Misplaced Trust Quotes

And to think, it all started with a little bit of faith. Misplaced trust. Missing pixie dust. And a villain who just needed to steal a little love.

Do you trust me? The question is usually asked before an admission that such trust is misplaced.

We are living in a generation where people ‘in love’ are free to touch each other’s private parts but are not allowed to touch each other’s phones because they are private.

The art of betrayal has not taught me to be bitter, but not so easily misplace trust.

Holiness is what makes real love possible. Without it, love is purely sentimental, easily misplaced, and unconditionally conditional.

Because loneliness was the most dangerous thing in the world. It bred misplaced trust and a belief in things that weren’t what they seemed to be.

And to think, it all started with a little bit of faith. Misplaced trust. Missing pixie dust. And a villain who just needed to steal a little love.

Their experiences led them to create assumptions about others and related beliefs about themselves such as "this is my lot in life" and "this is what I deserve". Some also learned that personal safety and happiness are of lower priority than survival and that it may be safer to give in than to actively fight off additional abuse and victimization. When abuse is perpetrated by intimates, it is additionally confounding in terms of attachment, betrayal, and trust. Victims may be unable to leave or to fight back due to strong, albeit insecure and disorganized, attachment and misplaced loyalty to abusers. They may have also experienced trauma bonding over the course of their victimization, that is, a bond of specialness with or dependence on the abuser.

Dear Ms. Lancaster, I fear your faith has been misplaced-but then, faith usually is. I cannot answer your questions, at least not in writing, because to write out such answers would constitute a sequel to An Imperial Affliction, which you might publish or otherwise share on the network that has replaced the brains of your generation. There is the telephone, but then you might record the conversation. Not that I don't trust you, of course, but I don't trust you. Alas, dear Hazel, I could never answer such questions except in person, and you are there while I am here. That noted, I must confess that the unexpected receipt of your correspondence via Ms. Vliegenthart has delighted me: What a wondrous thing to know that I made something useful to you-even if that book seems so distant from me that I feel it was written by a different man altogether. (The author of that novel was so thin, so frail, so comparatively optimistic!) Should you find yourself in Amsterdam, however, please do pay a visit at your leisure. I am usually home. I wouold even allow you a peek at my grocery lists. Your most sincerely, Peter Van Houten c/o Lidewij Vliegenthart

Style still matters, for at least three reasons. First, it ensures that writers will get their message across, sparing readers from squandering their precious moments on earth deciphering opaque prose. When the effort fails, the result can be calamitous-as Strunk and White put it, "death on the highway caused by a badly worded road sign, heartbreak among lovers caused by a misplaced phrase in a well-intentioned letter, anguish of a traveler expecting to be met at a railroad station and not being met because of a slipshod telegram." Governments and corporations have found that small improvements in clarity can prevent vast amounts of error, frustration, and waste, and many countries have recently made clear language the law of the land. Second, style earns trust. If readers can see that a writer cares about consistency and accuracy in her prose, they will be reassured that the writer cares about those virtues in conduct they cannot see as easily. Here is how one technology executive explains why he rejects job applications filled with errors of grammar and punctuation: "If it takes someone more than 20 years to notice how to properly use it's, then that's not a learning curve I'm comfortable with." And if that isn't enough to get you to brush up your prose, consider the discovery of the dating site OkCupid that sloppy grammar and spelling in a profile are "huge turn-offs." As one client said, "If you're trying to date a woman, I don't expect flowery Jane Austen prose. But aren't you trying to put your best foot forward?" Style, not least, adds beauty to the world. To a literate reader, a crisp sentence, an arresting metaphor, a witty aside, an elegant turn of phrase are among life's greatest pleasures. And as we shall see in the first chapter, this thoroughly impractical virtue of good writing is where the practical effort of mastering good writing must begin.

Trust is such a devious term. When you trust someone, are you not merely assuming that they are what they say that they are? If you place so much in the trust that you have for that one person, then you should place the same amount of trust in assuming that they are not what they appear to be. If there is a wall in front of you that does not allow you to do that, then you must place all of your trust in the fact that your trust is misplaced.

