a good one. It means you have a heart, as much as you try to hide it from the rest of us.” Like Erida, Lady Harrsing had her own mask, shaped from decades in the royal court. She let it slip to show a smile of her own, warmer and softer than a candle. It made Erica’s heart twist. “A king of queen without fear would be a horrific thing indeed,” she added with a scoff. Erida could not agree. Her own fears seemed endless, looped around her neck in an unbreakable chain. She wondered what it would mean to be free of her misgivings and worst thoughts. To be so strong as to be beyond fear itself. Where only glory and greatness remained. Lady Harrsing arched an eyebrow, watching the Queen. “To be feared is another thing entirely.” “That is necessary too,” Erida replied swiftly.

Fear is not so terrible as we make it out to be,” she said. “Fear means you have a head on your shoulders, a good one. It means you have a heart, as much as you try to hide it from the rest of us.

What kind of god allows such times as these?” Shuddering, Dom went cold, despite the sunlight and the warm southern breeze. “It is not only a god who brings about this doom,” he said. “But the heart of a mortal man.

The wind stirred his loose hair and Sorasa assessed him for the first time since her memory failed. Since the deck of the Tyri ship caught fire, and someone seized her around the middle, plunging them both into the dark waves. She did not need to guess to know who. Dom’s clothing was torn but long dry. He still wore the leather jerkin with the undershirt, but his borrowed cloak had been left to feed the sea serpents. The rest of him looked intact. He had only a few fresh cuts across the backs of his hands, like a terrible rope burn. Scales, Sorasa knew. The sea serpent coiled in her head, bigger than the mast, its scales flashing a dark rainbow. Her breath caught when she realized he wore no sword belt, nor sheath. Nor sword. “Dom,” she bit out, reaching between them. Only her instincts caught her, her hand freezing inches above his hip. His brow furrowed again, carving a line of concern. “Your sword.” The line deepened, and Sorasa understood. She mourned her own dagger, earned so many decades ago, now lost to a burning palace. She could not imagine what Dom felt for a blade centuries old. “It is done,” he finally said, fishing into his shirt. The collar pulled, showing a line of white flesh, the planes of hard muscle rippling beneath. Sorasa dropped her eyes, letting him fuss. Only when something soft touched her temple did she look up again. Her heart thumped. Dom did not meet her gaze, focused on his work, cleaning her wound with a length of cloth. It was the fabric that made her breath catch. Little more than a scrap of gray green. Thin but finely made by master hands. Embroidered with silver antlers. It was a piece of Dom’s old cloak, the last remnant of Iona. It survived a kraken, an undead army, a dragon, and the dungeons of a mad queen. But it would not survive Sorasa Sarn. She let him work, her skin aflame beneath his fingers. Until the last bits of blood were gone, and the last piece of his home tossed away. “Thank you,” she finally said to no reply.

Her heart still yearned, but what heart did not?

With a snarl of pain, she forced herself to sit up, her head spinning with the sudden movement. One hand touched her temple, sticky with dried blood. She winced, feeling a gash along her eyebrow. It was long but shallow, and already scabbing over. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding, as she surveyed the beach with squinting eyes. The ocean stared back at her, empty and endless, a wall of iron blue. Then she noticed shapes along the beach, some half-buried in the sand, others caught in the rhythmic pull of the tide. She narrowed her eyes and the shapes solidified. A torn length of sail floated, tangled up with rope. A shattered piece of the mast angled out of the sand like a pike. Smashed crates littered the beach, along with other debris from the ship. Bits of hull. Rigging. Oars snapped in half. The bodies moved with the waves. Her steady breathing lost its rhythm, coming in shorter and shorter gasps until she feared her throat might close. Her thoughts scattered, impossible to grasp. All thoughts but one. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Her shout echoed, desperate and ragged. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Only the waves answered, crashing endless against the shore. She forgot her training and forced herself to stand, nearly falling over with dizziness. Her limbs aches but she ignored it, lunging toward the waterline. Her lips moved, her voice shouting his name again, though she couldn’t hear it above the pummel of her own heart. Sorasa Sarn was no stranger to corpses. She splashed into the waves with abandon, even as her head spun. Sailor, sailor, sailor, she noted, her desperation rising with every Tyri uniform and head of black hair. One of them looked ripped in half, missing everything from the waist down. His entrails floated with the rear of him, like a length of bleached rope. She suspected a shark got the best of him. Then her memories returned with a crash like the waves. The Tyri ship. Nightfall. The sea serpent slithering up out of the deep. The breaking of a lantern. Fire across the deck, slick scales running over my hands. The swing of a greatsword, Elder-made. Dom silhouetted against a sky awash with lightning. And then the cold, drowning darkness of the ocean. A wave splashed up against her and Sorasa stumbled back to the shore, shivering. She had not waded more than waist deep, but her face felt wet, water she could not understand streaking her cheeks. Her knees buckled and she fell, exhausted. She heaved a breath, then two. And screamed. Somehow the pain in her head paled in comparison to the pain in her heart. It dismayed and destroyed her in equal measure. The wind blew, stirring salt-crusted hair across her face, sending a chill down to her soul. It was like the wilderness all over again, the bodies of her Amhara kin splayed around her. No, she realized, her throat raw. This is worse. There is not even a body to mourn. She contemplated the emptiness for awhile, the beach and the waves, and the bodies gently pressing into the shore. If she squinted, they could only be debris from the ship, bits of wood instead of bloated flesh and bone. The sun glimmered on the water. Sorasa hated it. Nothing but clouds since Orisi, and now you choose to shine.

