Serpent And The Wings Of Night Quotes

I would beg,” he murmured. “For you, I would. You have fucking destroyed me, Oraya. Do you know that?

Death isn’t frightening when weighed against an insignificant existence.

So many mistakes in the end,” he choked out. “Never you.

A dead lover can never break your heart.

Never trust. Never yield. Always guard your heart.

I’ve lived through some injustices in the last couple of centuries. Seen some fucking travesties. But one of the biggest, Oraya, is that anyone taught you that you should become anything other than exactly what you are.

vampires know better than anyone how important it is to protect their hearts. And love, understand, is sharper than any stake.

Do you want to change this world, little serpent? Then climb your cage until you are so high no one can catch you. Break its bars and make them your weapons. Nothing is sharper. I know because I did it

And love, understand, is sharper than any stake.

Oraya of the Nightborn,” he murmured. “I give you my body. I give you my blood. I give you my soul. I give you my heart. From this night until the end of nights. From daybreak until our days are broken. Your soul is my soul. Your heart is my heart. Your pain is my pain. I bind myself to you.” I wanted it to all be a lie. But it was not a lie.

He did not fear my darkness, nor pity my compassion. And the truth was, the idea of dying without knowing him completely was torturous.

Perhaps I didn’t share his blood, but I was his child in every other sense of the word, and he loved me the only way he knew how. At the edge of a blade.

And then I realized. I realized that fear, when embraced, hardens and sharpens. That it becomes rage. That it becomes power. I would not die here.

Raihn. He was on his knees, staring up at me. And that—the way he looked at me—was the first thing that felt real. Real, and raw, and… and confusing. Because he looked at me in sheer awe—like I was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. Like I was a fucking goddess.

And he whispered, “There she is.” All at once, I realized what he had been doing.

Don’t fucking touch her,

You are the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen, Oraya.

There are moments in one’s life that remain permanently distilled in memory. Some wither within minutes, and others are carved forever into our souls.

So don’t you fucking dare stop fighting, princess. It would break my damned heart.

Maybe our skin doesn’t scar the same as yours, but our hearts do. Sometimes they never heal.

Love was a sacrifice at the altar of power.

I would beg for him, too. Break for him. Cut myself open like an animal for dissection. He held me open that way, not just my body but my soul, too.

Don’t be so quick to throw away your humanity, Oraya,” he said. “You might find you miss it once it’s gone.

Fear is a collection of physical responses, I told myself. Fear is accelerated heartbeats and rapid breaths and sweaty palms. Fear is a doorway to anger, and anger is a doorway to power.

You don’t give an inch, do you?” My eyes flicked coldly up his body. “Do you? Or is an inch all you have to offer?

This was the stare of a creature who understood she was confronting death itself, and still chose to spit in its face.

Nothing matters but this, Oraya. Nothing. Step over temporary barriers. Once you win, the world is yours. That is the time for dreaming. But this? This is the time for conquering.

I may be the serpent, but even snakes run for cover when hawks soared overhead.

There you are.

I loved it—really, truly loved it—when they underestimated me.

This, I knew, was Vincent telling me that he loved me. No one had ever said those words to me—at least, not that I could ever remember. But he communicated it a thousand ways over the years, most of them coated in death. I love you. Here’s how you stay alive. Here’s how you make sure that no one can hurt you. For vampires, that was the ultimate gift.

He smelled like the sky. He smelled the way air felt as it rushed around you, freeing and terrifying and the most beautiful fucking thing you’ve ever experienced.

He who has not been bitten by the serpents of light and snapped at by the wolves of darkness will always be deceived by the days and the nights.

His eyes softened as they flicked back to me. I really did try not to notice, or care, that they drank me in the same way he drank in sunshine.

He had done nothing but be kind to me. But I only knew how to fight.

Every Nightborn King, after all, was crowned on a throne of corpses.

You’re sweet,” she said. “Prickly, but sweet. In an acidic sort of way. Like… like a pineapple.

Hundreds of years later, historians and scholars would look back upon this moment. This decision that, one day, would topple an empire. What a strange choice, they would whisper. Why would he do this? Why, indeed. After all, vampires know better than anyone how important it is to protect their hearts. And love, understand, is sharper than any stake.

You might destroy me anyway.

But dreams were so good at filling in memories moth-eaten by time. It was a smear of sensations, like paints too-watered-down. A little clay house with cracked floors.

