Knight And The Moth Quotes

You don’t have to be good, or useful, for someone to care about you.

People who love you for your usefulness don't love you at all.

Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?

You want to throw me down. And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.

Fear not, Bartholomew! Every day has its dog.

If you only ever look up at something, can you ever see it clearly?

Glamour is fueled by the dreams and imagination of mortals. Writers, artists, little boys pretending to be knights - the fey are drawn to them like moths to flame. Why do you think so many children have imaginary friends?

You know this story, Bartholomew, though you do not remember it. I'll tell it to you as best I can and promise to be honest in my talebearing. If I'm not, that's hardly my fault. To tell a story is in part to tell a lie, isn't it?

When you do the right thing for the wrong reason, no one praises you. When you do the wrong thing for the right reason, everyone does, even though what is right and wrong depends entirely on the story you’re living in. And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special.

It is easier, swearing ourselves to someone else's cause than to sit with who we are without one.

It's hard to see who I am when I am lost in what's expected of me.

To the child in each of us, yearning to be special. Take my hand, you strange little creature, and together we shall walk beyond the wall.

It sounds awful when I say it out loud.” “True things often do.

You are more special than you realize. I don’t even know your name”—he drew in a breath—“and I would do anything for you.

I was losing my faith in everything. But the two of us meeting… it felt almost divine.

I cannot decide which I like best. The sunrise, or the sunset. They are like life, and her quiet companion, death.

I confess horses are not the intelligent beasts I imagined them to be. Though I don’t think that merits the abuse they suffer postmortem.” That one took me a moment. “No one actually beats dead horses, gargoyle. It’s an expression.” “Really? How morbid.

Just as well. Sometimes, Bartholomew, I think her quite the bitch.

No honor among thieves, and even less among gods.

How undignified.” The gargoyle let out a whimper. “Did anyone see me fall?

To tell a story is in some part to tell a lie, isn’t it?

My armor may dent, my sword may break, but I will never diminish.

Please, Rory. Take it off. I want someone to see me.” I whispered against his lips. “I want it to be you.

I’ll do anything you ask of me.

Will everyone kindly leave my fucking boots alone—

Which one, Diviner?” Rory’s voice was deathly calm. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Which one marked up your face?

You’re an incomparable fiend, Rodrick Myndacious. A truly accomplished asshole.

You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.

The pretty one.” Rory’s eyes flitted to me. But the King’s finger, the knighthood’s collective gaze, was trained on Four.

She's a guest of the king's. Affront her in any way, the knighthood will answer. Attempt to look beneath her shroud, and she and the gargoyle will respond as they see fit. With full immunity to any carnage tended." The gargoyle batted his eyes. "Oh, Bartholomew. He's dreamy.

By the seat of my skirts." He grasped my waist, smiled, and then on mighty feet, the gargoyle sprang from the ground. His wings spread, beat the air, stirring smoke. I held to his neck, and he to my waist, and then we were soring. "Seat of my pants," I called over the wind.

Pith, you think there’s something wrong with me—” “I don’t.” Rory’s voice was gravel. “I was wondering what it would be like. Watching you unravel.

I dreamed of a knight with gold in his ears and charcoal around his eyes, who did all the ignoble things I asked of him.

If you value your friend when he fights your battles for you - when he is rogue and ruthless- you must value him when he is gentle, too. Otherwise you do not value him at all.

No is a sufficient answer.

I don’t want him touching you like he did last night. I don’t want him within a fucking mile of you.

Dead as a doorhanger?

Am I all that you imagined?” I said, looking down at her. “Or am I so much more?

I washed the Divining robes this morning." The gargoyle led me down the nave. On the final pew, six silk robes waited. "It was an abundant chore. I am within myself with fatigue." "Beside," I murmured, peeling off my clothes. " 'Beside myself with fatigue' is the proper expression." The gargoyle's stone brow knit. "If I were beside myself, there would be two of me, and the washing would have taken half the time.

