Legacy Never Dies Quotes

You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never Rises from the soul, and sways The heart of every single hearer, With deepest power, in simple ways. You’ll sit forever, gluing things together, Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps, Blowing on a miserable fire, Made from your heap of dying ash. Let apes and children praise your art, If their admiration’s to your taste, But you’ll never speak from heart to heart, Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.

Van Houten, I’m a good person but a shitty writer. You’re a shitty person but a good writer. We’d make a good team. I don’t want to ask you any favors, but if you have time – and from what I saw, you have plenty – I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Hazel. I’ve got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently. Here’s the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That’s what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, “They’ll remember me now,” but (a) they don’t remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion. (Okay, maybe I’m not such a shitty writer. But I can’t pull my ideas together, Van Houten. My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations.) We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can’t stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it’s silly and useless – epically useless in my current state – but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either. People will say it’s sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it’s not sad, Van Houten. It’s triumphant. It’s heroic. Isn’t that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren’t the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn’t actually invented anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn’t get smallpox. After my PET scan lit up, I snuck into the ICU and saw her while she was unconscious. I just walked in behind a nurse with a badge and I got to sit next to her for like ten minutes before I got caught. I really thought she was going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar. A nurse guy came in and told me I had to leave, that visitors weren’t allowed, and I asked if she was doing okay, and the guy said, “She’s still taking on water.” A desert blessing, an ocean curse. What else? She is so beautiful. You don’t get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

Move or die. (Quills) Never give someone a choice that doesn’t leave them with any way out except to hurt you. (Devyn)

When a mother dies, a daughter grieves. And then her life moves on. She does, thankfully, feel happiness again. But the missing her, the wanting her, the wishing she were still here—I will not lie to you, although you probably already know. That part never ends.

There’s never a good time to almost die.

When a mother dies, a daughter’s mourning never completely ends.

To all those who care, You can't forever. Time steals the years, And your reflection in the mirror. But I can still see the story in your eyes, And your timeless passion that’s never died. While your skin became tired, Your heart became strong, The present became the past, And your memories like a song. And though the moment at hand is all that we have, You’ve taught me to live it like it is our last. Since two words don't say ‘thank you’ the way they are meant to, I'll try all my life to be something like you.

Here's the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease. I want to leave a mark. But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, "They'll remember me now," but (a) they don't remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion. ... We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it's silly and useless--epically useless in my current state--but I am an animal like any other. Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't actually invent anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox. ... But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar. ... What else? She is so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

My forebears played a significant part in making me who I am. I honor their legacy. I will never forget what they gave me. I will love them until the day I die. And no one can take them away from me.

The magnificent thing about her [Amelia Earhart] is, in the eyes of the world, she simply never died. Her fear never witnessed, her failure never recorded, her shiny twin-engine Electra never recovered. Earhart's legacy of inspiration is amplified because her adventure is perpetual. We don't think of her as dead; we think of her as missing. She is forever flying, somewhere beyond Lae, over that limitless blue horizon.

The Voyager We are all lonely voyagers sailing on life's ebb tide, To a far off place were all stripling warriors have died, Sometime at eve when the tide is low, The voices call us back to the rippling water's flow, Even though our boat sailed with love in our hearts, Neither our dreams or plans would keep heaven far apart, We drift through the hush of God's twilight pale, With no response to our friendly hail, We raise our sails and search for majestic light, While finding company on this journey to the brighten our night, Then suddenly he pulls us through the reef's cutting sea, Back to the place that he asked us to be, Friendly barges that were anchored so sweetly near, In silent sorrow they drop their salted tears, Shall our soul be a feast of kelp and brine, The wasted tales of wishful time, Are we a fish on a line lured with bait, Is life the grind, a heartless fate, Suddenly, "HUSH", said the wind from afar, Have you not looked to the heavens and seen the new star, It danced on the abyss of the evening sky, The sparkle of heaven shining on high, Its whisper echoed on the ocean's spray, From the bow to the mast they heard him say, "Hope is above, not found in the deep, I am alive in your memories and dreams when you sleep, I will greet you at sunset and with the moon's evening smile, I will light your path home.. every last lonely mile, My friends, have no fear, my work was done well, In this life I broke the waves and rode the swell, I found faith in those that I called my crew, My love will be the compass that will see you through, So don't look for me on the ocean's floor to find, I've never left the weathered docks of your loving mind, For I am in the moon, the wind and the whale's evening song, I am the sailor of eternity whose voyage is not gone.

There's never a good time to almost die.

The thing is, Iris, I've never liked the idea of compromise. In films and in stories people who love each other — really love each other — make horrendous sacrifices. They give kidneys they move across the world they die. Or become the undead because you know I like that sort of book. Basically the heroine's lover calls and she answers. Which is stupid. You know why ” Iris shook her head. “Because he's always fucking calling.

You want to know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid of every morning when I wake up that this will be the day when I can no longer move for myself. I know it’s coming. It’s just a matter of time until I have no choice, except to have someone else clothe me, feed me. Change my diaper. And I can’t stand it. (Adron) Then why don’t you kill yourself? Why are you still here? (Livia) Because every time I think of doing that, I can hear my family praying over me while I was in the hospital. I hear my mother weeping, my father begging me not to die on them. I could never intentionally hurt them that way. It would devastate them both, and while I’m a pathetic asshole, I’m not that selfish. (Adron)

Missionary work in a place where Christ has never been named is sometimes less arduous than in places where, though named, He has not been honored by lives of holy obedience.

You can choose when and when not to be stopped... Choose to be stopped after you die... when your work is done and done well.

We never fully move on, We leave a piece of ourselves behind Like leaves and trunks molded into the earth And forest floor, we give what we know And others take it up and use it to grow. I stand under the shade of giants.

The Tomorrow Man theory. It’s pretty basic. Today, right here, you are who you are. Tomorrow, you will be who you will be. Each and every night, we lie down to die, and each morning we arise, reborn. Now, those who are in good spirits, with strong mental health, they look out for their Tomorrow Man. They eat right today, they drink right today, they go to sleep early today–all so that Tomorrow Man, when he awakes in his bed reborn as Today Man, thanks Yesterday Man. He looks upon him fondly as a child might a good parent. He knows that someone–himself–was looking out for him. He feels cared for, and respected. Loved, in a word. And now he has a legacy to pass on to his subsequent selves…. But those who are in a bad way, with poor mental health, they constantly leave these messes for Tomorrow Man to clean up. They eat whatever the hell they want, drink like the night will never end, and then fall asleep to forget. They don’t respect Tomorrow Man because they don’t think through the fact that Tomorrow Man will be them. So then they wake up, new Today Man, groaning at the disrespect Yesterday Man showed them. Wondering why does that guy–myself–keep punishing me? But they never learn and instead come to settle for that behavior, eventually learning to ask and expect nothing of themselves. They pass along these same bad habits tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and it becomes psychologically genetic, like a curse. Looking at you now, Maven, I can see exactly where you fall on this spectrum. You are a man constantly trying to fix today what Yesterday Man did to you. You make up your bed, you clean those dirty dishes from the night before, and pledge not to start drinking until six, thinking that’s the way to keep an even keel. But in reality you’re always playing catch-up. I know this because I’ve been there. The thing is–you can’t fix the mistakes of Yesterday. Yesterday Man is dead, he’s gone forever, and blame and atonement aren’t worth a damn. What you can do is help yourself today. Eat a vegetable. Read a book. Cut that hair of yours. Leave Tomorrow Man something more than a headache and a jam-packed colon. Do for Tomorrow Man what you would have wanted Yesterday Man to do for you.

Find someone to grow old with and you'll never grow old. Find a cause to live for and you'll never die

Amy rang the bell when morning to gather the servants for prayers. The cook's small boy, pointing to the bell, said, "It's a god." 'I looked at the thing, it had a scratched face on the handle, and the face, he declared, was Ram's. I think the young scamp meant nothing more serious than a bit of mischief, but I knocked the bell handle off and pushed it into a fire which was burning near. He could never say that again! They all looked on, servants and coolies, and nobody said a word. Would a god let me do that? I asked them, and walked off, caring the battery bell.

And when he died, I suddenly realized i wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again...Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

Several years before Maya [Angelou] went home to heaven, she penned the poem popularly known as 'When Great Trees Fall,' but properly titled 'Ailey, Baldwin, Floyd, Killens, and Mayfield,' a lyrical ode she ends this way: And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly.... Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed. Her sentiments, so often repeated, powerfully sum up what loss does to the human heart, how it lowers our heads and deepens our sorrows, and yet how, in the end, it miraculously restores us. When great trees fall, we weep in unity with the forest--and we rejoice at the legacy that lingers.