That wasn’t how I’d imagined making you come for the first time,” he remarked. I stopped chewing.

The line between anger and sadness is so thin. I had learned that fear can become rage, but rage can so easily shatter into devastation. The fractures spiderwebbed across my heart.

I can’t take credit for everything that you’ve become, Oraya. Even if sometimes I wish I could. But if I’m responsible for just one small piece of that, it will have been the greatest accomplishment of my life.

I drank up Raihn’s touch like one last gulp of wine. A secret, shameful vice.

It was worth something to know you weren't alone.

You don’t even know, Oraya.” The corner of his mouth, where a little smudge of my blood remained, curled as he shook his head. “The things I’ve thought about. ‘Want’ doesn’t even fucking cover it. I have a list.

I didn’t notice my lips had curled until his thumb moved, tracing the shape of that smile as if it was something worthy of reverence. “Are you going to kill me, Oraya?” I didn’t run. Didn’t move. Instead, I lay my palm flat against his chest. I surprised even myself when I replied, “Not tonight.” His hand slid from my face and swept a stray strand of black hair from my cheek, smoothing it to the side. But instead of withdrawing, his fingers tightened around my hair—clutching it, but not pulling, as if he was trying to convince himself to let me go and failing. “You might destroy me anyway.

And then I realized. I realized that fear, when embraced, hardens and sharpens. That it becomes rage. That it becomes power.

He was on his knees, staring up at me. And that-the way he looked at me— was the first thing that felt real.

And the last thing I heard as sleep took me was Raihn’s voice, so quiet it seemed like he might be speaking to himself. “You are the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen, Oraya.

I didn't like feeling things. Emotions were ever-shifting and devoid of logic, and they gave me no way to sink my blade into them.

You think my life is worth nothing, but I can still leave a stain on you that can't be washed out.

I’ve saved your life twice now and presented you with the head of your enemy, and this isn’t enough? You’re a demanding little thing, aren’t you?

I could hate Vincent the king, who had slaughtered whatever family I had left, who had overseen the torture of my people, who had relentlessly killed and destroyed. But how could I hate Vincent, my father, who looked at me that way? My anger made everything certain and easy. My love made everything complicated and difficult. I allowed myself to be distracted.

In any other moment, I might have wished I could freeze time there. He looked like a painting. Beautiful, but also interesting, every expanse of skin whispering of another story, another past.

both Ilana and Vincent cradled their tenderness in harsh words. They were so different from each other in every other sense. But maybe this place made all of us that way. Taught us to hide love in sharp edges.

It’s that unbelievable that I have respect for human life?” he snapped. “I used to fucking be one of them.

You aren't my prisoner,' he said. 'You're my queen.

Stars exploded over my vision. His name fell from my lips in a gasp. Every muscle coiled, and then released. Nothing existed but him. Him and everything that I still wanted.

The young woman thought she was in love, or something like it. To be young and in love is an incredible thing. It teaches one so much.

Once you win, the world is yours. That is the time for dreaming. But this? This is the time for conquering.

You cannot accomplish anything in this world without power,' he said. 'And power requires sacrifice, focus, and ruthlessness.

Fuck you, too, Oraya. Ix’s tits. I try to say a nice thing.

Death isn’t frightening when weighed against an insignificant existence.” An insignificant existence.

He smelled like the sky—he tasted like falling. His lips met mine like he’d been waiting his entire life for this kiss and had known exactly what he would do when he got it. We kissed like we fought together, responding to each touch, each movement. We understood each other by now.

She was silk and cigar smoke and a short temper and a million contradictions; a full life of a thousand other thoughts and dreams and desires for the future—and someone whom I loved, deeply.

didn’t patronize him. It took me seconds. And when I wrenched him close, when I prepared my killing blow, that one remaining eye met mine, as if looking into a mirror. “I’m glad it was you,” he said, quietly. And I made sure my aim was true as I slid my blade right into his heart.

My father who had taught me how to survive, how to kill, how to feel nothing. Perhaps I didn’t share his blood, but I was his child in every other sense of the word, and he loved me the only way he knew how. At the edge of a blade.

He offered his daughter no comfort, no tenderness. Why would he? The world would offer her none, either. She should learn this.

And then I realised. I realised that fear, when embraced, hardens and sharpens. That it becomes rage. That it becomes power. I would not die here.