He held me in his gaze like he needed to. “Do you want to know how it ends?” “Does it end?” He nodded. “It ends a handful of minutes from now. After you’ve won, and there is one less Omen in the world.” He grinned. “It ends when you kiss me.” “You mean it ends after I’ve won, and there is one less Omen in the world—and I hit you as hard as I can.” “With your mouth.

It is important for a squire to carry a knight’s weapons,” he said, the words so stoic I wondered if he’d practiced them on the flight back. “I will carry them for you, Bartholomew. I will shoulder any weight you give me.

You’d like me better if you called me Rory.” “I’d like you better if you were on your back again.” He smiled. An unfamiliar heat burrowed into my face. “From throwing you and your inferior strength down, obviously.” “Loud and clear, Diviner. I hear you loud and clear.

Turns out fucking someone just to spite you leaves a lot to be desired.

There was something enticing about hitting something again and again and not breaking it.

That was part of their appeal. Gods that couldn’t be seen, even in dreams, were effective. You never knew when they were watching.

If I am wonderful and wretched for learning the truth of the Omens, your hands are marked by the blood of my metamorphosis.

Would that things were different.

Fear is not an outward pointing compass....You should not let it guide your way.

My body had always been strong—and ever just enough. But whatever my soul was made of was frail. Like birch bark, like gossamer, like the wings of a moth.

Starving things make for loyal pets, so long as you feed them just enough.

To tell a story is in some part to tell a lie, isn't it?

Once, there was a foundling boy who didn’t believe in anything. He grew up, became a worldly knight, and still he struggled to believe. He bore hardly any hope, and a mountain of disdain. And that should have been the end.” He took my hand, squeezed it, tightening my hold on my hammer. “But then he came to a cathedral upon a tor, and met a woman there. And all the tales he’d troubled himself with about cruelty, about unfairness and godlessness… he started to forget. He was afforded another chance, as if by magic, to believe in something. He’d never be a very good knight, but every time he looked at the woman, he had the distinct faith”—his eyes roved my face—“that things could be better than they’d been.

Sounds like a beggar's barge-in." I wrinkled my nose. "It's 'beggar's bargain,' gargoyle.

Swords and armor are nothing to stone.

If you treat her like she’s fragile,” Benji said pointedly, “she’ll start to think that of herself. Let her remain as she is, strong and fearsome—

I would not blame you. It is easier, swearing ourselves to someone else’s cause than to sit with who we are without one.

Violence is a craft. So is compassion.

Faith requires a display. The greater the spectacle, the greater the illusion.

Anger is a fine weapon, Diviner,” she said, quiet enough so the others wouldn’t hear. “So long as you don’t point it at yourself. Now have some soup.

And what a useless thing pity is, for a guest is always a kind of trespasser.

It’s not true, you know,” he said. “You don’t have to be good, or useful, for someone to care about you.

I am a battlefield of admiration.” He nodded at the horizon. “I cannot decide which I like best. The sunrise, or the sunset. They are like life, and her quiet companion, death.

Not everything had to hurt to be holy. Bad, to be good. But damn me if I wanted it to sometimes.

I don’t.” Rory’s voice was gravel. “I was wondering what it would be like. Watching you unravel.

Her care came with conditions. You bent yourself to fit them, and now… now you see yourself as this terrible burden. Like you’re nothing if you’re not the best, the most useful version of yourself.

He was muttering to himself again. “Tell me at least you have something for your feet.” “Like what?” “Like what—like shoes, you twit. Boots. Slippers. Clogs fashioned by your stupid chisel. Anything.

A Mystic And A Drunk The Universe turns on an axis. Let my soul circle around a table like a beggar, like a planet rolling in the vast, totally helpless and free. The knight and the castle move jaggedly about the chessboard, but they're actually centered on the king. They circle. If love is your center, a ring gets put on your finger. Something inside the moth is made of fire. A mystic touches the annihilating tip of pure nothing. A drunkard thinks peeing is absolution. Lord, take these impurities from me. The lord replies, First, understand the nature of impurity. If your key is bent, the lock will not open. I fall silent. King Shams has come. Always when I close, he opens.

