Tender Warrior Quotes

On the 16th of Febuary 1312, when Isabella was aged sixteen years, the couple were at their hunting lodge when Edward suddenly took Isabella into his arms and began to kiss her and pay her a lot of attention, slowly and tenderly.

The ideal of warriorship is that the warrior should be sad and tender, and because of that, the warrior can be very brave as well.

It was part of the dichotomy of Alec that had caught Magnus unaware and left him fascinated - that Alec seemed old for his age, serious and responsible, and yet that he approached the world with a tender wonder that made all things new. Alec was a warrior who brought Magnus peace.

We love men because they can never fake orgasms, even if they wanted to. Because they write poems, songs, and books in our honor. Because they never understand us, but they never give up. Because they can see beauty in women when women have long ceased to see any beauty in themselves. Because they come from little boys. Because they can churn out long, intricate, Machiavellian, or incredibly complex mathematics and physics equations, but they can be comparably clueless when it comes to women. Because they are incredible lovers and never rest until we’re happy. Because they elevate sports to religion. Because they’re never afraid of the dark. Because they don’t care how they look or if they age. Because they persevere in making and repairing things beyond their abilities, with the naïve self-assurance of the teenage boy who knew everything. Because they never wear or dream of wearing high heels. Because they’re always ready for sex. Because they’re like pomegranates: lots of inedible parts, but the juicy seeds are incredibly tasty and succulent and usually exceed your expectations. Because they’re afraid to go bald. Because you always know what they think and they always mean what they say. Because they love machines, tools, and implements with the same ferocity women love jewelry. Because they go to great lengths to hide, unsuccessfully, that they are frail and human. Because they either speak too much or not at all to that end. Because they always finish the food on their plate. Because they are brave in front of insects and mice. Because a well-spoken four-year old girl can reduce them to silence, and a beautiful 25-year old can reduce them to slobbering idiots. Because they want to be either omnivorous or ascetic, warriors or lovers, artists or generals, but nothing in-between. Because for them there’s no such thing as too much adrenaline. Because when all is said and done, they can’t live without us, no matter how hard they try. Because they’re truly as simple as they claim to be. Because they love extremes and when they go to extremes, we’re there to catch them. Because they are tender they when they cry, and how seldom they do it. Because what they lack in talk, they tend to make up for in action. Because they make excellent companions when driving through rough neighborhoods or walking past dark alleys. Because they really love their moms, and they remind us of our dads. Because they never care what their horoscope, their mother-in-law, nor the neighbors say. Because they don’t lie about their age, their weight, or their clothing size. Because they have an uncanny ability to look deeply into our eyes and connect with our heart, even when we don’t want them to. Because when we say “I love you” they ask for an explanation.

The real warriors in this world are the ones that see the details of another's soul. They see the transparency behind walls people put up. They stand on the battlefield of life and expose their heart's transparency, so other's can finish the day with hope. They are the sensitive souls that understand that before they could be a light they first had to feel the burn.

Praying for the people that hurt you may not change them, but it will change you.

When I need it, I can call bitterness around me like mail armor, every thought a knot of steel, shielding the tenderness I have learned to hide as a daughter, mother, wife, and queen among warriors.

Live in such a way that when you die you leave God in your will for your children.

We’ve spent our time together talking about everything but what matters. We’ve never brought to each other the heavy things we were meant to help each other carry. We’ve only introduced each other to our representatives, while our real selves tried to live life alone. We thought that was safer. We thought that this way our real selves wouldn’t get hurt. But as I read these messages, it becomes clear that we are all hurting anyway. And we think we are alone. At our cores, we are our tender selves peeking out at a world of shiny representatives, so shame has been layered on top of our pain. We’re suffocating underneath all the layers. *

The bravest are the most tender; the most loving are the warriors... Its a yin-yang thing. Trust me!

Tender Warrior,” Adam replied and showed John the cover. “You can read it; I’m almost done. Check this out,” he said, thumbing backward through the pages. “It was written by Stu Weber, a Vietnam veteran, Special Forces. He became a chaplain.

A great blow it was,' he said in expensive tones, 'worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcame. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson blood. with simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the bright-eyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation.

...The happy Warrior... is he... who, doomed to go in company with pain, and fear, and bloodshed, miserable train turns his necessity to glorious gain; in face of these doth exercise a power which is our human nature's highest dower: controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves of their bad influence, and their good receives: by objects, which might force the soul to abate her feeling, rendered more compassionate; is placable— because occasions rise so often that demand such sacrifice; more skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, as tempted more; more able to endure, as more exposed to suffering and distress; thence, also, more alive to tenderness.

As Abby finally turned and fled the frigid temperatures of the roof, she realized she still didn’t know if the Fallen were good or evil. Whether they intended to kill the humans or not. All she knew was that, at the tender age of thirteen, Abby Rhodes had just fallen head over heels in love.

it was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a comrade.

Squirrelpaw felt fur brush against hers as Stormfur bounded past. He headed straight for Brook, and the two cats touched noses with such tenderness that Squirrelpaw felt a rush of pity. It was all too clear that Stormfur had more heartbreak ahead of him, when the time came to leave the Tribe she-cat for a second time.

She reached up to place her fingertips to his lips as she stared up at him with a warm, tender expression. "I wish you had come home to me so that I could have helped you." He pulled the cloth away from her face and stared at her for a hard second. "Had I known what was waiting for me, my lady, I would have." -Christian and Adara

It was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air.

The Warrior function is…unmistakable in Scripture…Within the epistles, the mature believing man is often described in militant terms–a warrior equipped to battle mighty enemies and shatter satanic strongholds. The heart of the Warrior is a protective heart. The Warrior shields, defends, stands between, and guards…He invests himself in “the energy of self-disciplined, aggressive action.” By Warrior I do not mean one who loves war or draws sadistic pleasure from fighting or bloodshed. There is a difference between a warrior and a brute. A warrior is a protector…Men stand tallest when they are protecting and defending.

Dad, seeing me start to drop back, reached out his hand to me. His eyes said, Grab hold. Let's run together. Still running, my little hand slipped inside his larger one. It was like magic! His power lifted me right off the ground. I took off in his strength. My speed doubled because my dad had hold of me.

Nicolas walked toward him. Ignoring the presence of the others nearby, he took Julien's chin in his hand and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Julien seemed chagrined at first, and then accepted the gesture. It was sweet, and had the air of a couple that had been together for a great long time. Maric glanced away, embarrased by the intimacy, not to mention the fact that he hadn't quite realized the nature of the two warriors' relationship ealier. Not just comrades, then, and far more than close friend. The older Grey Wardens seemed unsurprised.