But dreams were so good at filling in memories moth-eaten by time.

The world had just lost an incredible force. And my presence here was not enough to make up for that.

Sadness was a futile, weak emotion. At least anger was useful—a sharp edge to cut another’s heart, or a hard shell to protect your own.

Careful, princess,” he said at last, his voice rough. “Someone might think you’re actually nice.

We both knew it. He knew I knew it. He hated that I knew he knew it.

But in this moment, I came to the horrifying realization that I would never be able to carve Raihn from my heart. He had embedded too deep. Roots through stone.

There are moments in one's life that remain permanently distilled in memory. Some wither within minutes, and others are carved forever into our souls.

The world was not easy or straightforward. Goodness was never pure or simple.

The line between anger and sadness is so thin. I had learned that fear can become rage, but rage can so easily shatter into devastation.

Humans left little marks of their lives everywhere. Flowers in window boxes, toys left in yards, a series of shoes on the doorstep that painted the image of a family. I had never noticed these things before, and certainly never found beauty in them. Now, I tucked each one away like little secret gifts.

I give you my blood, I give you my soul, I give you my heart, From this night until the end of nights. From daybreak until our days are broken. Your soul is my soul, Your heart is my heart, Your pain is my pain. I bind myself to you. -The Serpent And The Wings Of Night

But what's left on earth that I haven't tried?" Prince Lír demanded. "I have swum four rivers, each in full flood and none less than a mile wide. I have climbed seven mountains never before climbed, slept three nights in the Marsh of the Hanged Men, and walked alive out of that forest where the flowers burn your eyes and the nightingales sing poison. I have ended my betrothal to the princess I had agreed to marry — and if you don't think that was a heroic deed, you don't know her mother. I have vanquished exactly fifteen black knights waiting by fifteen fords in their black pavilions, challenging all who come to cross. And I've long since lost count of the witches in the thorny woods, the giants, the demons disguised as damsels; the glass hills, fatal riddles, and terrible tasks; the magic apples, rings, lamps, potions, swords, cloaks, boots, neckties, and nightcaps. Not to mention the winged horses, the basilisks and sea serpents, and all the rest of the livestock." He raised his head, and the dark blue eyes were confused and sad. "And all for nothing," he said. "I cannot touch her, whatever I do. For her sake, I have become a hero — I, sleepy Lír, my father's sport and shame — but I might as well have remained the dull fool I was. My great deeds mean nothing to her.

Fairy tales are about trouble, about getting into and out of it, and trouble seems to be a necessary stage on the route to becoming. All the magic and glass mountains and pearls the size of houses and princesses beautiful as the day and talking birds and part-time serpents are distractions from the core of most of the stories, the struggle to survive against adversaries, to find your place in the world, and to come into your own. Fairy tales are almost always the stories of the powerless, of youngest sons, abandoned children, orphans, of humans transformed into birds and beasts or otherwise enchanted away from their own lives and selves. Even princesses are chattels to be disowned by fathers, punished by step-mothers, or claimed by princes, though they often assert themselves in between and are rarely as passive as the cartoon versions. Fairy tales are children's stories not in wh they were made for but in their focus on the early stages of life, when others have power over you and you have power over no one. In them, power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness -- from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sewn among the meek is harvested in crisis... In Hans Christian Andersen's retelling of the old Nordic tale that begins with a stepmother, "The Wild Swans," the banished sister can only disenchant her eleven brothers -- who are swans all day look but turn human at night -- by gathering stinging nettles barehanded from churchyard graves, making them into flax, spinning them and knitting eleven long-sleeved shirts while remaining silent the whole time. If she speaks, they'll remain birds forever. In her silence, she cannot protest the crimes she accused of and nearly burned as a witch. Hauled off to a pyre as she knits the last of the shirts, she is rescued by the swans, who fly in at the last moment. As they swoop down, she throws the nettle shirts over them so that they turn into men again, all but the youngest brother, whose shirt is missing a sleeve so that he's left with one arm and one wing, eternally a swan-man. Why shirts made of graveyard nettles by bleeding fingers and silence should disenchant men turned into birds by their step-mother is a question the story doesn't need to answer. It just needs to give us compelling images of exile, loneliness, affection, and metamorphosis -- and of a heroine who nearly dies of being unable to tell her own story.