You’re my best friend,” Kami said, looking up into Angela’s stern face. “I could always trust you never to think I was crazy.” “Your faith is touching but totally misplaced,” Angela said. “I believe you to be a permanent inhabitant of cloud-cuckoo-land, and this year you may be getting elected mayor.” 

These liberals were prey, typically made vulnerable by their misplaced trust in the far left. They mistakenly saw American Communists as their friends and as simply another group of citizens practicing civil liberties in a democratic society based on First Amendment freedoms. Most liberals, obviously, were not themselves Communists, but in sharing the left portion of the ideological spectrum, they shared with the Communists many key sympathies: workers’ rights, the redistribution of wealth, an expansive federal government, a favoring of the public sector over the private sector, class-based rhetoric (often demagoguery)

That's nice, isn't it?" Edith said. "That little kid is so trusting it's kind of holy, but if his trust were misplaced it would really be holy.

Trust God to give you what you need when you need it. If you get it too early, you might misplace it.

He couldn't afford to get caught up, to weaken himself with feelings he couldn't control, with a WANTING he couldn't shake. With a trust that might be misplaced.

Before, his misplace trust cost him everything. This time, he had nothing more to lose.

The house fostered an easier and more candid exchange of ideas and opinions, encouraged by the simple fact that everyone had left their offices behind and by a wealth of novel opportunities for conversation—climbs up Beacon and Coombe Hills, walks in the rose garden, rounds of croquet, and hands of bezique, further leavened by free-flowing champagne, whiskey, and brandy. The talk typically ranged well past midnight. At Chequers, visitors knew they could speak more freely than in London, and with absolute confidentiality. After one weekend, Churchill’s new commander in chief of Home Forces, Alan Brooke, wrote to thank him for periodically inviting him to Chequers, and “giving me an opportunity of discussing the problems of the defense of this country with you, and of putting some of my difficulties before you. These informal talks are of the very greatest help to me, & I do hope you realize how grateful I am to you for your kindness.” Churchill, too, felt more at ease at Chequers, and understood that here he could behave as he wished, secure in the knowledge that whatever happened within would be kept secret (possibly a misplaced trust, given the memoirs and diaries that emerged after the war, like desert flowers after a first rain). This was, he said, a “cercle sacré.” A sacred circle. General Brooke recalled one night when Churchill, at two-fifteen A.M., suggested that everyone present retire to the great hall for sandwiches, which Brooke, exhausted, hoped was a signal that soon the night would end and he could get to bed. “But, no!” he wrote. What followed was one of those moments often to occur at Chequers that would remain lodged in visitors’ minds forever after. “He had the gramophone turned on,” wrote Brooke, “and, in the many-colored dressing-gown, with a sandwich in one hand and water-cress in the other, he trotted round and round the hall, giving occasional little skips to the tune of the gramophone.” At intervals as he rounded the room he would stop “to release some priceless quotation or thought.” During one such pause, Churchill likened a man’s life to a walk down a passage lined with closed windows. “As you reach each window, an unknown hand opens it and the light it lets in only increases by contrast the darkness of the end of the passage.” He danced on. —

But history was something that you couldn’t trust. It was put together wrong, or copied wrong, or misinterpreted, or improved upon by a man with a misplaced imagination. Truth was so hard to keep, myth and fable so easy to breathe into a life that was more acceptable than truth.

•I lost money in every way possible: I misplaced checks and sometimes found them when they were too old to take to the bank. If I did find them in time, I missed out on the interest they could’ve made in my savings account. I paid late fees on bills, even though I had money in the bank — I’d just forgotten to pay them or lost the bill in my piles. I bought new items because they were on sale with a rebate, but forgot to mail the rebate form. •I dealt with chronic health worries because I never scheduled doctor’s appointments. •I lived in constant fear of being “found out” by people who held me in high regard. I always felt others’ trust in me was misplaced. •I suffered from nonstop anxiety, waiting for the other shoe to drop. •I struggled to create a social life in our new home. I either felt I didn’t have time because I needed to catch up and calm some of the chaos, or I wasn’t organized enough to make plans in the first place. •I felt insecure in all my relationships, both personal and professional. •I had nowhere to retreat. My life was such a mess, I had no space to gather my thoughts or be by myself. Chaos lurked everywhere. •I rarely communicated with long-distance friends or family. •I wanted to write a book and publish articles in magazines, yet dedicated almost no time to my creative pursuits.