How was my day? It was a lifetime. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I was both lonely and never alone. I was simultaneously bored out of my skull and completely overwhelmed. I was saturated with touch—desperate to get the baby off of me and the second I put her down I yearned to smell her sweet skin again. This day required more than I’m physically and emotionally capable of, while requiring nothing from my brain. I had thoughts today, ideas, real things to say and no one to hear them. I felt manic all day, alternating between love and fury. At least once an hour I looked at their faces and thought I might not survive the tenderness of my love for them. The next moment I was furious. I felt like a dormant volcano, steady on the outside but ready to explode and spew hot lava at any moment. And then I noticed that Amma’s foot doesn’t fit into her Onesie anymore, and I started to panic at the reminder that this will be over soon, that it’s fleeting—that this hardest time of my life is supposed to be the best time of my life. That this brutal time is also the most beautiful time. Am I enjoying it enough? Am I missing the best time of my life? Am I too tired to be properly in love? That fear and shame felt like adding a heavy, itchy blanket on top of all the hard. But I’m not complaining, so please don’t try to fix it. I wouldn’t have my day or my life any other way. I’m just saying—it’s a hell of a hard thing to explain—an entire day with lots of babies. It’s far too much and not even close to enough. But

Life is a good teacher and a good friend. Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way that we like to dream about. The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don’t get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It’s a very tender, nonaggressive, open-ended state of affairs. To stay with that shakiness — to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge — that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic — this is the spiritual path. Getting the knack of catching ourselves, of gently and compassionately catching ourselves, is the path of the warrior. We catch ourselves one zillion times as once again, whether we like it or not, we harden into resentment, bitterness, righteous indignation — harden in any way, even into a sense of relief, a sense of inspiration.

To My Priestess Sisters To my priestess sisters: the keepers of mysteries, the medicine women, the story keepers and story tellers, the holy magicians, the wild warriors, the original ones, the ones who carry the ancients within the marrow of your bones, the ones forged in the fires, the ones who have bathed in thier own blood, the heroines who wear thier scars as stars, the ones who give birth to their visions and dreams, the ones who weep and howl upon the holy altars, the avatars, the mothers, maidens and crones, the mystics, the oracles, the artists, the musicians, the virgins, the sensual and sexual, the women of our world- I honor you. I stand for you and with you. I celebrate both your autonomy and our sisterhood of One. We are many. We are fierce. We are tender. We are the change agents and we are radically holding and clearing space for the bursting forth of the holy seeds of the collective conscience and consciousness. We are manifestors and flames of purification and transformation. We are living our lives in authenticity, vulnerability, transparency and unapologetically. We are committed to integrity, impeccability, accountability, responsibility and passionate love. We are here on purpose, with purpose and give no energy to conformity, acceptance or approval. We are the daughters of the earth and the courageous of the cosmos. Priestess, keep living your life passionately, raising the cosmic vibrations and lowering your standards for no one. You are brazenly blessed and a force of nature. Nurture yourself and one another. You are a crystalline bridge between realms and uniting heaven and earth. You are a priestess and you are divinely anointed, appointed and unstoppable.

THANKS TO THE EVANGELICAL men’s movement, books on Christian masculinity began to roll off the presses. Drawing on charismatic and therapeutic traditions, prosperity teachings, Christian Reconstructionism, conservative Southern Baptist theology, and neo-Calvinism, authors ended up crafting visions of Christian masculinity that looked remarkably similar. In the 1990s, the most popular “blueprint for Christian manhood” to emerge was that of the “tender warrior.

This afternoon, being on Fair Haven Hill, I heard the sound of a saw, and soon after from the Cliff saw two men sawing down a noble pine beneath, about forty rods off. I resolved to watch it till it fell, the last of a dozen or more which were left when the forest was cut and for fifteen years have waved in solitary majesty over the sprout-land. I saw them like beavers or insects gnawing at the trunk of this noble tree, the diminutive manikins with their cross-cut saw which could scarcely span it. It towered up a hundred feet as I afterward found by measurement, one of the tallest probably in the township and straight as an arrow, but slanting a little toward the hillside, its top seen against the frozen river and the hills of Conantum. I watch closely to see when it begins to move. Now the sawers stop, and with an axe open it a little on the side toward which it leans, that it may break the faster. And now their saw goes again. Now surely it is going; it is inclined one quarter of the quadrant, and, breathless, I expect its crashing fall. But no, I was mistaken; it has not moved an inch; it stands at the same angle as at first. It is fifteen minutes yet to its fall. Still its branches wave in the wind, as it were destined to stand for a century, and the wind soughs through its needles as of yore; it is still a forest tree, the most majestic tree that waves over Musketaquid. The silvery sheen of the sunlight is reflected from its needles; it still affords an inaccessible crotch for the squirrel’s nest; not a lichen has forsaken its mast-like stem, its raking mast,—the hill is the hulk. Now, now’s the moment! The manikins at its base are fleeing from their crime. They have dropped the guilty saw and axe. How slowly and majestic it starts! as it were only swayed by a summer breeze, and would return without a sigh to its location in the air. And now it fans the hillside with its fall, and it lies down to its bed in the valley, from which it is never to rise, as softly as a feather, folding its green mantle about it like a warrior, as if, tired of standing, it embraced the earth with silent joy, returning its elements to the dust again. But hark! there you only saw, but did not hear. There now comes up a deafening crash to these rocks , advertising you that even trees do not die without a groan. It rushes to embrace the earth, and mingle its elements with the dust. And now all is still once more and forever, both to eye and ear. I went down and measured it. It was about four feet in diameter where it was sawed, about one hundred feet long. Before I had reached it the axemen had already divested it of its branches. Its gracefully spreading top was a perfect wreck on the hillside as if it had been made of glass, and the tender cones of one year’s growth upon its summit appealed in vain and too late to the mercy of the chopper. Already he has measured it with his axe, and marked off the mill-logs it will make. And the space it occupied in upper air is vacant for the next two centuries. It is lumber. He has laid waste the air. When the fish hawk in the spring revisits the banks of the Musketaquid, he will circle in vain to find his accustomed perch, and the hen-hawk will mourn for the pines lofty enough to protect her brood. A plant which it has taken two centuries to perfect, rising by slow stages into the heavens, has this afternoon ceased to exist. Its sapling top had expanded to this January thaw as the forerunner of summers to come. Why does not the village bell sound a knell? I hear no knell tolled. I see no procession of mourners in the streets, or the woodland aisles. The squirrel has leaped to another tree; the hawk has circled further off, and has now settled upon a new eyrie, but the woodman is preparing [to] lay his axe at the root of that also.

If you search for awakened heart, if you put your hand through your rib cage and feel for it, there is nothing there except for tenderness. You feel sore and soft, and if you open your eyes to the rest of the world, you feel tremendous sadness.

Adara, cease!" She froze at the sound of a voice she hadn't expected to hear. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming, until she blinked to look up into the most handsome face she'd ever known. She stared at the same blue eyes that made the tenderest of love to her. Christian. Her grip went lax and the candlestick in her hand fell to the floor. He was alive! She threw herself into his arms and held him close as giddy tears replaced her grief-induced ones. At least until her rage took hold again. "Damn you, you worthless, heartless son of a dog!" she snarled, pulling back to strike at his chest. "How dare you make me think you were dead! Don't you ever do such a thing to me again. " Christian was stunned by her language and actions. "I didn't know you could hear us through the door." She struck him again on his armor, a blow that no doubt he felt not at all, but it gave her some degree of satisfaction. "Well, think better next time." Her untoward anger amused him. Wiping the tears from her face, he kissed her tenderly.