It was not like her to lose her senses. The ability to drift was beaten from her long ago. But Sorasa drifted now, pacing the beach. She did not hear the shift of sand, or the heavy scuff of boots over the loose stones. There was only the wind. Until a strand of gold blew across her vision, joined by a warm unyielding palm against her shoulder. Her body jolted as she turned, nose to nose with Domacridhan of Iona. His green eyes glittered, his mouth open as he shouted something again, his voice swallowed up by the droning in her own head. “Sorasa.” It came to her slowly, as if through deep water. Her own name, over and over again. She could only stare back into the verdant green, lost in the fields of his eyes. In her chest, her heart stumbled. She expected her body to follow. Instead, her fist closed and her knuckles met cheekbone. Dom was good enough to turn his head, letting the blow glance off. Begrudgingly, Sorasa knew he had spared her a broken hand on top of everything else. “How dare you,” she forced out, trembling. Whatever concern he wore burned away in an instant. “How dare I what? Save your life?” he snarled, letting her go Sorasa swayed without his support. She clenched her own jaw, fighting to maintain her balance lest she fall to pieces entirely. “Is that another Amhara lesson?” he raged on, throwing up both arms. “When given the choice between death or indignity, choose death?!” Hissing, Sorasa looked back to the spot where she woke up. Heat crept up her face as she realized her body left a trail through the sand when he dragged her up from the tide line. A blind man would have noticed it. But not Sorasa in her fury and grief. “Oh,” was all she could manage. Her mouth flapped open, her mind spinning. Only the truth came, and that was far too embarrassing. “I did not see. I—” Her head throbbed again and she pressed a hand to her temple, wincing away from his stern glare. “I will feel better if you sit,” Dom said stiffly. Despite the pain, Sorasa loosed a growl. She wanted to stand just to spite him, but thought better of it. With a huff, she sank, cross-legged on the cool sand. Dom was quick to follow, almost blurring. It made her head spin again. “So you saved me from the shipwreck just to abandon me here?” Sorasa muttered as Dom opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t blame you. Time is of the essence now. A wounded mortal will only slow you down.” She expected him to bluster and lie. Instead, his brow furrowed, lines creasing between his still vivid eyes. The light off the ocean suited him. “Are you? Wounded?” he asked gently, his gaze raking over her. His focus snagged on her temple, and the gash there. “Anywhere else, I mean?” For the first time since she woke, Sorasa tried to still herself. Her breath slowed as she assessed herself, feeling her own body from toes to scalp. As her awareness traveled, she noted every blooming bruise and cut, every dull ache and shooting pain. Bruises ribs. A sprained wrist. Her tongue flicked in her mouth. Scowling, she spit out a broken tooth. “No, I’m not wounded,” she said aloud. Dom’s desperate smile broke wide. He went slack against the sand for an instant, falling back on his elbows to tip his face to the sky. His eyes fluttered shut only for a moment. Sorasa knew his gods were too far. He had said so himself. The gods of Glorian could not hear their children in this realm. Even so, Sorasa saw it on his face. Dom prayed anyway. In his gratitude or anger, she did not know. “Good,” he finally said, sitting back up.

There is even a Sanskrit proverb that says, most people give off sparks only when you land a fist in their eye ! : and so, painter, paint ! poet, write ! with your fist ! (For they have to be awakened somehow, the semi-people behind the boundary line : so simply let yourselves be cursed as "ruffians" by the faint-hearted; as "arsonists" by the firefighters; as "breakers-and-enterers" by the sleepers : they should thank their appropriate gods that somebody has finally awakened them !).