You’re sure you want to do this,” Galen says, eyeing me like I’ve grown a tiara of snakes on my head. “Absolutely.” I unstrap the four-hundred-dollar silver heels and spike them into the sand. When he starts unraveling his tie, I throw out my hand. “No! Leave it. Leave everything on.” Galen frowns. “Rachel would kill us both. In our sleep. She would torture us first.” “This is our prom night. Rachel would want us to enjoy ourselves.” I pull the thousand-or-so bobby pins from my hair and toss them in the sand. Really, both of us are right. She would want us to be happy. But she would also want us to stay in our designer clothes. Leaning over, I shake my head like a wet dog, dispelling the magic of hairspray. Tossing my hair back, I look at Galen. His crooked smile almost melts me where I stand. I’m just glad to see a smile on his face at all. The last six months have been rough. “Your mother will want pictures,” he tells me. “And what will she do with pictures? There aren’t exactly picture frames in the Royal Caverns.” Mom’s decision to mate with Grom and live as his queen didn’t surprise me. After all, I am eighteen years old, an adult, and can take care of myself. Besides, she’s just a swim away. “She keeps picture frames at her house though. She could still enjoy them while she and Grom come to shore to-“ “Okay, ew. Don’t say it. That’s where I draw the line.” Galen laughs and takes off his shoes. I forget all about Mom and Grom. Galen, barefoot in the sand, wearing an Armani tux. What more could a girl ask for? “Don’t look at me like that, angelfish,” he says, his voice husky. “Disappointing your grandfather is the last thing I want to do.” My stomach cartwheels. Swallowing doesn’t help. “I can’t admire you, even from afar?” I can’t quite squeeze enough innocence in there to make it believable, to make it sound like I wasn’t thinking the same thing he was. Clearing his throat, he nods. “Let’s get on with this.” He closes the distance between us, making foot-size potholes with his stride. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me to the water. At the edge of the wet sand, just out of reach of the most ambitious wave, we stop. “You’re sure?” he says again. “More than sure,” I tell him, giddiness swimming through my veins like a sneaking eel. Images of the conference center downtown spring up in my mind. Red and white balloons, streamers, a loud, cheesy DJ yelling over the starting chorus of the next song. Kids grinding against one another on the dance floor to lure the chaperones’ attention away from a punch bowl just waiting to be spiked. Dresses spilling over with skin, matching corsages, awkward gaits due to six-inch heels. The prom Chloe and I dreamed of. But the memories I wanted to make at that prom died with Chloe. There could never be any joy in that prom without her. I couldn’t walk through those doors and not feel that something was missing. A big something. No, this is where I belong now. No balloons, no loud music, no loaded punch bowl. Just the quiet and the beach and Galen. This is my new prom. And for some reason, I think Chloe would approve.

When a daughter loses a mother, the intervals between grief responses lengthen over time, but her longing never disappears. It always hovers at the edge of her awareness, ready to surface at any time, in any place, in the least expected ways. This isn’t pathological. It’s normal. It’s why you find yourself, at twenty-four, or thirty-five or forty-three, unwrapping a present or walking down an aisle or crossing a busy street, doubled over and missing your mother because she died when you were seventeen.

They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies. WILLIAM PENN

The skinheads never got anywhere, Hansi," continued the general, "because this is Germany and the assholes never learned to march in step . . .

My parents taught me to hit back twice as hard and never back down. So I’ll die on this hill, please and thank you.

To live and die on a planet where she’d never see the stars again – to raise a child surrounded by metal walls, no view of the beauty in space, no hope for a better world ahead…

The universe didn’t care who lived and died. Soren had no say in it. People just died. They just did, and there was never a reason.

how much of my life my mother’s death would affect. And with the certainty of thirty-three years, I would tell her: everything. It affects everything. When a mother dies, a daughter grieves. And then her life moves on. She does, thankfully, feel happiness again. But the missing her, the wanting her, the wishing she were still here—I will not lie to you, although you probably already know. That part never ends.

Which would be more important to Grom-upholding the law by not mating with a Half-Breed, or mating with one to ensure the survival of the Gifts? Galen doesn't know. But even if Grom chooses not to reproduce with Emma, will he allow Galen to take her as his mate? Because if Romul and Atta are right, Emma will never sprout a fin. Which means Galen will have to live with her on land. Is it worth it? To give up years of my life to be with her? Galen thinks of the curve of her hips, the fullness of her lips, the way she blushes when he catches her looking at him. And he remembers how sick he felt when Dr. Milligan indicated Emma would die before him. Oh, yes. It's absolutely worth it.

Even in the future, however much time passed since Zimmer died, we loved him enough to name our daughter after him. That means something. A tear slides down his cheek. "Never thought for a single day that I'd have a legacy," he whispers.

You are a sister of Oya, my love. You know our spirits never die.” She pulls me back and wipes my tears with her soft robes. “I have always been with you, always by your side.” I clutch at her, as if at any moment her spirit might slip through my fingers.

Sophie shrugged. “There’s never a good time to almost die.” “Okay, someone needs to get that embroidered on a tunic for our Mysterious Lady F immediately!” Keefe called out behind her, and when Sophie spun around, she found him striding up the path along with Ro.

Feathertail gazed into the young prey-hunter’s eyes. She knew Brook believed what she was saying, but she couldn’t forget how Stormfur had thought that this cat was his friend. Stormfur didn’t make friends easily—a legacy of being half-Clan, always feeling as if he had more to prove than other warriors, as if he could never fight hard enough or catch enough prey. Feathertail had watched this she-cat win her brother’s trust, but now she had betrayed him, and would probably see him die in a battle with Sharptooth for the sake of her Tribe.

Hi, Commander. On the anniversary of what you did, I just wanted to say thank you. This is my daughter, Dalycia. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I’m the woman you saved from that psycho, and this is the daughter I had six weeks later. Say hi, Dalycia. (Woman) Hi, Commander. Thank you for saving my mommy and me. I drew this for you to say thank you. See, it’s you saving us, and we’re all happy ‘cause we’re alive and the bad man isn’t. (Dalycia) (All of a sudden, he snarled in outrage and threw the frame against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.) Adron! (Livia) What? Did you think showing me that shit would make all of this okay? Did you think I’d look at them, then cry and say how grateful I am they live while I’m trapped like this? What about the children I wanted to have, Livia? I can’t even have sex without spending a month in the hospital, or dying from it. All I want is five fucking seconds where I’m not trying to breathe through absolute agony. Five seconds where I can move and not ache to the marrow of my bones. I’m only thirty-five years old, and all I have to look forward to is a future where I’ll slowly, painfully disintegrate into an invalid who can’t even wipe his own ass. Do you really think I’m okay with being dependent on you or anyone else? I was an assassin, and now I have less mobility than a withered-up hundred-year-old man. I’m nothing but a worthless piece of shit who should have died that night. And them telling me how grateful they are doesn’t make this okay with me. It never will. (Adron)

The list of correlations to that night is as long as the Jersey coast. And so is the list of reasons I shouldn't be looking forward to seeing him at school. But I can't help it. He's already texted me three times this morning: Can I pick you up for school? and Do u want 2 have breakfast? and R u getting my texts? My thumbs want to answer "yes" to all of the above, but my dignity demands that I don't answer at all. He called my his student. He stood there alone with me on the beach and told me he thinks of me as a pupil. That our relationship is platonic. And everyone knows what platonic means-rejected. Well, I might be his student, but I'm about to school, him on a few things. The first lesson of the day is Silent Treatment 101. So when I see him in the hall, I give him a polite nod and brush right by him. The zap from the slight contact never quite fades, which mean he's following me. I make it to my locker before his hand is on my arm. "Emma." The way he whispers my name sends goose bumps all the way to my baby toes. But I'm still in control. I nod to him, dial the combination to my locker, then open it in his face. He moves back before contact. Stepping around me, he leans his hand against the locker door and turns me around to face him. "That's not very nice." I raise my best you-started-this brow. He sighs. "I guess that means you didn't miss me." There are so many things I could pop off right now. Things like, "But at least I had Toraf to keep my company" or "You were gone?" Or "Don't feel bad, I didn't miss my calculus teacher either." But the goal is to say nothing. So I turn around. I transfer books and papers between my locker and backpack. As I stab a pencil into my updo, his breath pushes against my earlobe when he chuckles. "So your phone's not broken; you just didn't respond to my texts." Since rolling my eyes doesn't make a sound, it's still within the boundaries of Silent Treatment 101. So I do this while I shut my locker. As I push past him, he grabs my arm. And I figure if stomping on his toe doesn't make a sound... "My grandmother's dying," he blurts. Commence with the catching-Emma-off-guard crap. How can I continue Silent Treatment 101 after that? He never mentioned his grandmother before, but then again, I never mentioned mine either. "I'm sorry, Galen." I put my hand on his, give it a gentle squeeze. He laughs. Complete jackass. "Conveniently, she lives in a condo in Destin and her dying request is to meet you. Rachel called your mom. We're flying out Saturday afternoon, coming back Sunday night. I already called Dr. Milligan." "Un-freaking-believable.

He's not gone," said Jared. "Oh, and how do you figure that?" Kami demanded. "He seems pretty gone to me." "When my Dad died... When he died, he wasn't gone. My mom and I could never be what we might have been without him. He stayed like a shadow in every corner of our home, stayed a stain in our hearts. I felt it. I can't believe that good will leave us when evil remains. I will not. I do not.

I can make you feel touched.” He paused. “It would be easier if I showed you. Do I have permission?” Yes. “No.” Being touched by Mad Rogan wasn’t a good idea. We kept walking. What would it be like?” “Does it hurt?” “No.” How would it feel? Would it feel . . . oh hell. “Okay.” I stopped. We were in front of a small alcove. Nobody was around. If I made an idiot out of myself, nobody would notice. “Just once.” A soft burst of heat touched the back of my neck. I’d never felt anything like it before. It was as if someone had touched me with a heated mink glove, but the touch wasn’t soft, it was firm. It felt . . . it felt . . . The heat slid down my neck, fast, over my spine, setting every single nerve on fire before melting in the small of my back, its echoes pulsing through me. My body sang. He’d strummed me like I was a guitar. I wanted him and I wanted him now. “That was . . .” I saw his eyes. Words died. All the hardness had vanished from his eyes. They were alive and heated from within. “You want me.” “What?” The magic warmth slid over my shoulders, melting into pure pleasure. “I feel the feedback.” He took a step toward me, grinning. “Nevada, you’re a liar.” Uh-oh. I backed up. “What feedback?” “When I do this . . .” The heated pressure zinged from my back up my ribs. I gasped. Oh dear God. “. . . what you feel loops back to me. I’m partially emphatic.” “You didn’t mention that.” My heart was doing its best to break through my chest, and I couldn’t tell if it was alarm, lust, or some weird mix of both. He grinned, coming closer. “The hotter you are, the hotter I am. And you’re on fire.