Eldredge’s 2001 book, Wild at Heart: Discovering the Secret of a Man’s Soul, set the tone for a new evangelical militancy in the new millennium. Eldredge’s God was a warrior God, and men were made in his image. Aggression, not tenderness, was part of the masculine design.

The path of the bodhisattva-warrior WHEREVER we are, we can train as a warrior. The practices of meditation, loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity are our tools. With the help of these practices, we can uncover the soft spot of bodhichitta, the tenderness of the awakened heart.

The Warrior of the Light views life with tenderness and determination. He stands before a mystery, whose solution he will one day find. Every so often, he says to himself: “This life is absolutely insane.” He is right. In surrendering to the miracle of the everyday, he notices that he cannot always foresee the consequences of his actions. Sometimes he acts without even knowing that he is doing so, he saves someone without even knowing he is saving them, he suffers without even knowing why he is sad. Yes, life is insane. But the great wisdom of the Warrior lies in choosing his insanity wisely.

Then Smaug really did laugh—a devastating sound which shook Bilbo to the floor, while far up in the tunnel the dwarves huddled together and imagined that the hobbit had come to a sudden and a nasty end. “Revenge!” he snorted, and the light of his eyes lit the hall from floor to ceiling like scarlet lightning. “Revenge! The King under the Mountain is dead and where are his kin that dare seek revenge? Girion Lord of Dale is dead, and I have eaten his people like a wolf among sheep, and where are his sons’ sons that dare approach me? I kill where I wish and none dare resist. I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today. Then I was but young and tender. Now I am old and strong, strong, strong, Thief in the Shadows!” he gloated. “My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!

A few days after my microwave experiment, I was sitting in class and felt a gentle “pop” on my forehead and hot liquid ran down my face. It was the burn on my forehead just tenderly exploding, of its own volition, on my eleven-year-old face. As the pus—filled with healing white blood cells—trickled down my face, I thought, “I deserve this.

The first thing that went through Mahgen's mind was how cold she'd become with the loss of Kathel, how insane it was that things could go from tender and warm, to cold and indifferent, in the matter of seconds. That was what it felt like when you loved completely yet allowed things to get in the way of forever." -Madison Thorne Grey, Sustenance

Revenge!” he snorted, and the light of his eyes lit the hall from floor to ceiling like scarlet lightning. “Revenge! The King under the Mountain is dead and where are his kin that dare seek revenge? Girion Lord of Dale is dead, and I have eaten his people like a wolf among sheep, and where are his sons’ sons that dare approach me? I kill where I wish and none dare resist. I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today. Then I was but young and tender. Now I am old and strong, strong, strong, Thief in the Shadows!” he gloated. “My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!

MOTHER! The holiest body on earth without which even god's existence seems next to impossible. A woman whose sufferings cannot be conveyed . A women whose love cannot be measured. The one who loves you unconditionally and protects you beyond her limits. Yes, she's the real hero, a true warrior. Who can win millions of hearts just by her tender touch. She's my bestie.

Comfortable with Uncertainty THOSE WHO TRAIN wholeheartedly in awakening bodhichitta are called bodhisattvas or warriors—not warriors who kill but warriors of nonaggression who hear the cries of the world. Warrior-bodhisattvas enter challenging situations in order to alleviate suffering. They are willing to cut through personal reactivity and self-deception. They are dedicated to uncovering the basic, undistorted energy of bodhichitta. A warrior accepts that we can never know what will happen to us next. We can try to control the uncontrollable by looking for security and predictability, always hoping to be comfortable and safe. But the truth is that we can never avoid uncertainty. This not-knowing is part of the adventure. It’s also what makes us afraid. Wherever we are, we can train as a warrior. Our tools are sitting meditation, tonglen, slogan practice, and cultivating the four limitless qualities of loving-kindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity. With the help of these practices, we will find the tenderness of bodhichitta in sorrow and in gratitude, behind the hardness of rage and in the shakiness of fear. In loneliness as well as in kindness, we can uncover the soft spot of basic goodness. But bodhichitta training offers no promise of happy endings. Rather, this “I” who wants to find security—who wants something to hold on to—will finally learn to grow up. If we find ourselves in doubt that we’re up to being a warrior-in-training, we can contemplate this question: “Do I prefer to grow up and relate to life directly, or do I choose to live and die in fear?

Staying power. The bottom line? Stay with it, man. Stick by your commitments. Stand by your promises. Never, never let go, no matter what. When marriage isn’t fun … stay in it. When parenting is over your head … stay at it. When work is crushing your spirit … don’t let it beat you. When the local church is overwhelmed with pettiness … stay by it. When your children let you down … pick them up. When your wife goes through a six-month mood swing … live with it. When it’s fourth and fourteen with no time on the clock … throw another pass.

I tell them that we can choose to be perfect and admired or to be real and loved. We must decide. If we choose to be perfect and admired, we must send our representatives out to live our lives. If we choose to be real and loved, we must send out our true, tender selves. That’s the only way, because to be loved we have to be known. If we choose to introduce our true selves to anyone, we will get hurt. But we will be hurt either way. There is pain in hiding and pain outside of hiding. The pain outside is better because nothing hurts as bad as not being known. The irony is that our true selves are tougher than our representatives are. My tender self was never weak at all. She was made to survive the pain of love. My tenderness is my strength. Turns out that I never needed to hide. I was a Warrior all along.

...The happy Warrior... 'tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, conspicuous object in a nation's eye, or left unthought-of in obscurity,— who, with a toward or untoward lot, prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not— plays, in the many games of life, that one where what he most doth value must be won: whom neither shape or danger can dismay, nor thought of tender happiness betray; who, not content that former worth stand fast, looks forward, persevering to the last, from well to better, daily self-surpast: who, whether praise of him must walk the earth for ever, and to noble deeds give birth, or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, and leave a dead unprofitable name— finds comfort in himself and in his cause; and, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws his breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: this is the happy Warrior; this is he that every man in arms should wish to be.