You say her path is drawn,” Eyda said evenly, addressing Valtik. “Can you tell us where that path leads?” The witch spun slowly, examining the gabled ceiling. “You are on it. The lanterns are lit.” Andry fought back another wave of frustration. “If her path is our own, then Iona is correct,” he said sharply. “We’ll find her there. And maybe then I can be rid of you once and for all.” “Be careful what you say before the eyes of Lasreen,” Valtik chided. She gestured to the carvings on the towering columns and spiraled her wrist. The smoke of the heart fire twisted oddly through her fingers. “In her temple, all things are seen.” “Good,” Andry hissed. “She can see how annoying you are.” While the bone witches recoiled at the insult, Valtik giggled. “Annoying indeed,” she said airily. “But only in need.” Andry felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.

Can Elders die of Starvation?” Sigil asked suddenly, returning to her exercises. Dom thought of his stomach again, and his last meal. It was too many days ago to count, his memory hazy. “We might find out,” he sighed. Sigil bent into a sit-up, bound hands crossed over her chest. “And you still can’t move at all?” Despite the circumstances, Dom wanted to laugh, his lips twitching. “No, I choose to remain like this.” “Strange time to finally grow a sense of humor, Dom,” she replied. He tipped back to look at the ceiling, tracing the cracks between the stones and wooden beams. Looking anywhere but the unmoving body a few cells away, her face still obscured. Her heart still beating. “It was bound to happen eventually,” he sighed.

Sorasa Sarn rolled out onto the cold floor and Dome’s vision slanted, his head spinning. Ronin laughed, the sound like shattering glass. “Honestly, I expected more from an Amhara.” Something snapped in Domacridhan, bone-deep. Like an earthquake breaking a mountain. He knew only fury, only rage. He felt nothing, not even the snapping of the chains around his wrist, the steel links shearing apart beneath his own force. Whatever immortal soul he carried disappeared, reducing him to little more than beast. Six harried, terrified heartbeats thrummed alongside his own. The knight and guards looked on him as they would a monster, the whites of their eyes flaring. Sigil’s heart raged, mirroring her anger. But Ronin’s heartbeat remained even. The wizard was not afraid. Weakly, beneath the rest, another heat drummed. Steady but slow. And stubbornly alive. “Sorasa, SORASA!” Sigil’s cry rebounded off the walls, her voice coming from seemingly everywhere. Don’s free hand went to his collar, his fingers working to grip the metal edge. “She’s alive,” he bit out. It calmed Sigil, but only a little. “Tsk, tsk, Domacridhan,” the wizard said, ticking his head back and forth. With another twitch of his fingers, he gestured to the knights again. Wide-eyed as they were, they locked Sorasa in her cell and made for Dom. Metal groaned as Dom pulled away the collar, its screws tearing out of the stove behind him. With both shoulders and one arm free, he went for his other wrist next. The jailer’s key jingled closer, the lock on his cell door clicking open, and three of the knights surged in. Dom caught the first knight by the gauntlet, his open palm wrapping around an armored wrist. In the corridor, the fourth knight yelped, coming too close to Sigil’s cell. She moved lightning fast, thrusting an arm through the bars to grab him around his throat. The other knights surrounded Dom, leaving their compatriot to fend for himself as they overwhelmed the immortal. To his surprise, they left their swords sheathed, using all their weight to pin his arm back against the wall. Dom cursed them in his own language, loosing five hundred years of immortal rage. His teeth snapped, inches from their armor, fighting to find any gap of skin. Desperation set in slowly, his window of opportunity disappearing with every second. One of the knights put his forearm to Dom’s neck, throwing all his weight into it. Steel slammed against his throat. “You accomplished nothing but a few new bruises,” Ronin said above the sun.