They say that if a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. Summer’s name would never be carved in stone in monuments or tributes, but she had still carved her name onto my soul, and she deserved the same to be done to her legacy – but in a much larger sense. And so, with the windswept notion that I was hurtling toward destiny, I held my hands over my keyboard and preparedto etch my vanished girlfriend onto the storm-scraped surface of history – one keystroke at a time.

But you’re okay with me losing you? I’m a shell without you, Bran.” He drags my hand to him and slams it against his chest. “This thing only beats for you and because of you. I used to live an aimless life where adrenaline was my god, but you came along and tamed my demons. You balance me. You complete me. You’re fucking in me. So seeing you bleeding out on the floor was no different than watching myself die. No, it was worse. I’ve never felt so scared for my life, but you… you’re my everything. How could you do that to me? To us?

There are many who find it hard to embrace the idea of forgiveness. And it is easy to see why. In order to maintain some sort of moral compass, to hold on to some sort of clear distinction between what is depraved but conceivable and what is simply off the scale of human acceptability, we feel an inward emotional and mental pressure not to forgive, since forgiveness can signal acceptability, and acceptability signals some amount, however small, of condoning. There is a desire to draw a line and say, "Where you have been, I cannot follow you, Your actions can never be regarded as part of what it means to be human." Yet not to forgive means closing the door to the possibility of transformation.

Scientists know your DNA reflects the genetic legacy of your parents, their parents, and your ancestors. It’s possible that it also reflects their emotional experiences. As researchers learn more about our DNA, maybe we’ll find that our cells have encoded the traumas of our ancestors. Experiments in mice have shown that aversion to certain smells is passed down to the offspring after the parental mice were trained to avoid a certain smell by being shocked every time they smelled it.8 While we know that a family history of heart disease may mean close relatives share genes and genetic markers, if we look back, we can often see in family stories hearts that are broken, conflicted, and prevented from loving fully. In my family, people tend to die of heart disease prematurely. My maternal

Hey, that's weird," Chloe says. "You both have the same color eyes as Emma. I've never seen that before. I always thought it was because she's freakishly pasty. Ow! That's gonna leave a mark, Emma," she says, rubbing her freshly pinched biceps. "Good, I hope it does," I snap. I want to ask them about their eyes-the color seems prettier set against the olive tone of Galen's skin-but Chloe has bludgeoned my chances of recovering from embarrassment. I'll have to be satisfied that my dad-and Google-were wrong all this time; my eye color just can't be that rare. Sure, my dad practiced medicine until the day he died two years ago. And sure, Google never let me down before. But who am I to argue with living, breathing proof that this eye color actually does exist? Nobody, that's who. Which is convenient, since I don't want to talk anymore. Don't want to force Galen into any more awkward conversations. Don't want to give Chloe any more opportunities to deepen the heat of my burning cheeks. I just want this moment of my life to be over. I push past Chloe and snatch up the surfboard. To her good credit, she presses herself against the rail as I pass her again. I stop in front of Galen and his sister. "It was nice to meet you both. Sorry I ran into you. Let's go, Chloe." Galen looks like he wants to say something, but I turn away. He's been a good sport, but I'm not interested in discussing swimmer safety-or being introduced to any more of his hostile relatives. Nothing he can say will change the fact that DNA from my cheek is smeared on his chest. Trying not to actually march, I thrust past them and make my way down the stairs leading to the pristine white sand. I hear Chloe closing the distance behind me, giggling. And I decide on sunflowers for her funeral.

Alongside this was the king who remained a conservative to his dying day. He never accepted the central Protestant doctrine of justification by faith, despite all Cranmer’s efforts to persuade him, especially in the revision of the Bishops’ Book; so he had lost his hold on purgatory while not finding his way to a coherent replacement doctrine on salvation.49 To see this is to make some sense at last of the apparently baffling twists of policy and inconsistencies in the king: he was caught between his lack of full belief in two mutually opposed ways of seeing the road to salvation. What did he have instead? A ragbag of emotional preferences. He cherished his beautiful personal rosary, which still exists; he maintained the mass in all its ancient Latin splendour and he left instructions in his will for a generous supply of requiems, in line with his new rationale for them in the King’s Book.

The tornadic bundle of legs and arms and feet and hands push farther into the kitchen until only the occasional flailing limb is visible from the living room, where I can’t believe I’m still standing. A spectator in my own life, I watch the supernova of my two worlds colliding: Mom and Galen. Human and Syrena. Poseidon and Triton. But what can I do? Who should I help? Mom, who lied to me for eighteen years, then tried to shank my boyfriend? Galen, who forgot this little thing called “tact” when he accused my mom of being a runaway fish-princess? Toraf, who…what the heck is Toraf doing, anyway? And did he really just sack my mom like an opposing quarterback? The urgency level for a quick decision elevates to right-freaking-now. I decide that screaming is still best for everyone-it’s nonviolent, distracting, and one of the things I’m very, very good at. I open my mouth, but Rayna beats me to it-only, her scream is much more valuable than mine would have been, because she includes words with it. “Stop it right now, or I’ll kill you all!” She pushed past me with a decrepit, rusty harpoon from God-knows-what century, probably pillaged from one of her shipwreck excursions. She waves it at the three of them like a crazed fisherman in a Jaws movie. I hope they don’t notice she’s got it pointed backward and that if she fires it, she’ll skewer our couch and Grandma’s first attempt at quilting. It works. The bare feet and tennis shoes stop scuffling-out of fear or shock, I’m not sure-and Toraf’s head appears at the top of the counter. “Princess,” he says, breathless. “I told you to stay outside.” “Emma, run!” Mom yells. Toraf disappears again, followed by a symphony of scraping and knocking and thumping and cussing. Rayna rolls her eyes at me, grumbling to herself as she stomps into the kitchen. She adjusts the harpoon to a more deadly position, scraping the popcorn ceiling and sending rust and Sheetrock and tetanus flaking onto the floor like dirty snow. Aiming it at the mound of struggling limbs, she says, “One of you is about to die, and right now I don’t really care who it is.” Thank God for Rayna. People like Rayna get things done. People like me watch people like Rayna get things done. Then people like me round the corner of the counter as if they helped, as if they didn’t stand there and let everyone they love beat the shizzle out of one another. I peer down at the three of them all tangled up. Crossing my arms, I try to mimic Rayna’s impressive rage, but I’m pretty sure my face is only capable of what-the-crap-was-that. Mom looks up at me, nostrils flaring like moth wings. “Emma, I told you to run,” she grinds out before elbowing Toraf in the mouth so hard I think he might swallow a tooth. Then she kicks Galen in the ribs. He groans, but catches her foot before she can re-up. Toraf spits blood on the linoleum beside him and grabs Mom’s arms. She writhes and wriggles, bristling like a trapped badger and cussing like sailor on crack. Mom has never been girlie. Finally she stops, her arms and legs slumping to the floor in defeat. Tears puddle in her eyes. “Let her go,” she sobs. “She’s got nothing to do with this. She doesn’t even know about us. Take me and leave her out of this. I’ll do anything.” Which reinforces, right here and now, that my mom is Nalia. Nalia is my mom. Also, holy crap.

Will you still love me if a croc grabs me and I lose an arm or a leg?” “Yes, of course I would still love you,” I said. But there were many evenings when he would run through improbably scenarios, just checking to see how I really felt. One night he looked particularly concerned, his brow furrowed. “What’s up?” I asked. “Tell me why you married me.” I laughed. “Because you’re hot in the cot.” That broke the tension, and he laughed too. We both relaxed a little bit. But he would sometimes wonder if I’d married him just because I loved him, or if it was because he was a bit of Tarzan and Croc Dundee and Indiana Jones all rolled into one. “I’m in love with Steve Irwin,” I assured him, “and part of the reason I love you is because you are such a staunch advocate for wildlife. Your empathy and compassion for all animals is part of it too. But most of all, I know that destiny brought us together.” Steve continued our serious discussion, and he spoke of his mortality. He was convinced that he would never reach forty. That’s why he was in such a hurry all the time, to get as much done as he could. He didn’t feel sad about it. He only felt the motivation to make a difference before he was gone. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said. “I’m only afraid of dying. I don’t want to get sick and dwindle. I love working hard and playing hard and living hard, and making every moment count.” I learned so much from Steve. He helped me reevaluate my own purpose, my own life. What would happen if I didn’t make it to forty? What legacy would I leave?