And yes, many of us became fathers to fully understand what it means to be a father. Albert Einstein once said: "Every man is a genius but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb trees, it will spend the rest of its life believing that its stupid." To the men who never let other people’s metrics of success become the yardstick with which they measure theirs. It is no coincidence that we are diagrammatically represented by a circle with an arrow on the edge that points out. To all of us who may not always be "there" so that we can always "be there", To every hunter, every fighter, every missionary, To every planter and tiller of a garden of eden, To every warrior, conqueror of territories, every man always going out so he can bring something home. To every provider and protector of his family. Every defender of his domain and representative of God in the lives of his dependants. To every man that choose character over caliber, Every Major General, Lord of the Rings, Lion of the Tribe of his house. To every correcter with a shout, Every tough and tender 9-ribbed carrier of his cross. For every skill, strength, qualification and effort that we put into building meaningful relationships with our women, bonds with our children, and shield through tough times. For every ‘crave’ for success without substituting values. For the unconditional love, unflinching sacrifice, and diehard determination to go places our parents never imagined for themselves. To those who happily lead, as though money, fame and power didn’t exist. To those who stand tall and sit straight, Who understand that it doesn't take a 6-figure to be a Father figure. Happy Father's Day to every man who understands the responsibility and deserves the title. *Happy Father's Day to You and Me.*

The only thing I can’t figure out is why you still eat the food your captors fed you. Why don’t you hate it as much as you hate them?” Fila glanced down at her plate. It contained a strange mixture of Afghan and Mexican dishes. She held up a flatbread. “This isn’t Taliban food—it’s Afghan food. It’s my mother’s food. I grew up eating it before I was ever captured. To me it means love and tenderness, not hate and violence.” “Taliban, Afghan—it’s all the same.” She waved the bread. “No, it’s not. Not one bit. Afghan culture is over two thousand years old. And it’s a conservative culture—it’s had to be—but it’s not a culture of monsters. Afghans are people like you, Holt. They’re born, they grow up, they live and love and they die just like we do. I didn’t study much history before I was taken, but I know this much. America’s story is that of the frontier—of always having room to grow. Afghanistan’s story is that of occupation. By the Russians, the British, the Mongols—even the ancient Greeks. On and on for century after century. Imagine all those wars being fought in Montana. Foreign armies living among us, taking over your ranch, stealing everything you own, killing your wife and children, over and over and over again.” She paused to catch her breath. “Death is right around the corner for them—all the time. Is it any wonder that a movement that turns men into warriors and codes everything else into rigid rules might seem like the answer?” She still wasn’t sure if Holt was following her. What analogy would make sense to him? She wracked her brain. “If a bunch of Californians overran Chance Creek and forced everyone to eat tofu, would you refuse to ever eat steak again?” He made a face. “Of course not!” “Then imagine the Taliban are the Californians, forcing everyone to eat tofu. And everyone does it because they don’t know what else to do. They still love steak, but they will be severely punished if they eat it—so will their families. That’s what it’s like for many Afghans living under Taliban control. It’s not their choice. They still love their country. They still love their heritage. That doesn’t mean they love the group of extremists who have taken over.” “Even if those Taliban people went away, they still wouldn’t be anything like you and me.” Holt crossed his arms. Fila suppressed a smile at his inclusion of her. That was a step in the right direction even if the greater message was lost on him. “They’re more like you than you think. Defensive. Angry. Always on the lookout for trouble.” Holt straightened. “I have four sons. Of course I’m on the lookout for trouble.” “They have sons, too.” She waited to see if he understood. Holt shook his head. “We’re going to see different on this one. But I understand about the food. Everyone likes their mother’s cooking best.” He surveyed her plate. “You got any more of that bread?” She’d take that as a victory.

We knew Benevolence was a tender virtue and mother-like. If upright Rectitude and stern Justice were peculiarly masculine, Mercy had the gentleness and the persuasiveness of a feminine nature. We were warned against indulging in indiscriminate charity, without seasoning it with justice and rectitude. Masamuné expressed it well in his oft-quoted aphorism, “Rectitude carried to excess hardens into stiffness; Benevolence indulged beyond measure sinks into weakness.” Fortunately Mercy was not so rare as it was beautiful, for it is universally true that “the bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring.” Bushi no nasaké—the tenderness of a warrior—had a sound which appealed at once to whatever was noble in us; not that the mercy of a samurai was generically different from the mercy of any other being, but because it implied mercy where mercy was not a blind impulse, but where it recognized due regard to justice, and where mercy did not remain merely a certain state of mind, but where it was backed with power to save or kill.

This trip would be a lot easier if we had weapons bearers coming with us,” he grumbled, toeing his waiting pile of belongings. He looked rumpled, red-eyed, and hurting, not much of a surprise after all he’d had to drink the previous night. “You’d think every lad in Delphi would jump at the chance to join us on a fabulous quest like this.” “We’ll have weapons bearers when we reach our quest’s start at Iolkos,” Polydeuces told him. “Maybe before. We’ll pass through many cities before we reach Iolkos. Jason hasn’t completed his crew yet.” “I still don’t see why we can’t find any now,” Castor persisted. “It’s a fine opportunity for any boy would hopes to be a warrior someday. They can’t all have kinsmen to teach them about the warrior’s life and how to fight. We’d see to it that they learn how to use the sword and spear and shield they carry for us.” “You don’t have shields,” I pointed out. “We’ll get them in Iolkos!” Castor snapped, then winced and cradled his head tenderly in one hand. “Just as well I don’t have a shield yet: If that scrawny boy’d had the sense to become my weapons bearer, the weight of it would’ve crushed him.” “What scrawny boy?” I asked. “Someone with no stomach for adventure, that’s all,” Polydeuces said, resting one hand on my shoulder. “Not like us, eh, Helen?

How was my day? It was a lifetime. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I was both lonely and never alone. I was simultaneously bored out of my skull and completely overwhelmed. I was saturated with touch—desperate to get the baby off of me and the second I put her down I yearned to smell her sweet skin again. This day required more than I’m physically and emotionally capable of, while requiring nothing from my brain. I had thoughts today, ideas, real things to say and no one to hear them. I felt manic all day, alternating between love and fury. At least once an hour I looked at their faces and thought I might not survive the tenderness of my love for them. The next moment I was furious. I felt like a dormant volcano, steady on the outside but ready to explode and spew hot lava at any moment. And then I noticed that Amma’s foot doesn’t fit into her Onesie anymore, and I started to panic at the reminder that this will be over soon, that it’s fleeting—that this hardest time of my life is supposed to be the best time of my life. That this brutal time is also the most beautiful time. Am I enjoying it enough? Am I missing the best time of my life? Am I too tired to be properly in love? That fear and shame felt like adding a heavy, itchy blanket on top of all the hard. But I’m not complaining, so please don’t try to fix it. I wouldn’t have my day or my life any other way. I’m just saying—it’s a hell of a hard thing to explain—an entire day with lots of babies. It’s far too much and not even close to enough.

Dagon left his office and made his way down to the infirmary. Adaos looked up when he entered. Eliana lay curled on her side, covered by a sheet. Though dark wavy tresses hid much of her face, she appeared to be sleeping deeply. “She still rests,” Adaos murmured. “Her injuries?” “All damage to her skeletal system has healed completely. Some of the damage to her musculature and skin has as well. The damage to her organs is still repairing.” “Did you give her a silna to accelerate her healing?” Even with the serum, it would take Segonian warriors longer to recuperate from such wounds. Adaos shook his head. “A silna wasn’t necessary. Her ability to repair and regenerate rivals that of the Sectas with their nanodocs.” “Amazing.” Dagon crouched next to the bed. Reaching out, he gently drew the hair back from Eliana’s face and tucked it behind her ear. “She’s too thin,” he whispered, noting the prominent cheekbones. Though the burns had healed, some of the cuts and bruising remained. “Did you provide her with sustenance before she fell asleep?” “Yes. I also fed her fluids and nutrition intravenously.” “She doesn’t like needles.” “She slept through it.” Eliana’s eyelashes fluttered. Her lids rose, revealing deep brown eyes bereft of the amber glow. She studied him a moment, then offered him a sleepy smile. One small hand burrowed out from under the covers and stretched toward him. Soft fingers came to rest on his cheek and stroked the stubble there. “Dagon.” Warmth unfurled in his chest at the tender touch. His pulse picked up its pace. “Eliana.