Nikolas’s commanding voice rang across the short distance between us and sent tendrils of warmth through my frozen limbs. He was here. He’d asked me to trust him and swore to keep me safe, and he had come for me. No matter what happened now, I knew my trust had not been misplaced, and I felt a small flare of happiness in spite of my dire situation. Eli

A reader might think that this is, obviously, a kind of misplaced parental anxiety and love. And they might be right. But I felt like I was losing my mind. There was no trust, no affection, no listening, just ignorant micromanagement. It felt like I was existing in a parallel universe where everything I'd just done with my life, everything I was doing with my life, hadn't made any difference at all. I was a kid again, useless. Nothing was mine—not my time, not my schedule, not my choices.

So in the end, perhaps the tale of the foreign intervention and the fall of the Taiping (Rebellion) is a tale of trust misplaced. It is a tale of how sometimes the connections we perceive across cultures and distances—our hopes for an underlying unity of human virtue, our belief that underneath it all we are somehow the same—can turn out to be nothing more than the fictions of our own imagination. And when we congratulate ourselves on seeing through the darkened window that separates us from another civilization, heartened to discover the familiar forms that lie hidden among the shadows on the other side, sometimes we do so without ever realizing that we are only gazing at our own reflection.

My heart, which I thought had been dead, stopped. Of course. I had been betrayed. My ex boyfriend had reneged on his promise to love me, and this odious event had a name: betrayal. Somehow, knowing this calmed me down. And I began to contemplate betrayal. My conclusion? It is the most difficult of all woundings. Betrayal comes in many forms. It's not just about being cheated on or left for another. It's about any promise, overt or implied, that has been broken without your participation in the decision, or even knowing that a decision was on the table. It's about believing something that you later find out is untrue. It's no wonder that the first response to betrayal is likely to be denial. It's an enormous shock to find out that a solid reality is not so solid after all. It can feel like the most deviant form of attack. When betrayal is at the root of your pain, something horrible is unleashed. Different and perhaps more horrible than the pain of disappointment, grief, or anger. With other causes of suffering, you can at least pretend you have some measure of control. You can blame the other person for disappointing you, you can read books that outline and predict the course of grief, and when you're angry you can always fall back on self-righteousness. But when you're betrayed, you have been blindsided and your vulnerability is confirmed. You lose a misplaced innocence that you really can never regain. Your ability to trust is basically obliterated. And not just your trust in your own perceptions and your trust in the person you loved. Once you lose trust in one person, your trust in all beings is undermined, making the future seem like a giant landmine.

It is hard to imagine a story more sympathetic to mere mortals. If God Himself experiences doubts in the midst of His self-imposed agony, how could we mere humans not fall prey to the same failing? And it is possible that it was compassion that was driving the antinatalist Benatar’s position. I saw no evidence that Benatar was malevolent in any obvious manner. He appeared to truly believe—in a manner I found reminiscent of Goethe’s Mephistopheles—that the combination of consciousness, vulnerability, and mortality is so dire that there is simply no moral excuse for its continuance. Now, it is entirely possible that Mephistopheles’s opinion is not to be trusted. Since he is Satan himself, there is no reason to assume that the argument he puts forward to justify his adversarial stance toward Being is valid, or even that he himself truly believes it. And perhaps the same was true of Benatar, who was and is no doubt prey to the frailties that characterize each of us (and that certainly includes me, despite the stance I took in opposition to him). But I believed then and still firmly believe now that the consequences of his self-negating position are simply too dire. It leads directly to an antilife or even an anti-Being nihilism so profound that its manifestation could not help but exaggerate and amplify the destructive consequences of existence that are already the focus of the hypothetically compassionate antinatalists themselves (and I am not being sarcastic or cynical about the existence of that compassion, misplaced though I believe it to be).