Among other jobs that we did, my brother Bill and I were shoe shine boys in Jersey City and Hoboken during the World War II years. We went from tavern to tavern shining shoes for ten cents and hopefully a generous tip. The Hoboken waterfront bristled with starkly looming, grey hulled Liberty ships. Secured to the piers facing River Street, they brandished their ominous cannons towards what I thought was City Hall. An unappreciated highlight was when I shined Frank Sinatra’s shoes at a restaurant on Washington Street, just west from the Clam Broth House. There was no doubt but that Hoboken was an exciting place during those years. Years later I met Frank at Jilly's saloon, a lounge on West 52d Street in Manhattan, for a few drinks and a little fun around town. Even though I was an adult by then, he still called me “kid!” It was obvious that Frank Sinatra enjoyed friendly relations with Mafia notables such as Carlo Gambino, “Joe Fish” Fischetti and Sam Giancana. Meyer Lansky was said to have been a friend of Sinatra’s parents in Hoboken. During this time Sinatra spoke in awe about Bugsy Siegel and was in an AP syndicated photograph, seen in many newspapers, with Tommy “Fatso” Marson, Don Carlo Gambino 'The Godfather', and Jimmy 'The Weasel, Fratianno. Little wonder that the Federal Bureau of Investigation kept their eye on Sinatra for almost 50 years. A memo in FBI files revealed that Sinatra felt that he could be of use to them. However, it is difficult to believe that Sinatra would have become an FBI informer, better known as a “rat.” It was in May of 1998 when Sinatra, being treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles told his wife Barbara, “I’m losing.” Frank Sinatra died on May 14th at 82 years of age. It is alleged that he was buried with the wedding ring from his ex-wife, Mia Farrow, which she slid unnoticed into his suit pocket during his “viewing.” Aside from his perceived personal and public image, Frank Sinatra’s music will shape his enduring legacy for decades to come. His 100th birthday was celebrated at the Hollywood Bowl on Wednesday, July 22, 2015. Somehow Frank will never age and his music will never fade….

We never fully die even in what we think of as actual death. We change again and become echoes in others, and they carry us forward.

Easy. You’ll say, ‘Wow, that’s the hottest Wanderling I’ve ever seen! Who knew a tree could have awesome hair?’ And then you’ll all sit under my stunning leaves and write poems about my general amazingness.” Sophie shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re trying to joke about this.” “Well, believe it, Miss F. I can joke about anything!” He nudged her with his elbow, but she refused to smile. And she hated her brain for suddenly picturing his Wanderling. But she could see it so clearly now. The tree would have yellow spiky leaves and ice blue flowers and pale bark—and it would be lopsided somehow, mirroring his crooked smirk. “The thought of you dying will never be funny,” she whispered, wishing her eyes weren’t burning.

I left her there without returning the sentiment or giving her anything she deserved after she did the impossible and forgave me. Leaving those words unreturned is a regret I’ll carry until the day I die, even if I do get a chance at redemption. I never once truly deserved her love, trust, loyalty, or faithful heart.

I cannot deny that my life is better, a thousand times better, than anything I ever knew in the Underdark. And yet, I cannot remember the last time I felt the anxiety, the inspiring fear, of impending battle, the tingling that can come only when an enemy is near or a challenge must be met. Oh, I do remember the specific instance—just a year ago, when Wulfgar, Guenhwyvar, and I worked the lower tunnels in the cleansing of Mithral Hall— but that feeling, that tingle of fear, has long since faded from memory. Are we then creatures of action? Do we say that we desire those accepted cliches of comfort when, in fact, it is the challenge and the adventure that truly give us life? I must admit, to myself at least, that I do not know. There is one point that I cannot dispute, though, one truth that will inevitably help me resolve these questions and which places me in a fortunate position. For now, beside Bruenor and his kin, beside Wulfgar and Catti-brie and Guenhwyvar, dear Guenhwyvar, my destiny is my own to choose. I am safer now than ever before in my sixty years of life. The prospects have never looked better for the future, for continued peace and continued security. And yet, I feel mortal. For the first time, I look to what has passed rather than to what is still to come. There is no other way to explain it. I feel that I am dying, that those stories I so desired to share with friends will soon grow stale, with nothing to replace them. But, I remind myself again, the choice is mine to make. –Drizzt Do’Urden

None of us knows for sure if there is an afterlife until we leave this world. But what I do know is that we live on through the memories we leave. And that is Ada’s legacy. She will live on through all of us in this room. As long as we remember her and tell our children and our children’s children of the woman who created our families, Ada will never truly die.

You are never too young to start thinking about your legacy. How do you want people to remember you? And what do you really want to accomplish before you die?

I don't think that you've failed. I've been in this game longer than you. You've got to have patience. It takes more than eight years to build a legacy --and it takes more than a term or two to reshape the world. Change happens incrementally.

In an earthbound perspective that excludes all consideration of God, there will be no day of reckoning. The good will die young, nice guys will finish last, and the murderers, rapists, and warmongers will never be held accountable for their actions. Humans will continue to be free to act like animals, biting and devouring one another. If there is no God, or Creator (no one outside the cycle) all our greatest feats and accomplishments will disappear when we die. Like chasing the wind, whatever we gain, we will eventually lose. Not only will we be forgotten when everyone we know dies, but even the greatest legacies will equate to nothing on the day that the sun burns out and the human race is no more.

I think Misrost will always have those willing to give their lives for the welfare of their nation. They don’t think much of politics and its debates, and they surely don’t want anything in return. Their highest hope is to achieve freedom for the countries in our region, and then return to live normal lives: work to earn a living, find love, and raise good families. They want to live, but as free honourable men, not slaves. This is why they postpone their personal dreams and accept living like strangers and outcasts. Regardless of all debates, opinions, political analysis, and empty talks, those persons will always form the cornerstone upon which all traitors break. They are the stone that shall grind the reasons behind your fears and concerns to dust. That’s because such persons never stop until they make what’s right prevail or die trying. Unlike what their enemies think, their death is never the end, but it’s always the beginning of something bigger, something stronger. Their legacy is like a candlewick, it dies, but the candle’s light remains. Otherwise, why do you think we are all here at this moment?

It's commonly said that this book is about 'marginalized' people. We were never marginalized. We were the world. We were our own world, and we couldn't have cared less about what 'straight' people thought of us. I made my people into superstars, and the Ballad maintains their legacy. In the '80s, there was a certain freedom, and a sense of immortality, that ended with that decade. AIDS cracked the earth. With everyone dying, everything shifted. Our history got cut off. We lost a whole generation. We didn't just lose the actors, we lost the audience. There are few people left with that kind of intensity. There was an attitude towards life that doesn't exist anymore, everything's been so cleaned up. Lately when I'm working with the photos of my missing friends, it's as if they are frozen in amber. For long periods of time I forget they're not on this planet. But the pictures show me how much I've lost; the people who knew me the best, the people who carried my history, the people I grew up with and I was planning to get old with are gone. They took my memory with them. The pictures in the Ballad haven't changed. But Cookie is dead. David is dead. Greer is dead. Kenny is dead. I talk to them all the time, but they don't talk back anymore. Mourning doesn't end, it continues and it transmutes. This book is now a volume of loss, as well as a ballad of love.

The fact is that love never dies. Heartbreak will come and go for the rest of your life. And then, one day our life is over. And someone else will have to endure the heartbreak as we have. And when we no longer write our own story, it becomes the responsibility of our legacy and people you wouldn’t ever expect to celebrate your memory—the last responders.

Why not Vespera?” Sophie asked. “Because I’m inclined to believe there’s more subtlety to her—and her research—than her journals imply. She’s an Empath, after all. And Empaths feel every hurt they trigger.” “Not all of them,” Keefe muttered, and Sophie’s heart ached, knowing he had to mean his dad. “How do you know she’s an Empath?” Sophie asked. “I just do. It’s actually why I chose Keefe’s father from my match lists. I knew if I wanted to build my own Nightfall someday, I was going to need an Empath to help me run it. But he turned out to be… incompatible. Fortunately, he gave me a son who manifested with far more power than he ever had. That’s your legacy, Keefe. But we’ll talk more about that later. For now, go get me my Archetype. And try not to die.” The Imparter went silent, and Sophie and Keefe just stared at it. Eventually Keefe mumbled, “So… all of that’s getting shoved into a really dark corner of my head—and we’re not going to talk about it, okay? At least not until we get through tonight.” Sophie nodded. “Well… at least we know Vespera’s ability isn’t something scary.” “Don’t be so sure. My mom’s never trained as an Empath, so she doesn’t get it.” He stood, moving to Sophie’s bookshelf, where she’d displayed the paintings he’d given her around her old human scrapbook. “My empathy Mentor warned me when she saw how strong my ability was—that there’s a risk that comes with feeling too much and not having the right training. Our mind’s natural reaction is to shut down when things get too intense—but everything is intense for an Empath. So if you’re not careful, you can end up going… numb. You’ll still feel what others feel. But you won’t feel

Well?” the guard who discovered me prompted. “I recognize her,” Saadi answered, staring directly at the woman. “She works for my sister as an errand girl.” I briefly closed my eyes in relief. Saadi waved the guard back to her post and issued an order to the man behind him to retrieve his cloak. When it was thrust into his hands, he escorted me back across the base, not speaking until we were out of earshot of those on patrol. “So, Rava has a message for me?” I shoved him unthinkingly, teasingly, and he laughed, jumping away. “You wanted to see me, remember?” I pointed out. “But you never picked a time or place!” “So you decided to do it for me. Fair enough, but I’m dying to know what you have in mind to do.” “I don’t have anything in mind.” We had reached the thoroughfare, and he chuckled. “You braved Cokyrian soldiers and the stronghold of the military base, but don’t have a thing in mind for us to do?” “That’s right,” I admitted, irritated that he was laughing at me. “Would you grow up please?” “Shaselle, there’s nothing ‘grown-up’ about what we’re doing. I assume you snuck away from home to see me, and I have a five o’clock call in the morning.” I came to a halt and turned to face him, my eyes issuing a challenge. “If you want to go back, feel free. Tell those soldiers that Rava just wanted to make sure her baby brother went to bed on time.” He grinned, enjoying my feisty responses, and smoothed his bronze hair forward, a habit I still found annoying. It also served to make my heart flutter. “Trust me, I’ve survived many a night without sleep.” He came closer, putting his hands on my hips, and I spontaneously leaned in to kiss him. He drew me close, his mouth more hungry than it had been in the barn, and a tingle ran from my lips to my toes. Then I pulled away, smiling mischievously, loving how reckless my actions were. He took my hand, kissing each of my fingers before tugging me down the street. “Come on, Shaselle.” “Where are we going?” Saadi didn’t answer, but led me in the direction of the Market District. As a Cokyrian solider on horseback trotted by, he pulled me into the shadows of a storefront, placing a finger upon his lips. “I’ve thought of something for us to do,” he whispered. “Since you came so unprepared.” Once more he took my hand, and I went with him blindly, happily, until we reached the shop from which I’d stolen fruit and wine when I’d run away from home. “What are you--?” He gave the door a strong kick, and I winced at the crack of the wood in the stillness. “Saadi!” I hissed, glancing around, expecting the mounted Cokyrian to come galloping back. He ignored me, pushing the door open. “Come on now. No errand girl of Rava’s would be such a coward!