Bluefur?" Thrushpelt was calling her from the trail ahead, his sandy-gray pelt blending with the walls of frost-burnt bracken. “Are you okay?” His eyes were round with concern. Bluefur padded on with her head down. “Just going back to camp.” He didn’t step aside to let her pass, but gently held his tail up to block her way. “Stop,” he ordered. She looked into his eyes and saw a tenderness that took her by surprise. “Rosetail has just congratulated me on becoming a father,” he meowed. Bluefur felt the world spin around her. “She couldn’t! She promised!” “Is she right? Are you having kits?” “I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell her that you were the father.” Mortified, Bluefur searched for words. “She just guessed, and it was easier….” She stopped. She couldn’t give anything away. “So you are going to have kits?” Thrushpelt pressed. Bluefur blinked. “Yes, I am.” She waited for him to ask whose they were. Why she’d lied. But he just stood and watched her. At last he spoke. “I’m not going to ask who the father is,” he meowed. “I’m sure there’s a reason why you’ve kept this secret.” Bluefur plucked at a fern straying across the ground. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out differently. I—I would have been happy with you, I know. But now everything has gone wrong, and I don’t know what to do.” Thrushpelt shifted his paws. “You can tell the Clan I’m the father, if you want. I mean, if it makes things easier.” Bluefur stared at him. “You’d really do that?” Was she the only cat not willing to make a sacrifice for these kits? Thrushpelt nodded. “You know how I feel about you, Bluefur. I’d do my best to make you happy, I promise. And I’ll love your kits as though they were really my own.

From the first moment of life, men ought to begin learning to deserve to live; and, as at the instant of birth we partake of the rights of citizenship, that instant ought to be the beginning of the exercise of our duty. If there are laws for the age of maturity, there ought to be laws for infancy, teaching obedience to others. [...] Public education, therefore, under regulations prescribed by the government, and under magistrates established by the Sovereign, is one of the fundamental rules of popular or legitimate government. If children are brought up in common in the bosom of equality; if they are imbued with the laws of the State and the precepts of the general will; if they are taught to respect these above all things; if they are surrounded by examples and objects which constantly remind them of the tender mother who nourishes them, of the love she bears them, of the inestimable benefits they receive from her, and of the return they owe her, we cannot doubt that they will learn to cherish one another mutually as brothers, to will nothing contrary to the will of society, to substitute the actions of men and citizens for the futile and vain babbling of sophists, and to become in time defenders and fathers of the country of which they will have been so long the children. I shall say nothing of the Magistrates destined to preside over such an education, which is certainly the most important business of the State. It is easy to see that if such marks of public confidence were conferred on slight grounds, if this sublime function were not, for those who have worthily discharged all other offices, the reward of labour, the pleasant and honourable repose of old age, and the crown of all honours, the whole enterprise would be useless and the education void of success. For wherever the lesson is not supported by authority, and the precept by example, all instruction is fruitless; and virtue itself loses its credit in the mouth of one who does not practise it. But let illustrious warriors, bent under the weight of their laurels, preach courage: let upright Magistrates, grown white in the purple and on the bench teach justice. Such teachers as these would thus get themselves virtuous successors, and transmit from age to age, to generations to come, the experience and talents of rulers, the courage and virtue of citizens, and common emulation in all to live and die for their country.

Pilgrims with no vision of the promised land become proprietors of their own land … Instead of looking upward at [the Lord] they look inward at themselves and outward at each other. The result? Cabin fever. Quarreling families. Restless leaders. Fence building. Staked-off territory. No trespassing! signs are hung on hearts and homes. Spats turn into fights as myopic groups turn to glare at each other’s weaknesses instead of turning to worship their common Strength.2

If our marriage were to go on just the way it’s been going, what will it be like for us in five, ten, twenty years? How can I build the self-esteem of my wife, who spends enormous amounts of time cleaning house and changing diapers? How can I help my eight-year-old girl learn to understand and control her emotions before the hormones start pumping through her body? When will my little boy and I need to have our first talk about sex? What kinds of things might my kids encounter in middle school—and how can I prepare them? How can I manage my career goals so that I’m available to my high school children? What will my children need in a dad when they’re in college? What kind of a husband will my wife need when she hits menopause? How can I help her through that passage? What kind of traits will my kids and grandkids cherish in a grandfather?

The kind of attitude that is implied in the words Just stand up! is not a grim, gritted-teeth determination with which we power ourselves to face a situation at all odds. There is nothing grim about accepting the invitation that life offers us in so many situations to go deep and make good on the promises we made to ourselves earlier. Honoring our commitment not only to others but to ourselves is in fact to express what Chögyam Trungpa called fearlessness. It is not based on a harder-than-hard clenching up but on a gentle opening that reveals a strong core. Chögyam Trungpa writes in Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior: “Real fearlessness is the product of tenderness. It comes from letting the world tickle your heart, your raw and beautiful heart. You are willing to open up, without resistance or shyness, and face the world. You are willing to share your heart with others.”1 And with yourself!

For the warrior,” says Trungpa, “the experience of sad and tender heart is what gives birth to fearlessness.

Fortunately Mercy was not so rare as it was beautiful, for it is universally true that "The bravest are the tenderest, the loving are the daring." "Bushi no nasaké"—the tenderness of a warrior—had a sound which appealed at once to whatever was noble in us;

Working with obstacles is life’s journey. The warrior is always coming up against dragons. Of course the warrior gets scared, particularly before the battle. It’s frightening. But with a shaky, tender heart the warrior realizes that he or she is just about to step into the unknown, and then goes forth to meet the dragon.

George A. Lopez, characterizing techniques common to the State as terrorist, lists four approaches—information control, law enforcement/legal, economic coercion, and outright life threatening (including kidnapping, disappearances, torture, etc.). He argues with unusual acumen that all four are entwined with the dynamic of patriarchy: “The emphasis on masculinity demands the assumption of warrior-hero characteristics: a proclivity for violence, an aura of the fighter, and an explicit rejection of those characteristics associated with the frail and womanly aspects of human beings: sensitivity, pity, emotionality, tenderness toward others, and so on.” He’s right—but the truth is even worse. The phallic malady is epidemic and systemic. It’s too easy to imagine the power concentrated in a series of rooms, with ten or even a hundred high-level would-be-hero bureaucrats raving toward Armageddon for one another’s approval. The more frightening reality is that each individual male in the patriarchy is aware of his relative power in the scheme of things. A few may be distressed at that power, many may claim innocence of it, most may deny it or pretend to ignore it, and some may blatantly delight in it—but all are aware of it.