Being true to yourself is noble, but other people’s lies can cripple you whether you are self-actualized or not. All it takes is a little misplaced trust, a scrap of faith made of white cloth.

Your faith is touching but totally misplaced,” Angela said. “I believe you to be a permanent inhabitant of cloud-cuckoo-land, and this year you may be getting elected mayor.” She reached the bottom of the stairs and wheeled on Kami, her eyes boring into Kami’s. “But you can trust me.

The new crypto exchanges had no regulators. They acted as both exchange and custodian: they didn’t just enable you to buy bitcoin but also housed the bitcoin you’d bought. The whole thing was odd: these people joined together by their fear of trust erected a parallel financial system that required more trust from its users than did the traditional financial system. Outside the law, and often hostile to it, they discovered many ways to run afoul of it. Crypto exchanges routinely misplaced or lost their customers’ money. Crypto exchanges routinely faked trading data to make it seem as though far more trading had occurred on them than actually had. Crypto exchanges fell prey to hackers, or to random rogue traders who gamed the exchanges’ risk management.

With parameters of confidence and trust, I daresay yes, for love encompasses trusting someone else with our feelings and thoughts and having the confidence in their character that the trust will not be misplaced.

The art critic Robert Hughes pointed out that if you were to take the pile of bricks that compromises Carl Andre’s minimalist sculpture Equivalent VIII (1966) out of the museum and place it in a parking lot, it would no longer be a work of art but a neat stack of building materials. If you were to put a sculpture by Rodin in a parking lot, by contrast, it would be a ‘misplaced’ work of art. Hughes was emphasizing that the Rodin is identified as art by its form, while the Andre (which Hughes also admired) is identified as art by the idea behind it. For all that I have issues with this tendency to draw battle lines between form and content, to trust in the aura of an artwork and to assume that art should be found in museums and never parking lots, it does identify a useful distinction: a large part of the contemporary art I like does not aspire to independence from the everyday world but to alert us to it.

Gaining another job promotion or giving birth to a new baby or finding a new boyfriend or girlfriend will never give us genuine fulfillment. It is not that such events can’t be enriching at one level, it’s just that they are not intrinsically enriching. Our worldly experiences and achievements will always be a source of dissatisfaction because of our misplaced trust and hope. It is not hope and trust in general that is being referred to here, but rather the hope and trust that we might gain release from our samsaric malaise. Our underlying feelings of futility or entrapment only reflect the nature of conditioned existence, and nothing that we do in a worldly sense will ever really alleviate that.

And to think, it all started with a little bit of faith. Misplaced trust. Missing pixie dust.

The whole thing was odd: these people joined together by their fear of trust erected a parallel financial system that required more trust from its users than did the traditional financial system. Outside the law, and often hostile to it, they discovered many ways to run afoul of it. Crypto exchanges routinely misplaced or lost their customers’ money. Crypto exchanges routinely faked trading data to make it seem as though far more trading had occurred on them than actually had.

Your doubt comes from misplaced trust. You are still trusting in yourself to do the right thing, but we humans can’t do the right thing without God. And that’s because of our flesh—our sin nature.

Leaders who finish well have the faith to trust God’s Word—its promises and its commands. They are willing to step out in faith, in obedience to God’s revealed will for their lives, even if they cannot see where that step will take them. As Corrie Ten Boom aptly pointed out, we should “never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God.” Our faith must be centered on God Himself. When my family and I first came to Lancaster Baptist Church, we had no solid financial foundation. We had just spent all of our savings on moving and in fixing the building and the property of our new church. With no money in the bank and no salary from the church, we based our assurance that all would be well on God’s promises. Our faith was not misplaced, for we never missed a meal or saw our needs unmet. Twenty-three years later, I’m so thankful we came to Lancaster even before we knew what God was going to do here. When I see how God has blessed this ministry, it motivates me to take further steps of faith. What in your life requires faith? When God gives a leader a vision of His plan for his life or ministry, it’s far greater than what can be accomplished in human strength. Refuse to question God’s ability; instead trust God’s plan. Faith is not an emotion fueled by success stories or emotionally charged sermons. Faith is a simple choice to trust God.