Tell me, why did it matter to you who won? I mean, even if you’d won, you still could have released me from the bargain. You could have said I didn’t have to spend those two days with you.” “I could have,” he acknowledged. “But after…after you told me about your father, I wanted you to have his horse back. Rava should have had more respect for his memory. She shouldn’t have taken him--them--away.” Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed several times to loosen my throat. What a stupid reaction. “Thank you,” I murmured, and I felt his hand close around mine, giving it a squeeze. I sighed contentedly, letting myself enjoy the moment. “What was your father like?” “I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” As usual, my typical phrasing was somewhat coarse, driven by my curiosity, and I caught myself, adopting a more considerate tone. “Did he die when you were young?” “No, he’s still alive.” I turned my head to gape at him, greatly confused. “He left you?” “No.” “Then what?” I sat up again, close to exasperation; he just looked at me, bemused, my hand still in his. “Father’s don’t raise their children in Cokyri. They aren’t trusted with such an important responsibility. I never knew mine.” This was not an answer I could have foreseen, and I shifted uneasily, trying to figure out how to proceed. “I’m sorry,” I said lamely. He was quiet at first, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky as he pondered our different experiences. “I never felt sorry about it. My mother was a good woman--she and her maidens took care of me. But like I told you before, I had to work harder than you can imagine to achieve my military rank, and only because I’m a man. I can do everything Rava can do. I always could, but no one would see it, not even her. A struggle like that makes you question things.” “So now you wish you’d known your father?” Again, he reflected. “No. I wish I’d known yours.” I looked away, once more fighting tears. I didn’t understand how he could affect me so deeply. “I’m not sure my father would have been to your liking,” I finally said, meeting his eyes. “I found him brave for his willingness to fight, even when there was no more hope. You would probably have found him weak.” He sat up and gazed earnestly at me. “There is a way to accomplish things, but it’s rarely to declare a war, private or otherwise.” “Sometimes the war is not of your making,” I retorted. “You must fight, otherwise you’re a lamb. And lambs are slaughtered, Saadi.” His brows drew together, and we stared at each other for much longer than we should have, and I knew I had rattled him. Then he shook his head. “See those lights up there? They’re called stars.” I laughed. “I can take a hint. We should go back.” We caught and saddled our mounts, then took our time returning to the city, neither of us really wanting the day to end.

All went smoothly for the first fifteen minutes--my mother was, after all, very adept at making people comfortable. She chatted, though not excessively, primarily with me. As I had predicted, Narian was silent and observant, letting me carry the conversation while he tried to get a feel for the woman across from us, not quite trusting that she was on our side. He was never rude, and never short with her; he simply hid himself behind good etiquette. During a natural pause in conversation, my mother perused Narian and me, and her mood became contemplative. “When was it that you fell in love?” she asked. “Was it right under our noses?” “More or less,” I said with a laugh, glancing at Narian. “We became friends when he first came to Hytanica. All those trips Miranna and I made to Baron Koranis’s estate were really so I could see him.” Mother smiled and Narian glanced at me as if this were news to him. Then she picked up the thread of the conversation. “I remember falling in love,” she mused, and I wondered how far she would venture into her story, knowing it was not a wholly happy one. “I was fifteen, going through the very difficult experience of losing my family in a fire. I was brought to live in the palace, for I’d been betrothed for years to Andrius, Alera’s uncle, who later died in the war before we could be married.” I realized she was not talking to me, and that, though he was still aloof, she had captured Narian’s interest, for his deep blue eyes were resting attentively upon her. “At the time, I was so lost and alone and frightened. And then Andrius and I grew close. With him, my life made sense again. I had something to hold on to, something to steady me. What was the worst time of my life became the best.” There was a pause, and she innocently met Narian’s gaze. But her story was not innocent at all. If I could recognize the parallel she was drawing to his life in the aftermath of learning of his Hytanican heritage, then he surely could, as well. He didn’t say a word, however, and she dropped the veiled attempt to connect with him before it became awkward, turning to me instead. “I’ve told you before, Alera--Andrius lives on in you. I see him in you every day.” I smiled, tipping my head in acceptance of the compliment. “And in you--” she said, once more turning to Narian, tapping a finger against her lips in thought “--I see Cannan.” She was lightly cajoling him, exactly as a parent would do. I couldn’t imagine what was going on in his mind, but he was no longer eager to leave, his eyes never once flicking toward me or the door.

I’ve told you before, Alera--Andrius lives on in you. I see him in you every day.” I smiled, tipping my head in acceptance of the compliment. “And in you--” she said, once more turning to Narian, tapping a finger against her lips in thought “--I see Cannan.” She was lightly cajoling him, exactly as a parent would do. I couldn’t imagine what was going on in his mind, but he was no longer eager to leave, his eyes never once flicking toward me or the door. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Cannan is strong and decisive. He seems unemotional, untouchable, but underneath he has more heart than most men taken together. And he could so easily have buried that compassion. In some ways, he would have hurt less throughout the years had he done so, but he would be half the man he is today.” I was remembering things Baelic had told me, vague things about Cannan and their father. I had never considered that my mother would have knowledge on the subject, although I should have surmised it. She had grown up in the nobility with the men of her generation, and Cannan had been one of Crown Prince Andrius’s best friends. Seeing the curiosity on Narian’s face, she went on, “It was no secret that Baron Burvaul--Cannan’s father--was a tyrant. In their family, everyone wore smiles for fear of what Burvaul might do if they did not, and everything stayed behind closed doors--except for bruises and broken bones, the vast majority of which were bestowed on Cannan. At that time, of course, Cannan could not fight his father, and so he fought the world instead. “But when he was eighteen and was sent into the field of war, he changed. He gained perspective. And when Andrius died and Cannan was called back to become Sergeant at Arms, and later Captain of the Guard, he was more powerful than his father, in position and character. He never abused that power, but his victory lay in the fact that Burvaul could not bear the reversal of control. He lived the rest of his life in fear of his own son, who never punished him. “I see that personality in you, Narian. Just like Cannan, you will never become the man who controlled you.” “He didn’t control me,” Narian abruptly said. “He didn’t in the end, did he?” she agreed, taking a sip of her tea. “Of course, the real question is about your mother. What was she like?” “You know my mother,” Narian replied, his expression strange. I’d never seen him this way before--he seemed younger, less defensive. He was hesitant, but not guarded like he had been upon entering the room. It was almost as if he wanted to open up to her. “I mean the woman who raised you. Your Cokyrian mother.” Narian was shaking his head, despite the change I had detected in him. “I didn’t have a mother in Cokyri.” “You’re far too well-mannered not to have had a mother growing up.” Her blue eyes were twinkling, unthreatening. Again, she was teasing him, and although I expected him to simply sidestep her a third time, he did not. “To the extent I had a mother, she was the High Priestess.” I looked incredulously back and forth between the two of them, for in half an hour, my mother had enticed Narian to divulge as much to her as I had gleaned in two years. Though I was now bursting to speak, I refrained, and she pressed him further.

Then ask me what you want to know and I’ll tell you.” “What?” I blurted, flabbergasted by what he was offering. “I cannot risk you getting hurt, Shaselle, and your curiosity cannot disrupt what we have planned. If giving you information will keep you from disrupting things, I will do so.” “How are you doing it? Where are the weapons coming from? How are you getting them into the city?” Questions tumbled from my mouth, in no particular order, for my mind was in chaos. Straightforward as ever, Cannan expounded. “When London regained consciousness in the spring, he and I recognized the need to move quickly if we were to establish a stash of weapons. As soon as he could travel, he left the city to entreat aid form the neighboring kingdoms. Men from Sarterad and Emotana began leaving weapons in the forest for us, and London’s men took them into the palace through the escape tunnel we used to remove the royal family at the time of the Cokyrian siege. The Cokyrians, other than Narian, do not know of the tunnel’s existence, and he has neither closed it nor been monitoring it. In the night, we used servants within the palace to move the armaments out in delivery boxes, whereupon they were taken to Steldor, Galen and Halias. Select Hytanicans on the work crews hid them inside the buildings during the reconstruction work. Everything has been put in place.” “What will you do now?” “We wait.” I stood up and paced, agitated. “What are you waiting for?” “The right time.” “To do what exactly? Tell me that.” “To take back our kingdom.” This was a non-answer, one that gave me no information I could not have deduced on my own. “When, Uncle? I want to know when. I can--” “You don’t need to know when, Shaselle. You’re not part of this.” He was watching me, arms still crossed, and I stopped pacing, pulling the cloak tighter around me. “But I could be. I’m not just a curious child, Uncle, I can do things. I could help. If you would just tell me what to do, I wouldn’t be a problem!” The wind rattled the barn door, and Alcander whinnied, making me jump. “You’re scared of the wind, Shaselle,” Cannan said, shaking his head. “You’re a young woman, and this is dangerous. This is a game you’ve not trained to play, a game you could never handle.” “That’s not true,” I argued, resentment bubbling inside me at his denigrating words. “I’m sorry, but it is. If we’re discovered, every one of us will be executed before we even have a chance to revolt. And if we do revolt, there’s a very strong possibility we will die in the fighting, whether we’re successful or not. In case you’ve forgotten, a number of good men have already died.” His words hit me hard, breaking through my bitterness. Forced to contemplate a hangman’s noose, my zeal faded. “I don’t want any of you to die,” I murmured, a tremble in my voice. He shrugged. “We’re not eager for that end, either. But someone has to take a stand. Someone has to speak for Hytanica before we let her die.