After I had finished giving the account of my shame, he spoke, impatiently. ''Listen,' he said, piercing me with his cold, blue gaze. 'You must deal with this. You must get those guys, one by one, and crush them. Especially that guy!' My father named the main protagonist, and continued. ''Not yet; you must wait a couple of days. You must catch him by surprise. A good beating from you is what he needs, and I can assure you – he will never think of crossing you again! You see, if you don't do this now, others will come and push you around. You must show them you're not a doormat!'' My father's whole being was charged with some unseen energy, a power which, since I never felt any real closeness to him, seemed frightening to me. I knew he loved me; I knew he would kill for me – I was sure that he would die for me if he had to; yet, since our relationship was deprived of tenderness, there was no sense of warmth to bridge the gap between my gentle, undeveloped heart and his manly strength. I did not feel protected that night, and I did not feel understood. My heart strained under the weight of the utter loneliness which rushed in, adding to the effect of the assault that had taken place earlier. I did not know it at the time, but I do now: it was not an exhortation that I needed, no call to battle. I hungered for understanding and compassion; I yearned for manly warmth, to be held and loved by the one who was stronger than me – the one who would make all things right in the end, regardless of what I did or didn’t do. Instead, I felt helpless and alone. It is difficult, indeed impossible, to develop a fighter's heart and be a warrior who fights to defend himself and others, unless one has first been so nurtured with masculine love and so immersed in it as a boy, that his confidence and strength he is called to display later in life are not false, but genuine, deep and natural, flowing from within. A boy cannot do that by himself; he first needs to belong in the world of men... And it was that which I doubted – my ability to qualify for belonging in that world; the world of my father. This was the only world I ever desired to enter, and now, finally, just as I had feared it would happen, the gate to that world was shut in my face. Not being good enough to gain the right to enter, I lost the opportunity to possess all that could have been granted to me there: an identity, self-worth, and manly courage.

Warriorhood in Marriage and Relationship Conscious fighting is a great help in relationships between men and women. Jung said, “American marriages are the saddest in the whole word, because the man does all his fighting at the office.” When a man and a woman are standing toe-to-toe arguing, what is it that the man wants? Often he does not know. He wants the conflict to end because he is afraid, because he doesn’t know how to fight, because he “doesn’t believe in fighting,” because he never saw his mother and father fight in a fruitful way, because his boundaries are so poorly maintained that every sword thrust penetrates to the very centre of his chest, which is tender and fearful. When shouts of rage come out of the man, it means that his warriors have not been able to protect his chest; the lances have already entered, and it is too late.

In a realm of soft hues and blooming blossoms, a young girl lay amidst a field of flowers, a celestial veil gracing her features with a gentle, translucent touch. Her arms extended gracefully above her, eyes closed, she seemed to dance on the edge of dreams. The flowers painted the canvas in shades of blue, purple, and pink, their petals swaying in a tender breeze. Dew-kissed blades of grass formed a sea of diamonds, reflecting the soft glow of an unseen moon. As the girl stirred in her slumber, a distant echo of horse steps reached her ears, a melody that danced through the flowered meadow. Slowly, she rose from her flowery bed, the veil slipping away like morning mist to unveil her enchanting presence. Her gown, a masterpiece of celestial elegance, cascaded around her. A floor-length creation in light blue, it cradled her form with a sweetheart neckline, the bodice adorned in gold, floral designs. Layers of tulle formed the flowing skirt, adorned with accents of blueish flowers, and a train that trailed behind her like a comet's tail. Around her neck hung a pendant, a crescent moon cradling a star, both crafted from silver and adorned with blue gemstones, a twin to the one she wore in the enchanted garden. Her golden locks, a cascade of loose curls, framed her face with ethereal grace, flowing like strands of sunlight. Awakening from the meadow's embrace, her deep blue eyes sought the source of the approaching steps. With a sense of dreamlike purpose, she floated towards the sound, the forest mist enveloping her like a lover's caress. In the heart of the foggy woodland, a clearing revealed itself, trees standing sentinel in the distance. From the shroud of mist emerged a figure on horseback, a man in the regalia of a medieval warrior. The horse, a noble steed of white, carried him forward with determined grace. His attire, a tapestry of dark fabric and gilded accents, spoke of a history steeped in honor and battle. High collars and embroidered shoulder pads, buttons, and chains of gold, all adorned his form. His cape billowed behind him, a canvas of golden threads dancing in the breeze. Their eyes met innocence and determination woven together in the tapestry of fate. As he approached, still astride his noble mount, he extended a hand, a silent invitation. With an innocence that matched the morning dew, she lifted her hand to meet his, and at that moment, the world seemed to swirl and dance around them. Yet, just as the dance was about to begin, Princess Mehjabeen's eyes fluttered open, the enchanting dream slipping away like mist beneath the twilight.

In a realm of soft hues and blooming blossoms, a young girl lay amidst a field of flowers, a celestial veil gracing her features with a gentle, translucent touch. Her arms extended gracefully above her, eyes closed, she seemed to dance on the edge of dreams. The flowers painted the canvas in shades of blue, purple, and pink, their petals swaying in a tender breeze. Dew-kissed blades of grass formed a sea of diamonds, reflecting the soft glow of an unseen moon. As the girl stirred in her slumber, a distant echo of horse steps reached her ears, a melody that danced through the flowered meadow. Slowly, she rose from her flowery bed, the veil slipping away like morning mist to unveil her enchanting presence. Her gown, a masterpiece of celestial elegance, cascaded around her. A floor-length creation in light blue, it cradled her form with a sweetheart neckline, the bodice adorned in gold, floral designs. Layers of tulle formed the flowing skirt, adorned with accents of blueish flowers, and a train that trailed behind her like a comet's tail. Around her neck hung a pendant, a crescent moon cradling a star, both crafted from silver and adorned with blue gemstones, a twin to the one she wore in the enchanted garden. Her golden locks, a cascade of loose curls, framed her face with ethereal grace, flowing like strands of sunlight. Awakening from the meadow's embrace, her deep blue eyes sought the source of the approaching steps. With a sense of dreamlike purpose, she floated towards the sound, the forest mist enveloping her like a lover's caress. In the heart of the foggy woodland, a clearing revealed itself, trees standing sentinel in the distance. From the shroud of mist emerged a figure on horseback, a man in the regalia of a medieval warrior. The horse, a noble steed of white, carried him forward with determined grace. His attire, a tapestry of dark fabric and gilded accents, spoke of a history steeped in honor and battle. High collars and embroidered shoulder pads, buttons, and chains of gold, all adorned his form. His cape billowed behind him, a canvas of golden threads dancing in the breeze. Their eyes met innocence and determination woven together in the tapestry of fate. As he approached, still astride his noble mount, he extended a hand, a silent invitation. With an innocence that matched the morning dew, she lifted her hand to meet his, and at that moment, the world seemed to swirl and dance around them.