I wondered when I would stop feeling like such a clueless twit for that misplaced trust.

Your trust, she is misplaced. Seek her in the place you have lost your manners, your courage, your honor, your forelimbs.” said Llredh.

Trust is now recognized as a topic worthy of academic effort. In a recent article in the Harvard Business Review, researchers Robert Galford and Anne Siebold Drapeau identified five simple ways to destroy trust in any organization:122 1.   Inconsistent messages—management proclaims one thing, actually does another 2.   Inconsistent standards—people feel that they are being treated differently because of where they work, which legacy organization they came from, etc. 3.   Misplaced benevolence—ignoring a poor performing or untrustworthy manager, or employee 4.   “Elephants in the parlor”—ignoring the role that office politics actually plays in their organization 5.   “Rumors in a vacuum”—senior managers embargo all information, or greatly restrict its flow—i.e., to only certain levels of management—during complex initiatives, merger discussions, restructuring, etc.

The art of betrayal has not taught me to be bitter, but to not so easily misplace trust.

Was Adam safe? Was any child, even his own dearest Anna, ever free from danger? As soon as a son or daughter was placed in the care of others a parent had made an act of trust. If that was misplaced or mistaken, it could soon come to be seen as carelessness or neglect. Perhaps being a parent was to live in a state of constant fear, where the cost of the freedom of youth lay in the anxiety of those who protected it?   Because

you should trust others until you knew that trust was misplaced.

He looked back up, offended, at the misplaced moon.

I can see you’re frustrated,” he said. “I’m sure it’s unsettling not to remember what happened, but medically speaking …” He glanced over at Sienna for confirmation and then continued. “I strongly recommend you not expend energy trying to recall specifics you can’t remember. With amnesia victims, it’s best just to let the forgotten past remain forgotten.” “Let it be?!” Langdon felt his anger rising. “The hell with that! I need some answers! Your organization brought me to Italy, where I was shot and lost several days of my life! I want to know how it happened!” “Robert,” Sienna intervened, speaking softly in a clear attempt to calm him down. “Dr. Ferris is right. It definitely would not be healthy for you to be overwhelmed by a deluge of information all at once. Think about the tiny snippets you do remember—the silver-haired woman, ‘seek and find,’ the writhing bodies from La Mappa—those images flooded into your mind in a series of jumbled, uncontrollable flashbacks that left you nearly incapacitated. If Dr. Ferris starts recounting the past few days, he will almost certainly dislodge other memories, and your hallucinations could start all over again. Retrograde amnesia is a serious condition. Triggering misplaced memories can be extremely disruptive to the psyche.” The thought had not occurred to Langdon. “You must feel quite disoriented,” Ferris added, “but at the moment we need your psyche intact so we can move forward. It’s imperative that we figure out what this mask is trying to tell us.” Sienna nodded. The doctors, Langdon noted silently, seemed to agree. Langdon sat quietly, trying to overcome his feelings of uncertainty. It was a strange sensation to meet a total stranger and realize you had actually known him for several days. Then again, Langdon thought, there is something vaguely familiar about his eyes. “Professor,” Ferris said sympathetically, “I can see that you’re not sure you trust me, and this is understandable considering all you’ve been through. One of the common side effects of amnesia is mild paranoia and distrust.” That makes sense, Langdon thought, considering I can’t even trust my own mind.

You’re right that I did this once out of obligation. But I’m a thirty-eight-year-old man who has taken years to trust someone again. I’ve had a lot of time to think about where I went wrong. You are not a decision I made lightly. And tying myself to someone I don’t love out of some misplaced sense of duty is not a mistake I plan to make twice.

We discovered the glory of civilization - and you, Teblor, hold still to your misplaced pride, holding up your ignorance of such glory as a virtue. And so you still do not comprehend the great gift of civilization—" "I comprehend it fine. The savage proceeds into civilization through improvements—" "Yes!" "Improvements in the manner and efficiency of killing people." "Hold on—" "Improvements in the unassailable rules of degradation and misery." "Karsa—" "Improvements in ways to humiliate, impose suffering and justify slaughtering those savages too stupid and too trusting to resist what you hold as inevitable. Namely, their extinction. Between you and me, Samar Dev, who should the Anibar fear more?