You!” she snarled, her glower intended for Narian. He walked unflinchingly toward her, keeping me close to his side. “You knew of this plot! Confess the part you have played and I will perhaps spare your life.” Narian put a hand on my shoulder, telling me to stay where I was, then took a few steps closer to the woman who had been like a mother to him. I stood frozen, waiting along with her to hear his answer. What was going on? What had Narian done? “I am not a part of this,” he declared. Nantilam quickly closed the remaining distance between them. She was infuriated, her green eyes flaring as vividly as the flames outside. “But you know more than you have told me.” Her voice was low, dangerous, rumbling with anger. “I know that the Hytanicans’s first rebellion was meant to distract us, and that those captured willingly sacrificed their lives. I know that right now, the men you wanted to execute are waging one last fight to reclaim their kingdom.” My head was spinning, both at the news and at my own idiocy. How could I have failed to see this? How could I not have known it would happen? I had chosen to be blind, even when Narian had all but begged me to come to Cokyri with him. I hadn’t wanted to see it. But the clues had been there. Now people were dying in Hytanica. Someone, probably London, had set the fires here in Cokyri to hinder the arrival of messengers from the province with word of the revolt and to forestall the High Priestess from sending reinforcements. We were trapped and helpless, able only to imagine the battle taking place on the other side of the river. “I knew something was amiss,” the High Priestess simmered. “I knew it the moment I saw Alera with you. You’re a traitor, Narian.” He shook his head, his expression hard. “I am no traitor. I did everything you asked of me. I conquered Hytanica for you and the Overlord, I administered the province as you wanted for months, and I did not plot against you.” Narian’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “I am not to blame for what is happening today--for giving the Hytanicans a fair chance at retaking what is rightfully theirs. My only sin is that I did not try to stop them.” Nantilam scrutinized him for what seemed an eternity. “I listened to you,” she vehemently said at last. “I loved you, and I trusted you, and I fought not to lose you after my brother’s death.” “You never trusted me,” Narian contradicted, interrupting whatever else she had intended to say. “And with good reason. You believe the only way to repay a betrayal if with a betrayal. You betrayed me in the worst way imaginable. You lied to me my entire life, trained me and used me as a weapon, never telling me the real reason I was of value to you.” His blue eyes flashed, their sapphire brilliance rivaling the ever-changing emerald sparks in hers. “But I will no longer be manipulated for your causes, and I will not become another warlord. You can consider yourself repaid.

Narian was walking restlessly around his parlor when I entered, and my worry increased tenfold. Was he moving about because he was in pain? I glanced around the room, noticing an empty wineglass and a half-eaten bowl of soup. “You’re out of breath, Alera,” he said with a smile. “I hope that means your conversation with Nantilam went well.” I hesitated, unsure how to begin, unsure how to tell him what she was demanding, what she had done to him. Unsure how to tell him she had meted out one last betrayal. “How are you feeling?” I blurted, and he laughed. “I’m fine, but you don’t seem to be. Come and talk to me.” He took my hand and led me to the sofa, pulling me down to sit beside him. He winced as he did so, an indication he was experiencing some discomfort. I brushed his hair off his forehead, subtly checking for a fever, then told him of the High Priestess’s desires. “The terms of the actual treaty are not a problem, Narian, but Nantilam won’t enter into it unless you agree to make Cokyri your home. She wants to control your power, now and in the future, even to the point of progeny.” “Alera,” he calmly said, taking both my hands in his. “Those decisions are not hers to make. Besides, she’s a little late.” “I don’t understand.” He looked at me, bemused, then rolled up his right shirtsleeve, revealing an intricate tattoo encircling his forearm just below the elbow--the Cokyrian symbol that a man was voluntarily bound to a woman. I stared at it; I stared at him; and I burst into tears. His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nonetheless took me into his arms. “That’s not the reaction I expected,” he drolly commented, “but it’s convinced me something is wrong.” “How….are…you…feeling?” I managed between sobs. “You’ve already asked me that, and I’m fine.” When I finally had my weeping under control, words tumbled from my mouth. “Even if the revolt has been successful, the High Priestess won’t enter into a treaty unless you stay in Cokyri. Otherwise, she’ll attack Hytanica again, and this time she will kill all of our military leaders and enslave my people. And she wants you to bind yourself to a woman of her choosing because if your powers pass to a child, she wants the child to be Cokyrian.” “That’s all well and good, but this time, she won’t be able to have things her way. There’s no need for you to worry about this. We are strong enough to take her on, Alera.” “But we’re not.” I glanced once more toward the food he had been given, and a flicker of understanding appeared in his eyes. “We have no choice, Narian, because she’s poisoned your food and drink and only she can heal you. And I don’t know what to do, only that I cannot let you die!” “Shhh,” he soothed, holding me close, and I couldn’t understand how he could be so calm. Not when panic rose higher inside me with each passing moment. When I had quieted, resting with my head cradled against his chest, he tried to sort through the things I had said. “So Nantilam, in her wisdom, has linked Hytanican’s freedom to my willingness to stay in Cokyri, and she has effectively taken me out of the fighting by poisoning my food?” I shudder, then nodded. “If I stay here, she is willing to sign a treaty, but if I’m not, she will never relinquish Hytanica and I won’t be around to prevent it.” “Yes,” I murmured. “So she is tearing us apart, dictating the rest of my life and we have to go along with it or she will destroy Hytanica?” “Yes. And we’re running out of time.” He shook his head in awe. “I have to hand it to her, Alera. She’s ruthless in pursuing what she wants.” “This is serious, Narian.” I found his attitude almost irritating. He obviously understood the direness of his situation, yet was acting like it was only a game. “I know it’s serious, but there is only one choice as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to live without you, Alera. I won’t live without you.

So she is tearing us apart, dictating the rest of my life and we have to go along with it or she will destroy Hytanica?” “Yes. And we’re running out of time.” He shook his head in awe. “I have to hand it to her, Alera. She’s ruthless in pursuing what she wants.” “This is serious, Narian.” I found his attitude almost irritating. He obviously understaood the direness of his situation, yet was acting like it was only a game. “I know it’s serious, but there is only one choice as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to live without you, Alera. I won’t live without you.” I sat up and searched the depths of his blue eyes. “What do you mean?” He leaned forward and kissed me tenderly, and my pulse raced. Then I put my hands on his chest and pushed myself away. “Tell me, Narian.” “All right. There are three things I believe with all my heart. Hytanica can withstand a Cokyrian assault. I can no longer let Nantilam control my life and I will die before I let you go.” His eyes met mine and he unlaced my blouse, slowly pushing it off my shoulders. This time I did not resist him. “What I want,” he softly finished, “is to spend these last hours holding the woman I love, the woman to whom I am bound.” “But how are you feeling?” “Trust me, Alera, I’m not feeling any pain right now.” Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes as I opened his shirt and ran my fingers over the muscles of his chest. He stood, leading me to the rug in front of the hearth, where he drew me down to kneel beside him. His touch was warm, gentle, as he almost reverently removed my clothing, then he stripped off his shirt and breeches, his skin and his golden hair glistening in the light cast by the fire. As my pulse and breathing quickened, he caressed me, first with his eyes, then with his hands and mouth. “I love you, Alera,” he whispered against my skin, and I gave in to him completely, sinking into the feelings he stirred in me, knowing I stirred the same feelings in him. In all my dreams of what this moment would be like, I had never imagined the soaring bliss that came from giving yourself to another person with reservation, without fear, without pressure. A person you loved and trusted with all your heart and who returned those feelings a hundredfold.

Despite the brightness of the sun, I shivered in the brisk November air, for I had not taken a cloak with me when I had left my parlor. As if by magic, one fell about my shoulders, and I knew without looking that Narian had joined us. His mere presence bolstered my courage and brought my thoughts into focus. I scanned the throng of eager Hytanicans, some of whom were gathered inside the Central Courtyard with more outside its walls, then raised my hands to quiet them. Taking a deep breath, I began to speak. “Spread the word. Tell your families and friends. Let it be known across the Recorah River Valley that I am proud to be Queen of this Kingdom of Hytanica!” Cheers exploded, rising and falling in waves, and I let myself enjoy the sights and sounds of victory for several minutes. Then I once more raised my hands to quell the crowd. “Be it known that Commander Narian stands with me as a loyal citizen of Hytanica. Without him, I would not have been able to travel to Cokyri and safely return. And without him, I would not have been able to begin negotiations for lasting peace with the High Priestess. I believe a trade treaty that is fair for both of our countries will soon be signed. Regardless, we stand here now and forevermore as a people free of Cokyrian rule.” Jubilant shouts greeted these words, and I took Narian’s hand in mine, raising it high into the air. The people did not know that we were in love. They did not know that we were bound to each other according to Cokyrian custom and would soon be joined in marriage under Hytanican law. But this was a step forward, and that was enough for now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother appear at Narian’s other side to likewise take his hand and hold it aloft in a show of support. When the rest of my family followed her lead, my father next to my mother, Miranna and Temerson at my side, tears spilled down my cheeks. I met Narian’s mystified blue eyes and smiled, then gazed out at our people, a member of a united royal family, the man I loved among us. When the noise had subsided, I addressed the sorrow that hid beneath the joy, for it was essential to pay tribute to those who had fought bravely and tirelessly, but had not lived to see this day. “We all know the terrible price that was paid for our freedom. Remember those who died in the war. Honor them in your hearts, and join with me in honoring them with a memorial on the palace grounds. Let those who gave their lives for this kingdom never be forgotten.” I paused, permitting a moment of silence for our lost loved ones, then finished, “Embrace your families. Return to your homes. And know that you go in peace.” This received perhaps the greatest response of anything I had said, and to the tumultuous cries of my tired but elated people, Narian and I reentered the palace.

without freedom of though there can be no such thing as wisdom and no such thing as public liberty without freedom of speech.