Sorasa Sarn rolled out onto the cold floor and Dom’s vision slanted, his head spinning. Ronin laughed, the sound like shattering glass. “Honestly, I expected more from an Amhara.” Something snapped in Domacridhan, bone-deep. Like an earthquake breaking a mountain. He knew only fury, only rage. He felt nothing, not even the snapping of the chains around his wrist, the steel links shearing apart beneath his own force. Whatever immortal soul he carried disappeared, reducing him to little more than beast. Six harried, terrified heartbeats thrummed alongside his own. The knight and guards looked on him as they would a monster, the whites of their eyes flaring. Sigil’s heart raged, mirroring her anger. But Ronin’s heartbeat remained even. The wizard was not afraid. Weakly, beneath the rest, another heat drummed. Steady but slow. And stubbornly alive. “Sorasa, SORASA!” Sigil’s cry rebounded off the walls, her voice coming from seemingly everywhere. Don’s free hand went to his collar, his fingers working to grip the metal edge. “She’s alive,” he bit out. It calmed Sigil, but only a little. “Tsk, tsk, Domacridhan,” the wizard said, ticking his head back and forth. With another twitch of his fingers, he gestured to the knights again. Wide-eyed as they were, they locked Sorasa in her cell and made for Dom. Metal groaned as Dom pulled away the collar, its screws tearing out of the stove behind him. With both shoulders and one arm free, he went for his other wrist next. The jailer’s key jingled closer, the lock on his cell door clicking open, and three of the knights surged in. Dom caught the first knight by the gauntlet, his open palm wrapping around an armored wrist. In the corridor, the fourth knight yelped, coming too close to Sigil’s cell. She moved lightning fast, thrusting an arm through the bars to grab him around his throat. The other knights surrounded Dom, leaving their compatriot to fend for himself as they overwhelmed the immortal. To his surprise, they left their swords sheathed, using all their weight to pin his arm back against the wall. Dom cursed them in his own language, loosing five hundred years of immortal rage. His teeth snapped, inches from their armor, fighting to find any gap of skin. Desperation set in slowly, his window of opportunity disappearing with every second. One of the knights put his forearm to Dom’s neck, throwing all his weight into it. Steel slammed against his throat. “You accomplished nothing but a few new bruises,” Ronin said above the din.

I will try.’” That’s what you said in the forest,” Charlie muttered. “That you would try to believe.” A scoff burst from Garion’s lips and he put the sword aside. “I’m surrounded by immortals about to assault a dragon’s nest. I certainly believe you now.” Charlie only shook his head. “I need you to believe in me, too,” he replied. “Help me to believe in myself. And help me stay alive.” Still glaring at the dead grass, Garion gritted his teeth. “That’s what I’m trying to do, my darling.” “I’m not going anywhere.” It came out too harsh, too loud. Impossible to ignore. Finally Garion raised his eyes. He looked torn between frustration and anger. The killer in him was there, small but enough to see. Amhara were trained to survive, to make it home to the citadel even in failure. Garion warred with his own instincts, Charlie knew. Not for the realm, but for me. “You can run, but I—” Charlie forced out, his voice faltering. He looked to the horizon again, and the black ruins. Then to the camp, the Elders, to Corayne lingering at their edges. She stood out like a sore thumb, a mortal girl in the middle of the end of the world. It was easy for Charlie to draw a little strength from her own. “If I run, I still die here,” he said, feeling his own heart twist. “Part of me. The part you love.” Garion put his hand to his neck. “You think that now but—” “I tasted the shame of it before.” Charlie forced off the Amhara with a swipe. His cheeks flamed. “When I ran from Gidastern. I know what it feels like to think the worst of your own self. To be consumed by regret. And I won’t do it again. I won’t leave her.” Charlie willed Garion to see the resolve he felt as much as feared. “Stop giving me the chance to give up,” he finally murmured, looking back to the horizon.

Erida looked away from them to the grand altar of the Konrada, magnificent in marble and gilding. She remembered what it felt like to stand there, before the faces of the gods, a veil on her head, a sword in her hand, with Taristan beside her. She did not love him then, when she pledged her life to his own. She had no idea what path lay before her, what fate was already made. Her right hand lay curled in her lap now, half-covered in bandages. A little blood had already begun to seep through, staining everything around it. “The last time you and I were here, we held the marriage sword between us,” she said. Taristan’s face went stone-blank in his usual way. It was his shield and crutch, Erida knew. After a childhood like his own, abandoned to the world, his emotions were always a burden. Always a weakness. “Good that I am not a man,” she continued. “I will never hold a sword again.” One of his fingers twitched at his side, the only indication of Taristan’s discomfort. “Your heart is sword enough,” he ground out, his eyes on her face.

The roar of the crowd envelops me as I skate onto the ice, and my heart pounds in time with the rhythm of the game. There’s an electric energy in the air,

Anyone past this point who causes pain, who brings destruction, who holds evil in their heart, will be purged by Bofurin without exception.

Taristan followed after her, resplendent in imperial red, a son of Old Cor in image as well as blood. He looked far from the man she’d met in the throne room, his muddy cloak exchanged for silk and brocade. But the soldier’s edge remained. No amount of finery could hide his lethal heart.

Even so, Dom felt Taristan breathing down his neck again, his voice hateful and gloating. Shall I kill her in front of you too? The leather of the reins cracked between Dom’s hands, threatening to tear. He wanted to do it, to feel something break that wasn’t his own heart.