Is love a concept that requires belief?With parameters of confidence and trust, I daresay yes, for love encompasses trusting someone else with our feelings and thoughts and having the confidence in their character that the trust will not be misplaced

Before, his misplace trust costs him everything. This time, he had nothing lest to lose.

One can only imagine how Jesus must have felt when one of his chosen twelve betrayed him. Of course Jesus knew all along that Judas would succumb to kissing away not only a relationship of special trust, but the very life of the Son of God! It’s the paltry reasons behind “companion betrayals” that we have such difficulty understanding. (Thirty pieces of silver!) Yet, typically, a major incident of betrayal is but the final act in an ongoing series of deceptions about the true nature of the relationship. When, in the end, a supposed close friendship is exposed for the fraud it has been all along, we suddenly realize that we’ve foolishly invested years of misplaced trust. Imagine, then, how God must feel when we lay claim to a close relationship but, for plainly unworthy reasons, so willingly betray him.

Looking back, Tara told me, she thinks she may have chosen a nonpunitive response out of misplaced concern for the man who had hurt her. But she’s still glad the choice was hers, and that she had been able to pursue it within a community she trusted.

He nuzzled her neck and then murmured, “I kind of need a favor.” He sounded . . . softer. Zane was always so controlled and calm, polite with it, but almost . . . rigid. Now he sounded sleepy and warm and she just wanted to cuddle up against him and sleep. But he said he needed a favor. She didn’t let herself tense up. She’d stopped trusting guys—if she’d ever trusted them—a long time ago. There were a very, very few exceptions. But . . . this was Zane. He was watching her with a patient, almost knowing look and she had to fight the urge to cringe as he reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I seem to have misplaced my glasses. Can you help me find them?” She blinked. “Is that . . . that’s all you need?” He pushed a hand through her hair. “Well, I’d love to find a way to solve world hunger, but I’ll settle for my glasses. For now, at least. And maybe that shower, with you.

The spirit of the antichrist is at work today, attempting to influence believers to reject everything that has to do with the Holy Spirit’s anointing. This rejection takes on many religious forms, but basically it boils down to this: we reject what we can’t control. That spirit has worked to reduce the gospel to a mere intellectual message, rather than a supernatural God encounter. It tolerates the mention of power if it’s in the past. Occasionally, it considers that power is appropriate for people in faraway places. But, never does this spirit expect the anointing of God’s power to be available in the here and now. The spirit of control works against one of God’s favorite elements in man: faith. Trust is misplaced as it becomes anchored in man’s ability to reason.

So many of us are hungry to restore a collective sense of pride in our nation. And we have what it takes to do so. Yet many people have become numb, even accepting, to the shockingly cruel rhetoric we sometimes hear from our neighbors and leaders. But we should remember there are more Americans who speak out against intolerance than those who spew it. Just because anger and fear are louder than kindness and optimism does not mean that anger and fear must prevail, or define a new American identity. The negativity that streams through our media and social feeds is a false—or at least incomplete—narrative. Every time harsh Tweets dominate news cycles, we can remind ourselves of Mary Poole’s empathy in Montana, or the compassion of Rebecca Crowder in West Virginia, or Bryan Stevenson’s adamant calls for justice in our courts. Countless acts of dignity are unfolding offline, away from earshot, and they matter. We already have what it takes to rise above divisiveness and the vitriol of a hurtful few and steer the country toward an even better “us.” Not so we can be great again, but so we can become an even stronger, safer, more fair, prosperous, and inclusive version of ourselves. Those who champion common-sense problem solving, and there are legions of us, are eager to keep fixing, reinventing, improving. In these pages, I tried to amplify our existing potential to eclipse dysfunction by recounting Mark Pinsky’s collaborative spirit, for example, and Michael Crow’s innovative bent, and Brandon Dennison’s entrepreneurial gumption, and Dakota Keyes’ steadfast belief in her young students, and in herself. They are reminders that the misplaced priorities of President Trump and his administration do not represent the priorities of the majority of Americans. And while there are heroes who hold office, members of both parties, Democrats and Republicans, have been complicit in the fracturing of trust that has plagued our political system for years now. In fact, I believe that the American people as a whole are better than our current political class.