In many ways, this book is not about the politicians who are turning the ANC and Nelson Mandela’s legacy into a nightmare. It is about all of us, South Africans, who keep quiet when our voices are needed. It is about those of us who keep quiet when journalists like Mzilikazi wa Afrika are arrested on trumped-up charges.11 It is about those of us who have forgotten that freedom is never fully achieved, but is defended and renewed every single day, in every square inch of space we occupy in the world. If the South Africa of our dreams withers and dies, it will be because we have stepped away from the public square. Where is the real ANC? Crucially, where are the men and women who fought so valiantly for this new South Africa?

You there! What are you doing?” A sentry was approaching, her strides swift and purposeful. “Identify yourself!” She held a lantern close to me, and I squinted in the light, my heart thrumming loudly. On the chance that I could still pull off the charade, I attempted to mimic a Cokyrian accent. The inflection was subtle, but not terribly different from our own, and I hoped that guard would be none the wiser. “I was sent to deliver a message.” “And what message is that?” Her voice was skeptical and she laid a hand on the hilt of the sword at her hip. “The message is not for you.” The sentry laughed. “Get out of here, girl. I have no interest in arresting you. I’ll consider this an amusing part of my night duty as long as you don’t cause any trouble.” “The message is from Rava,” I tried again, my natural stubbornness overcoming my fear. “For her brother.” “Messages should be taken to the main building,” she pronounced, no longer confident that she should send me away. “Rava instructed me to deliver it to no one but Saadi. She said he would be in the officer’s barracks.” The woman deliberated, looking dubiously at me, although she ultimately decided in my favor. “Then I’ll take you to him. We’ll see what he has to say about this.” The sentry grabbed my arm and led me toward the building. There were two guards at its entrance, and she instructed one of them to fetch Saadi. Despite the coolness of the weather, I could feel myself sweating. If Saadi refused to come, I would be locked up and likely taken to Rava in the morning. But if he did come, how did I know he would be happy to see me? He might not approve of the game I was playing. Nausea roiled my stomach, and I glanced at the Cokyrians on each side of me, trying to decide if I should beat a hasty retreat. Too afraid of the consequences if I failed to get away, I waited, praying the fates would smile upon me. It wasn’t long before footfalls reached my ears, and the door to the barracks swung open. Saadi stood there in breeches and a loose, unlaced shirt, strapping on his weapons, obviously having been awakened. Would he be angry that I had disturbed his sleep? “Well?” the guard who discovered me prompted. “I recognize her,” Saadi answered, staring directly at the woman. “She works for my sister as an errand girl.” I briefly closed my eyes in relief. Saadi waved the guard back to her post and issued an order to the man behind him to retrieve his cloak. When it was thrust into his hands, he escorted me back across the base, not speaking until we were out of earshot of those on patrol. “So, Rava has a message for me?” I shoved him unthinkingly, teasingly, and he laughed, jumping away. “You wanted to see me, remember?” I pointed out. “But you never picked a time or place!” “So you decided to do it for me. Fair enough, but I’m dying to know what you have in mind to do.” “I don’t have anything in mind.” We had reached the thoroughfare, and he chuckled. “You braved Cokyrian soldiers and the stronghold of the military base, but don’t have a thing in mind for us to do?” “That’s right,” I admitted, irritated that he was laughing at me. “Would you grow up please?” “Shaselle, there’s nothing ‘grown-up’ about what we’re doing. I assume you snuck away from home to see me, and I have a five o’clock call in the morning.” I came to a halt and turned to face him, my eyes issuing a challenge. “If you want to go back, feel free. Tell those soldiers that Rava just wanted to make sure her baby brother went to bed on time.” He grinned, enjoying my feisty responses, and smoothed his bronze hair forward, a habit I still found annoying. It also served to make my heart flutter.

An extant Hittite text, dated to the reign of Mursili II, demonstrates that an Egyptian queen, probably the widow of the young king Tutankhamun, requested Suppiluliuma I to send one of his sons to Egypt for her to wed. The letter read, “While my father was down in the country of Karkamis, he dispatched Lupakkis and Tessub-zalmas to the country of Amqa. They proceeded to attack the country of Amqa and brought deportees, cattle (and) sheep home before my father. When the people of the land of Egypt heard about the attack on Amqa, they became frightened. Because, to make matters worse, their lord Bibhururiyas had just died, the Egyptian queen who had become a widow, sent and envoy to my father and wrote him as follows: ‘My husband died and I               have no son. People say that you have many sons. If you were to send me one of your sons, he might become my husband. I am loath to take a servant of mine and make him my husband.’ . . . When my father heard that, he called the great into council . . . ‘Perhaps they have a prince; they may try to deceive me and do not really want one of my sons to               (take over) the kingship,’ the Egyptian queen answered my father in a letter as follows: ‘Why do you say: ‘They may try to deceive me’? If I had a son, would I write to a foreign country in a manner which is humiliating to myself and my country?” (Pritchard 1992, 319). The letter was most unusual because although Egyptian kings quite frequently married foreign princesses, they never allowed their own princesses to marry foreigners

Manette never allowed herself or anyone around her to consider the fact that most of these men would die anyway, no matter what was done for them. 

If we purchased the land, the zoo would be enlarged from four acres to six. At the time, it seemed like an enormous step to take. We argued back and forth. We talked, dreamed, and planned. Steve always seemed to worry about the future. “If anything happens to me, promise that you’ll take care of the zoo.” “Of course I will,” I said. “That’s easy to promise, but nothing is going to happen to you. Don’t worry.” “Will you still love me if a croc grabs me and I lose an arm or a leg?” “Yes, of course I would still love you,” I said. But there were many evenings when he would run through improbably scenarios, just checking to see how I really felt. One night he looked particularly concerned, his brow furrowed. “What’s up?” I asked. “Tell me why you married me.” I laughed. “Because you’re hot in the cot.” That broke the tension, and he laughed too. We both relaxed a little bit. But he would sometimes wonder if I’d married him just because I loved him, or if it was because he was a bit of Tarzan and Croc Dundee and Indiana Jones all rolled into one. “I’m in love with Steve Irwin,” I assured him, “and part of the reason I love you is because you are such a staunch advocate for wildlife. Your empathy and compassion for all animals is part of it too. But most of all, I know that destiny brought us together.” Steve continued our serious discussion, and he spoke of his mortality. He was convinced that he would never reach forty. That’s why he was in such a hurry all the time, to get as much done as he could. He didn’t feel sad about it. He only felt the motivation to make a difference before he was gone. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said. “I’m only afraid of dying. I don’t want to get sick and dwindle. I love working hard and playing hard and living hard, and making every moment count.” I learned so much from Steve. He helped me reevaluate my own purpose, my own life. What would happen if I didn’t make it to forty? What legacy would I leave? That evening he was unusually contemplative. “None of our petty problems really matter,” he said. I agreed. “In a hundred years, what difference is it going to make, worrying about this two acres of land? We need to focus on the real change that will make the world a better place for our children and grandchildren.” Steve gave me a strange look. Children? We had never discussed having children much, because we were flat strapped. The thought of filming more documentaries, running the zoo, and raising a family was just too daunting. But that evening we did agree on one thing: We would spend some of my savings and make the leap to enlarge the zoo. We were both so happy with our decision. “We’re lucky that we met before I became the Crocodile Hunter,” he said. I knew what he was talking about. It made things a lot easier, a lot more clear-cut. I had fallen in love with Steve Irwin, not the guy on TV. “I don’t know how they do it,” he said. “Who?” I asked. “People in the limelight,” he said. “How do they tell who’s in it for them and who’s just after their celebrity? It puts a new slant on everything. Not for us, though,” he added. “Too right,” I agreed.

Let’s say it straight out: Hillary Clinton lied about the reason for the Benghazi attack. She lied about it to the nation as a whole and she lied right to the faces of the grieving family members of those who died there—and then lied about her lying. And she keeps telling Americans one huge, disgusting lie after another. As I wrap up writing this book, Hillary has claimed that we “didn’t lose a single person” in Libya. Really? Try telling that to the families of the four men we lost on September 11, 2012. Not too long before Mrs. Clinton committed that amazing, bizarre falsehood, the late Sean Smith’s mother, Pat, broke down on national television, exclaiming, “Hillary is a liar! I know what she told me.” Pat went on to say that she wanted to “see Hillary in jail” for her misdeeds at Benghazi. “She’s been lying. She’s turned the whole country into a bunch of liars.” Two decades ago the late New York Times columnist William Safire wrote: “Americans of all political persuasions are coming to the sad realization that our first lady—a woman of undoubted talents who was a role model for many in her generation—is a congenital liar.” The lies change. The liar doesn’t. I don’t know where the future will lead, but I know enough of history and I know my own personal experiences. I trust in the Constitution. I know who I am, what I do, and whom I’m doing it for. My God, my family, and my country are my riches. I’m not looking for a fight, but I don’t run from one, either: I walk softly and carry my standard-issue stick. I’m proud of my legacy, but it’s not over, not yet. No matter what, I never stop hearing Genny in my ear: “Just do the right thing.” That’s why I told you my story. Me, I’m not important. But what I learned about the Clintons firsthand—the hard way—is very important. It’s 2016, but with Hillary Clinton again running for president, it feels uncomfortably like the 1990s again—as if America were trapped in some great, cruel time machine hurtling us back to the land of Monica and Mogadishu and a thousand other Clinton-era nightmares. Fool me once, as the saying goes—your fault. Fool me twice… The bottom line: My job in the 1990s was to lay down my life for the presidency. My obligation today is to raise my voice, to help safeguard the presidency from Bill and Hillary Clinton—to remind readers like you of what happened back then. We all remember—or should remember—what a Clinton White House was like. If we board that time machine for a return trip—it’s our fault.