Well for me, putting on makeup makes me stronger." "Wuh? What're you saying? Have you lost your mind? Caking on powder isn't gonna make you stronger in a fight." "Not at all. It's my heart that becomes stronger. When I put makeup on, I can become the person I always wanted to be. I feel so happy and it gives me the drive to keep going. This isn't just limited to makeup, either. Love itself can make anyone stronger." "You're insane. Your heart? So what if your heart becomes stronger? What will that accomplish?" "I see... you have no idea how that feels. You poor thing.

So, you want us to stop saying gay. Want to remove the right to acknowledge the truth of our bodies and hearts and eradicate the language that names us As if this will somehow keep you safe from our existence As if you can see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil us into oblivion. It was you who birthed us into a legacy of code makers and breakers. Humans who took their language underground. Cast spells and had wordless conversations with our ancestors Who gifted us new ways to speak in the open air. We painted pink triangles on the walls of The underground bomb shelters you built to bury us alive Left a trail of glitter pointing to the inborn light in our chests So the ones who came looking for us would know how we lived. We stole back the vernacular you created to hide us back from the tips of your forked tongues Alchemized the sounds that twisted your mouth into symbols of reclamation Used your vilification to dig ourselves out of the closets you constructed around us Made our way blazing and victorious into the sun. When AIDS devastated an entire glittering generation We crafted a whispered language of the isolated hospital room and empty funeral That can only be heard by bodies That have been asked to hold a loss too deep to name. When Matthew Shephard's bloody and broken body Was found tied to that barbed wire fence, the only clean part of his skin the trails of his desperate tears We twisted from the ethers an entirely new way to name collective grief and fear, one far too infinite to hold alone It has always been our tenacious together than holds us. Drive us underground We will always surface Singing words you can never own Because don’t have the range to hear them. Go ahead, take away our words, We will birth a whole new language You’ve been sending your armies for us since the beginning of time But we were born for battle. You wonder why we are still here? You made us this strong. You think getting rid of a word will silence us? You’d have to ban them all.

Some sources are saying Tom Petty died. Others are saying not yet, he's just in the hospital in critical condition. Does this mean we can refer to Tom Petty as Schrodinger's Heart Breaker?

Law and order: At level four, right and wrong are determined by a codified system of rules, impartial judges, and prescribed punishments. At this level, individuals defer judgment to properly elected or otherwise constituted authority. Right is getting a proper pay or reward for good work and a prescribed infliction of punishment for breaking the rules. Authority figures are rarely questioned; “He must be right—he is the president, the judge, the pastor, the pope.” Elementary school children operate at this level and find security, predictability, and peace in the rules. At this level, tattletales abound as children are intolerant of rule breakers and demand fairness, which is typically some imposed punishment. The black-and-white thinking of this level of operation leads to fragmenting into divergent groups or cliques who share a core set of group rules and who demean and criticize those who don’t share their rules. This was ancient Israel at the time of Christ—“We have a law!” the Pharisees proclaimed, as they sought to stone Jesus for healing on the Sabbath. The Jews in Christ’s day were separatists who were intolerant of those who didn’t keep their rules and obey their rituals. This is much of our modern world too, with its codified laws, courts, prosecutors, judges, juries, and imposed punishments. Authority at this level rests in the coercive pressure of the state to bring punishment upon those who deviate from the established laws. At this level, police agencies and law enforcers are required to monitor the populace, search for breaches in the law, and inflict codified penalties. This is the first level that requires the emergence of thinking but only minimal thinking—basic indoctrination and memorization of rules. One doesn’t have to understand reasons for things. One only has to know the rules and obey them.

Let’s take this out just a little bit further passed the breakers into some really deep water. Let’s talk about love. Yeah. The love for another, a father, a mother, a sister, a brother, a stranger. Danger. A self centered ship sinker is just up ahead. It surfaced once that love a stranger line was said. It’s a cold heart warmer that’s thawing out the beat. It’s reviving the rhythm that the mainstream system tried to deplete. It’s restoring the lyrics that wickedness tried to delete. It’s setting the tempo free from the obsolete oubliette that the darkness tried to keep discrete. Whew!

I’d made the vampire cry. Great. I felt like a real superhero. Harry Dresden, breaker of monsters’ hearts.

Julian smiled back, his full lips pulled back over white teeth as he rolled the blanket back a little bit. “Is he really a heart breaker?” “I’m the breakiest of heart breakers,” Leo interjected, his tone deadpan as he dumped a handful of greens into the pot on the stove. Julian wrinkled his nose. “That’s not even a word,” He complained and fell into a sulky silence from his place on the bed.