What many fail to see is that victims experience a different mode of thinking. For instance, the mind controls destiny and the heart controls faith, but there is little left to that pulsating beat. The faith is as weak as the trust to believe, and the need for trust holds the destiny in place. Victims of abuse often accept what is and nothing more. Friendships, marriages, and secrets, tragically misplaced, an external and internal mentality. Moreover, another choice lives, in which those secrets and emotions are never released, they rest in the mind, hidden forever.

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Trust, a dangerous notion if misplaced. And you, my dear, have misplaced it.

Lestrade and his men, Watson? I made the mistake of trusting them before. I have no intention of doing so again.

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Trust misplaced is not trust lost, trust misplaced is humanity tested.

Nazmahal 2, Sonnet of Lost Love You know who the biggest enemy of the lover is? It's the behaviorist. The behaviorist warns, but the lover wants to believe - the behaviorist restrains, but the lover wants to fall. So far, every time the behaviorist has had the final word - I told you so - yet the lover never learns the lesson. Still at the faintest possibility of love, lover jumps in, lock, stock and barrel. Love misplaced is not love wasted, Love misplaced is heart sweetened. Trust misplaced is not trust lost, Trust misplaced is humanity tested. Every good deed is a test of heart, Every act of love is existence tried. It's okay to be disappointed in deception, but never let it turn your ideals into a lie.

But in a conspiracy big enough to topple kings, every player has an agenda— and misplaced trust will have devastating consequences.

Ah, the traitor pays a visit,” a voice sneered from behind Magnús, drawing him to an abrupt stop. “Killed any more of our native creatures? Are you here to find victims to persecute in your humans-first campaign?” Magnús’s jaw tightened as he turned to face the speaker. “Lars Berkisson. You must be desperate if you’re grubbing for supporters here.” Lars gave Magnús a tight smile, his steel-gray eyes narrowing. “I came to offer comfort to Vörður, and to tend to his affairs while he rots in the cell where you put him. Tell me, Magnús. How many more of your own people will you try to destroy in your self-hatred?” “Vörður put himself in that cell when he stole a human baby and tried to pass himself off as the infant. He ignored the edict laid down by Queen Hildur, risked violating the First Covenant, and in any event, the act was despicable. Changelings have been forbidden for decades.” Lars laughed. “Of course, you and Bryndís are too modern to gather servants in the old ways. But we who honor the ancient customs have long known that if we must tolerate non-magical humans on our shores, then they are best taken as babes. Those raised from infancy make for superior attendants and retainers. The queen has been led astray by your misplaced devotion to mortals, but I have confidence she’ll return to tradition.” Magnús clenched his jaw, determined to keep his temper. “A tradition of bigotry and false piety, pretending the gods want us to use humans as pets or chattel.” “Well, isn’t that what Sigurjón was to you? A pet?” The twist to Lars’s upper lip enraged Magnús. Although Lars had been back from his exile for nearly a fifth of a century, Magnús’s every encounter with him brought them close to battle. With a tremendous effort of will, Magnús refrained from pulling the dagger tucked in his belt. “Sigurjón was as much a child of the gods as you once were, Lars,” he said through gritted teeth. “The path you follow leads to Hel’s sunless lands, though you lie to your followers and promise them Valhöll.” Lars shook his head in a way that infuriated Magnús. “Álfheimur is the true home of our people. Those who hear my words long only for a return to the days before men invaded our shores. Before they killed our trees, stole our magic, and built their abominable cities.” “The gods led mortals here to Iceland, Cousin. Your brand of fanaticism sets those who believe you against the will of the Æsir. And I, for one, look forward to a reckoning.” With that, Magnús strode away. He didn’t trust himself to spend one more minute in the presence of the vile creature who had murdered his beloved Sigurjón.

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