Winning isn’t always measured in money. There will be times when one will lose money—sometimes a lot of it—but winning is much more than ledgers. In assessing our worth, look first to the bedrock of our lives: values, health, family, and friends. Dying is no fun, even if you leave behind a pot of gold. Family and friends are the lifeblood and legacy of our lives.

Now, listen to me. Doona ye tell me that ye won’t survive. Ye must. Knowing that I’ve kept ye safe is the only thing that will allow me to fight and die with my men and no flee from here like a coward. If ye love me, Bri, ye will go. And ye will live a long and happy life in yer own time.” I shook my head as I sobbed, wailing uncontrollably, all rationale gone. “This is my time now. Don’t make me do it, Eoin. Please. Don’t send me away. If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask it.” He slapped me, stunning me enough that my sobs subsided briefly.  “Doona ever say that I doona love ye. Do ye no understand what it takes of me to send ye back?” “No! Because I would never ask it of you.” He’d released his grip on my arms, and I crushed myself against him once more, holding on less tightly, slowly surrendering. I knew his mind was made up.  “Aye, I expect ye would, love, but I know tis hard for ye to see now.” “I’m scared, Eoin. I can’t stand the thought of leaving you. I’d rather die here.” “Nay, lass. I’d be no help to my men if I had to worry about ye. Ye must go now so that we can prepare the best we can. If by some miracle we are spared, I swear to ye, I shall find a way back to ye. Even if I must don awful shreds of clothing like the ones ye love so much and travel into that strange place to get ye.” I laughed against his chest. “I would love to see that. Eoin.

Alberto Repossi Since opening his first shop in the Hotel Hermitage in Monte Carlo in 1977, Alberto Repossi has remained one of the most distinguished and sought after jewelry designers in the world. He was commissioned in the mid-nineties to design a ring for Diana and Dodi Al Fayed, and he continues to design for many notable royal families and cultural figures. I hope that now, after ten years, the time has come when conjectures have died off and everyone remembers her elegance and follows her legacy of kindness and charity. As for me, as a designer, I shall have in mind an image that shall always be a source of inspiration. I only have one regret: a meeting that will never take place.

On another occasion, he opined, "But, if ever forgetful of her past and present glory, she shall cease to be 'the land of the free and the home of the brave,' and become the purchased possession of a company of stock jobbers and speculators, if her people are to become the vassals of a great moneyed corporation, and to bow down to her pensioned and privileged nobility, if the patriots who shall dare to arraign her corruptions and denounce her usurpations, are to be sacrificed upon her gilded altar; such a country may furnish venal orators and presses but the soul of national poetry will be gone…That muse will 'Never bow the knee in mammon's fane.' No, the patriots of such a land must hide their shame in her deepest forests, and her bards must hang their harps upon the willows. Such a people, thus corrupted and degraded, 'Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying shall go down, To the vile dust from whence they sprung, Unwept, unhonored and unsung.

I’m sorry, Hannah, O Hannah. I’m sorry for leaving in the dead of night. I’m sorry for letting you love me even a fraction as much as I will, to the day I die, love you. I’m sorry for what I did. For the fire. And I will never stop being sorry about your sister.

I turn and smile at Lev. The first night I met Lev, it ended with him shooting me and our families forming an alliance to take down the Lebedev Bratva. The shot had been a nasty one, and my shoulder still aches from time to time. It doesn’t surprise me at all that when he smacks my shoulder, he makes sure to hit the exact spot where the bullet went through. “You are such a dick,” I tell him, making him laugh. “I can’t believe I saved your life after you shot me.” I think about the night we rescued Alina. It had been chaos, and it was pure luck that I happened to look over at just the right moment to see the man aiming a gun at Lev. I’d yelled his name, and he’d ducked just in time. “Oh, come on now. You would’ve never forgiven yourself if you’d just stood there and let me die.” I raise a brow at him. “I’m guessing I could’ve managed it.

Her future plans never referenced Dad, though sometimes she talked about a time when she'd live among Brian, me, and the grandkids she expected. "I want two kids from you and four from Brian," she'd say, and I never understood why she wanted fewer kids from me than my older brother. The fact is, I didn't want any number of kids, really. I was content with myself as a gay man, and I knew gay men could have kids, of course, but it didn't seem worth jumping through all the hoops-- the surrogates, or the adoption, all the paperwork. The only time I took the idea of kids seriously was when I thought about everyone who had died, two million points of connection reincarnated into the abyss, how young Cambos like me should repopulate the world with more Cambos, especially those with fancy college degrees, whose kids could be legacy admits.

Leaving those words unreturned is a regret I’ll carry until the day I die, even if I do get a chance at redemption. I never once truly deserved her love, trust, loyalty, or faithful heart.

When Washington became president of the United States, he was still wrestling with the meaning of the American Revolution. He'd entered the conflict an unrepentant Virginia slaveholder. By the end of the war, he'd learned that his African-American soldiers were as competent and brave as anyone else in his army. He'd also befriended the idealistic French nobleman Lafayette, who later claimed, "I would never have drawn my sword in the cause of America if I could have conceived that thereby I was founding a land of slavery." Gradually, ever so gradually, a new Washington was emerging, one who realized that "nothing but the rooting out of slavery can perpetuate the existence of our union, by consolidating bond of principle." But even if he had come to recognize the direction the country must take in the future, he remained a slaveholder himself for the rest of his life. A struggle was being waged inside Washington between his ideological aspirations and his financial and familial commitment to slavery at Mount Vernon. Yes, Washington freed his enslaved workers upon his death, but it had been a very long time in coming. And yet, given where Washington had begun in life--as a slaveholder through inheritance at the age of eleven, when his father died--his eventual decision to free his slaves was no empty gesture.

OK, you might be saying, so going on too long isn’t such a great idea. What about leaving an amazing legacy—so at least you won’t be forgotten? This is the “Achilles effect,” from Homer’s Iliad. He had to decide whether to fight in the Trojan War, promising certain physical death but a glorious legacy, or return to his home to live a long and happy life but die in obscurity. As he describes his choice, two fates bear me on to the day of death. If I hold out here and I lay siege to Troy, my journey home is gone, but my glory never dies. If I voyage back to the fatherland I love, my pride, my glory dies.”[8]

Taking a life always hurt. It never went away, no matter how justified the kill was. It still cost you a piece of your soul and it hurt when that piece died.

The supreme goal of the CIA during the cold war was to steal Soviet secrets by recruiting spies, but the CIA never possessed a single one who had deep insight into the workings of the Kremlin. The number of Soviet spies with important information to reveal—all of them volunteers, not recruits—could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And all of them died, captured and executed by Moscow. Almost all had been betrayed by officers of the CIA’s Soviet division who were spying for the other side, under Presidents Reagan and George H. W. Bush. Under Reagan, the CIA set off on misconceived third-world missions, selling arms to Iran’s Revolutionary Guards to finance a war in Central America, breaking the law and squandering what trust remained reposed in it. More grievously, it missed the fatal weakness of its main enemy.

The orchestral session came off almost, but not entirely, without a hitch. Through several takes, the principal cellist seemed to be having difficulty phrasing the short cello obbligato in ‘Live and Let Die.’ The part was not that difficult, and Paul, noticing that it was 4:50 P.M., just ten minutes before overtime rates would kick in, walked down the long staircase from the Studio Two control room and took Newman aside. “He wants to go into overtime, doesn’t he?” Paul asked. “Do you mind if I take over?”27 Newman handed Paul the baton, and Paul told the cellist, “Right, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll sing it, and you play it.” He then sang the cello line, using the names of the chords as lyrics, leaving the player no recourse but to play the line as Paul sang it before doing a final take. “It was so fucking brilliant,” Litchfield marveled, “that when he finished, the entire orchestra stood up and gave [Paul] a standing ovation. The cellist got outgunned. It was wonderful; it was a private piece of musicianship the like of which I’d never seen before, and certainly never since.”28

I was fond of Jim McCartney and knew him well, but Paul didn’t even tell me he was dead,” Denny said. “I was stunned. I knew his mother had died when he was 14 but he had never mentioned a word to me about his father. . . . When Paul dropped that bombshell, I felt utterly deflated. Paul loved his dad—there’s no doubt about that. But death scares him, and he didn’t go to the funeral because he couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t lack of love that kept him away—he didn’t want to cry in public. He wants to appear like he’s got his act together whenever anyone is around. That’s the kind of person he is.

I wanted her to kill me, Mum. I wanted the one person who made me feel alive to shoot me. I would've died and ended it all and she'd never forget about me. I wanted her to not be able to move past me. I wanted to be a stain on her life forever so whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw my shadow. I wanted to haunt her, prevent her from being with anyone else after me. How fucked up is that?