Before, he had looked at me like I was a goddess, and I had thought I couldn’t feel more powerful than I did in that moment. I was wrong. Because now he looked at me like I was more than that—like I was human. Somehow, that meant more.

Strange, that girls are so often told that the loss of their virginity marks a threshold between girlhood and womanhood, as if it fundamentally alters them in some way. It was not the sex that changed the girl forever. Not the blood that spilled between her thighs that shaped her. The blood that spilled over that marble floor, though… Those are the stains on one’s innocence that never fade.

I give you my body. I give you my blood. I give you my soul. I give you my heart. From this night until the end of nights. From daybreak until our days are broken. Your soul is my soul. Your heart is my heart. Your pain is my pain. I bind myself to you.

You had to bend, with people like Vincent. Reach for what they wouldn’t give you themselves.

I was done hating myself for all my human weaknesses. No, I hated them for it.

Vincent wanted me in the Kejari, wanted me to become his Coriatae, because it was the only way to turn me into something acceptable for him to love.

We joked about death because we had to. But it wasn’t a joke. It was real, and it was coming for us. And the thought of death getting anywhere near Raihn made me feel sick.

Nessanyn mattered. And the difference between nothing mattering and one thing mattering is a big one.

He said my name like it was the answer to a crucial question.

Aja saraeta. Take my truth.

Do you want to change this world, little serpent? Then climb your cage until you are so high no one can catch you. Break its bars and make them your weapons. Nothing is sharper. I know because I did it.

The crowd shrieked with amusement with every clash of steel. I barely heard them. My blood pumped in my ears, roaring. This was agonizing. Agonizing. I needed it to hurt more everywhere else, so it hurt less in my heart.

He was on his knees, staring up at me. And that—the way he looked at me—was the first thing that felt real. Real, and raw, and… and confusing. Because he looked at me in sheer awe—like I was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. Like I was a fucking goddess.

I’d always admired Raihn’s skill as a warrior. He wielded a sword the way an artist wielded a paintbrush, each stroke an exercise in grace and beauty. Now, it awed me, the elegance of his instincts and movements, all these new angles of his brutality visible only as its target. Perhaps I could only appreciate every brushstroke of death once I was the canvas.

One honest thing. The most terrible honest thing of all was that with Raihn, it was all honest—it always had been. He saw too much of me. Understood every complexity and senseless duality. I was honest even when I didn’t mean to be. He did not fear my darkness, nor pity my compassion. And the truth was, the idea of dying without knowing him completely was torturous.

I could melt under this kiss. I wanted to wind myself around him the way ivy claims stone. I opened my lips to him, encircled my arms around his neck. His fingers clenched around my hair, pulling just a bit. His hand paused there, thumb rubbing my hair, kiss slowing, and I wondered if he was thinking about it, too—thinking about the night of the feast, and my hair around his fingers. I didn’t want him to let me go then, either. Maybe I realized in that moment that I never would, even if I was too terrified to admit it then. Maybe I was too terrified to admit it now, too.

The city’s streets coiled around him, writhing like serpents, London had grown unstable once again, revealing its true, capricious, tormented nature, its anguish of a city that had lost its sense of itself and wallowed, accordingly, in the impotence of its selfish, angry present of masks and parodies, stifled and twisted by the insupportable, unrejected burden of its past, staring into the bleakness of its impoverished future. He wandered its streets through that night and the next day, and the next night, and on until the light and dark ceased to matter. He no longer seemed to need food or rest, but only to move constantly through that tortured metropolis whose fabric was now utterly transformed, the houses in the rich quarters being built of solidified fear, the government buildings partly of vainglory and partly of scorn, and the residences of the poor of confusion and material dreams. When you looked through an angel’s eyes you saw essences instead of surfaces, you saw the decay of the soul blistering and bubbling on the skins of people in the street, you saw the generosity of certain spirits resting on their shoulders in the form of birds. As he roamed the metamorphosed city he saw bat-winged imps sitting on the corners of buildings made of deceits and glimpsed goblins oozing wormily through the broken tilework of public urinals for men. As once the thirteenth-century German monk Richalmus would shut his eyes and instantly see clouds of minuscule demons surrounding every man and woman on earth, dancing like dustspecks in the sunlight, so now Gibreel with open eyes and by the light of the moon as well as the sun detected everywhere the presence of his adversary, his—to give the old word back its original meaning—shaitan.