He guarded him . . . like an eagle that stirs up its nest and hovers over its young, that spreads its wings to catch them and carries them on its pinions. The Lord alone led him; no foreign god was with him. (Deuteronomy 32:10–12) Our almighty God is like a parent who delights in leading the tender children in His care to the very edge of a precipice and then shoving them off the cliff into nothing but air. He does this so they may learn that they already possess an as-yet-unrealized power of flight that can forever add to the pleasure and comfort of their lives. Yet if, in their attempt to fly, they are exposed to some extraordinary peril, He is prepared to swoop beneath them and carry them skyward on His mighty wings. When God brings any of His children into a position of unparalleled difficulty, they may always count on Him to deliver them. from The Song of Victory When God places a burden upon you, He places His arms underneath you. There once was a little plant that was small and whose growth was stunted, for it lived under the shade of a giant oak tree. The little plant valued the shade that covered it and highly regarded the quiet rest that its noble friend provided. Yet there was a greater blessing prepared for this little plant. One day a woodsman entered the forest with a sharp ax and felled the giant oak. The little plant began to weep, crying out, “My shelter has been taken away. Now every fierce wind will blow on me, and every storm will seek to uproot me!” The guardian angel of the little plant responded, “No! Now the sun will shine and showers will fall on you more abundantly than ever before. Now your stunted form will spring up into loveliness, and your flowers, which could never have grown to full perfection in the shade, will laugh in the sunshine. And people in amazement will say, ‘Look how that plant has grown! How gloriously beautiful it has become by removing that which was its shade and its delight!’ ” Dear believer, do you understand that God may take away your comforts and privileges in order to make you a stronger Christian? Do you see why the Lord always trains His soldiers not by allowing them to lie on beds of ease but by calling them to difficult marches and service? He makes them wade through streams, swim across rivers, climb steep mountains, and walk many long marches carrying heavy backpacks of sorrow. This is how He develops soldiers—not by dressing them up in fine uniforms to strut at the gates of the barracks or to appear as handsome gentlemen to those who are strolling through the park. No, God knows that soldiers can only be made in battle and are not developed in times of peace. We may be able to grow the raw materials of which soldiers are made, but turning them into true warriors requires the education brought about by the smell of gunpowder and by fighting in the midst of flying bullets and exploding bombs, not by living through pleasant and peaceful times. So, dear Christian, could this account for your situation? Is the Lord uncovering your gifts and causing them to grow? Is He developing in you the qualities of a soldier by shoving you into the heat of the battle? Should you not then use every gift and weapon He has given you to become a conqueror? Charles H. Spurgeon

The measure of a man is the spiritual and emotional health of his family. A real provider has a vision for a marriage that bonds deeply, for sons with character as strong as trees, and for daughters with confidence and deep inner beauty. Without that vision and leadership, a family struggles, gropes, and may lose its way.

and more warriors than there were in Utentok. There was an impromptu war that broke out and Delanoa was faced with two choices. To remain in Utentok for the sake of his wife, her tender midnight touch and the passionate love making she fed him with all the time recommended as they newly got wedded and the excitement was fresh for a week’s honey

Maxi’s Tart (Lady Honey de Shera’s special tart recipe for Maximus who was, in fact, a finicky eater as a child. Guaranteed to make all future knights very happy with full tummies)   4 Tbsp. butter, melted  1/2 tsp. salt  pinch saffron  6 eggs  1/2 medium onion, coarsely chopped  1/2 lb. soft cheese, grated  1/2 cup currants   1 Tbsp. honey  1 tsp. parsley  1 tsp. sage  1 tsp. hyssop (this is an herb with a minty-ish taste) 1 tsp. powder douce (equal parts ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves) Grind saffron with salt, mix with butter, and set aside. Place onions into boiling beef broth and cook until just tender and drain. Beat eggs and combine with saffron-butter, onions, and remaining ingredients, pour into pastry shell, and bake at 350°F for one hour.

Are there any who don’t heal?” Christian’s throat tightened at her question—that she would be so compassionate, when any other lady of her stature would be demanding the lives of the men who had assaulted her. It was something his mother would have done. “Unfortunately, aye. There are always some who can’t adjust. Some kill themselves once they arrive home. A few have gone mad, and some, such as the Scot, live in perpetual torment and seclusion from the world.” She reached up to place her fingertips to his lips as she stared up at him with a warm, tender expression. “I wish you had come home to me so that I could have helped you.” He pulled the cloth away from her face and stared at her for a hard second. “Had I known what was waiting for me, my lady, I would have.” -Adara & Christian

The imposter’s dead.” Adara froze as she heard the unfamiliar male voice through her prison’s door. “Are you sure?” her guard asked. “Aye. Lord Selwyn identified him himself. He was stabbed straight through his heart.” Adara felt her world shift at those words. Christian dead? Nay. It couldn’t be. The men outside laughed and began to celebrate. “Christian,” she breathed, her heart shattering in waves of bitter agony. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t. “Open the door. Lord Selwyn wishes to have the queen join him so that they can set a date for her new wedding.” Never! Adara struggled to breathe as she glanced about for a weapon. There was nothing. But when the door opened, her rage took hold of her. “Damn you!” she shouted, then commenced to throwing every object toward the soldiers who entered. She couldn’t see clearly through her tears. All she knew was that she wanted vengeance on all of them. How dare they kill her Christian! How dare they! Sobs assailed her. She wanted to crumple from the excruciating weight of her grief. But she refused. So instead, she vented by pelting them with everything she could lift and launch. “Adara, cease!” She froze at the sound of a voice she hadn’t expected to hear. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming, until she blinked to look up into the most handsome face she’d ever known. She stared at the same blue eyes that made the tenderest of love to her. Christian. Her grip went lax and the candlestick in her hand fell to the floor. He was alive! She threw herself into his arms and held him close as giddy tears replaced her grief-induced ones. At least until her rage took hold again. “Damn you, you worthless, heartless son of a dog!” she snarled, pulling back to strike at his chest. “How dare you make me think you were dead! Don’t you ever do such a thing to me again.” Christian was stunned by her language and actions. “I didn’t know you could hear us through the door.” She struck him again on his armor, a blow that no doubt he felt not at all, but it gave her some degree of satisfaction. “Well, think better next time.” Her untoward anger amused him. Wiping the tears from her face, he kissed her tenderly. Phantom cleared his throat. “Need I remind the two of you that we still need to get out of this place before the guards regain consciousness?” “We are coming,” Christian said, pulling back from her and taking her hand into his. Two men brought the guards into her room and dumped them by her bed before they tied them securely. “How did you know where to find me?” she asked them. “Phantom has many unsavory friends who know every machination of Selwyn’s.” For some reason she didn’t doubt that.