I hated dreaming,” I said. “I hated it so much I decided I’d be perfect at it so that no one ever knew.” She faced me. “Why do we do these things to ourselves?” “The answer is rather simple.” The gargoyle swatted birch branches as we passed them by. “When you do the right thing for the wrong reason, no one praises you. When you do the wrong thing for the right reason, everyone does, even though what is right and wrong depends entirely on the story you’re living in. And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special.” “That is a very keen thing to say, gargoyle.” Maude put her uninjured hand on his shoulder. “How is it you came to know so much more about life than the rest of us?” His chest puffed with pride. “I am years beyond my wisdom.

Discussing things with that equine proved quite a bore.

gargoyle’s echoing cry. The Heartsore Weaver’s breath went out. “That’s it. The foundling upon the tor. The first Diviner.

You are not a dream. You’re just a man, paid like a king to playact as a god. A facade, hoarding wealth, yet claiming to starve.

Just the way you like me.” Rory nipped the pad of my thumb. “Now run it again.

Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?

the only god of men is coin.

You touch my feet, you die.

Don’t embarrass yourselves. Don’t drink too much or gamble or fight—Tory, I’m looking at you.

Take it off.” “No.” “Why not?” “No is a sufficient answer.

Overhead, the gargoyle was soaring and spinning, bidding “welfare” instead of “farewell” to the fading night.

Your foot-gloves are perfectly unscathed.

Ever but visitors

We are all supplicants. Whether craftsman or a king, knight or foundling or Diviner -- faith is the same.

I was losing my faith in everything, but the two of us meeting... it felt almost divine.

I think I would like to stop promising myself away, or else there will be nothing left of me to give, King Castor.

Don’t look to dreams, and don’t look for signs. Just look forward. Tomorrow will go well.

For the first time since before I could remember, I cried. It hurt more than drowning.

He always seemed to open the door to himself the moment I needed somewhere to go.

Don’t worry, Bartholomew,” the gargoyle called. “If you accidentally kill her, I will not be upset.

Sadness, like birch bark, had all the appearance of frailty. And yet… The tree prevailed.

First, you unravel,

If you value your friend when he fights your battles for you -- when he's rogue and ruthless -- you must value him when he is gentle, too. Otherwise you do not value him at all.

He screamed. “Sprites and spoons—you startled me, Bartholomew.

The second was a woman, and she kissed me so well beneath my dress that I thought myself in love—but then she tried to take off my shroud after I told her I could not, and I lost all my ardor.

It is not like me to be the bearer of bad tidings,” the gargoyle said. “Bartholomew does not know how to swim. But worry not—” He looked up at me. Smiled proudly. “She has always excelled at drowning.

Reached for his cheek—dragged the corner of his mouth up with my thumb until he wore an absurd half smile. “That’s better. Still foul and unknightly, though.” “Just the way you like me.” Rory nipped the pad of my thumb.

I confess horses are not the intelligent beasts I imagined them to be. Though I don’t think that merits the abuse they suffer postmortem.” That one took me a moment. “No one actually beats dead horses, gargoyle. It’s an expression.

Do you mind?” the stranger snapped. “I’m here to rescue you.” Michonne—Michi for short—stared at the man rubbing his chest. “Who are you?” Other than ridiculously handsome with dark hair and blue eyes. “Your fucking knight in shining armor.

Do you understand the lesson of the sword and the charge I have laid on you?” “Yes, mother. Kill heretics, don’t sleep around, obey the king. But… we don’t have kings in America, and I think being a heretic is protected by the First Amendment.

Held it up to Aisling Cathedral’s looming edifice. “Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?

Rory rolled his eyes. Brought his wax-laden thumb to my mouth. “You don’t like it when I’m a bad knight,” he muttered, “and you don’t like it when I’m a good one.” I reached out. Smudged blood he’d shed sparring from his own bottom lip and wiped it on my dress. “Have you considered that’s because I don’t like you at all?

This isn’t a particularly unique tale of woe. Perhaps you, too, have experienced something good and, in its aftermath, in a moment of sickness or tiredness or humanness, thought, Well, that’s it—my skill is spent. All that’s left to do now is fail. I am but a frayed piece of thread. Spilled ink. A sad little butterfly crushed upon a wheel.