Taya clung that way to him now, as though he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. Then her shoulders jerked and she gave a ragged gasp against his neck. Nate pressed his cheek to her temple. Ah, baby, don’t… His first impulse was to pull out and quiet her, to tell her shhh, don’t cry, everything’s okay. But clearly everything wasn’t okay and when he tried to ease back she shook her head. Nate closed his eyes. She’d held him in silence the other night, acknowledged and accepted his pain. He’d give her the same now, while they were connected as intimately as two people could be. The most intense connection he’d ever experienced in his life. Slipping his arms beneath her, he banded them tight around her back and rested his full weight against her, being her anchor, giving her a safe place to hide while the storm of emotion rolled through her. She battled it like the little warrior he called her and held on, forcing back the sobs until she calmed enough to take several slow, deep breaths, her face remaining tight to his neck. He was still hard inside her, as deep and close as he could possibly get. A fierce yet tender protectiveness flooded him. Gradually she calmed, the desperate edge to her hold easing.

We know from the experience of the last twenty years,” wrote Lewis in 1944, “that a terrified and angry pacifism is one of the roads that lead to war.”28 Tolkien decried “the utter stupid waste of war,” yet admitted “it will be necessary to face it in an evil world.”29 Their recourse was to draw us back to the heroic tradition: a mode of thought tempered by the realities of combat and fortified by belief in a God of justice and mercy. Perhaps the character of Faramir, the Captain of Gondor in The Lord of the Rings, expresses it best.30 He possesses humility as well as great courage—a warrior with a “grave tenderness in his eyes”—who takes no delight in the prospect of battle. As such, he conveys a message that bears repeating at the present moment, in a world that is no stranger to the sorrows and ravages of war. “War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all,” he explains. “But I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”31

People, events, evil schemes, disasters, catastrophes can take things away from you. Things on the outside. But no one can ever take away what’s on the inside—heart, soul, character. A man can throw it away; but no one can ever take it away.

But if any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him. (James 1:5)

Initiation is the bottom line of masculinity. It means taking the lead. The lead in providing, protecting, mentoring, and befriending. It means caring for and developing our mates, our children, and ourselves. It means taking the lead in apologizing. The lead in seeking forgiveness. The lead in vulnerability. Masculinity means initiation. C. S. Lewis, as you might expect, said it brilliantly: “God is so masculine, that all of creation is feminine by comparison.

The measure of a man is the spiritual and emotional health of his family. A real provider has a vision for a marriage that bonds deeply, for sons with character as strong as trees, and for daughters with confidence and deep inner beauty. Without that vision and leadership, a family struggles, gropes, and may lose its way. In

Masculinity means initiation. To be masculine is to take initiative. To provide direction, security, stability, and order. To lead. To head. To husband. Masculinity means initiation. (Nowhere does it mean “bossy,” but more on that later.)

Talana,” he murmured, stroking her hair tenderly. Enjoying his gentle caress, she nuzzled closer. “I…I’ve never told anyone besides Liv and Kat what happened that night. And I never even told them about how Burke threatened me afterwards—I didn’t want them to worry.” He growled softly. “Thank you for trusting me. I will keep your confidence until the day I die.” Again with the formal vows. But it was kind of nice, in a way. They were quiet for a long, long time and Sophie was almost certain he’d drifted off to sleep when Sylvan spoke again. “No wonder I frightened you. I can see now why you say you don’t want an ‘alpha male.’” “I’m glad you understand,” Sophie said gratefully. “And I hope I didn’t uh, offend you when I told you that.” “No.” He sighed. “It’s all right. There’s more standing in the way between us than just your aversion to large aggressive males.” “I know.” Sophie felt unaccountably sad. How had they gotten so close so fast? And was she actually letting herself feel for the big warrior? How stupid is that? whispered a little voice in her head. You know you can never have him. Even if he wanted you enough to break his vow you could never give him what he needs. It was true but she still felt like she might cry again. And she really didn’t want to do that—she’d cried more than enough already tonight. “It really wasn’t your fault, you know.” His voice was a quiet rumble in the dark. “I know,” she whispered. “Well, I mean, I shouldn’t have gone with him—that was stupid. I just didn’t think he would really…try anything like that.” “Some males have no honor.” Sylvan’s voice was fiercely protective as he stroked her hair. “I swear to you as long as you’re under my care, nothing like that will ever happen to you again.” “Thank you.” Sophie looked up at him in the darkness. “Thank you for everything, Sylvan. For not…not making me feel stupid when I told you.” “You’re not stupid.” He cupped her cheek, his hand warm and comforting against her skin. “Naïve, maybe. Inexperienced. But not stupid.” “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said a little huffily. “Although, well, I haven’t been with anyone since…since Burke. I just…never felt like I could trust anyone enough again.” “That’s understandable. But to me you’re perfect the way you are. Except for this.” The pad of his thumb found her hurt lip and brushed it gently. “You can see that?” “Kindred night vision is very sharp.” Sophie was surprised and a little nonplussed. “All this time I was telling you, I kept thinking how glad I was that you couldn’t see me because of what a mess I am.” “Didn’t I just tell you you’re perfect?” His voice was almost stern.

As he and Beth hit the stairs, he called out to his brothers, “Thanks for having my back once again.” The group stopped and turned to face him. After a beat of silence, they formed a half circle around the foot of the grand staircase, each making a thick fist with his weapon hand. With a great whoop! of a war cry, they went down on their right knee and slammed their heavy knuckles into the mosaic floor. The sound was thunder and bass drums and bomb explosions, ricocheting outward, filling all the rooms of the mansion. Wrath stared at them, seeing their heads bent, their broad backs curled, their powerful arms planted. They had each gone to that meeting prepared to take a bullet for him, and that would ever be true. Behind Tohr’s smaller form, Lassiter, the fallen angel, stood with a straight spine, but he wasn’t cracking any jokes at this reaffirmation of allegiance. Instead, he was back to staring at the damn ceiling. Wrath glanced up at the mural of warriors silhouetted against a blue sky and could see nothing much of the pictures that he’d been told were there. Getting back with the program, he said in the Old Language, “No stronger allies, no greater friends, no better fighters of honor could a king behold than these assembled afore me, mine brothers, mine blood.” A rolling growl of ascent lifted as the warriors got to their feet again, and Wrath nodded to each one of them. He had no more words to offer as his throat had abruptly choked, but they didn’t seem to need anything else. They stared at him with respect and gratitude and purpose, and he accepted their enormous gifts with grave appreciation and resolve. This was the ages-old covenant between king and subjects, the pledges on both sides made with the heart and carried out by the sharp mind and the strong body. “God, I love you guys,” Beth said. There was a lot of deep laughter, and then Hollywood said, “You want us to stab the floor for you again? Fists are for kings, but the queen gets the daggers.” “I wouldn’t want you to take chips out of this beautiful floor. Thank you, though.” “Say the word and it’s nothing but rubble.” Beth laughed. “Be still, my heart.” The Brothers came over and kissed the Saturnine Ruby that rode on her finger, and as each paid his honor, she gave him a gentle stroke of the hair. Except for Zsadist, who she smiled tenderly at. “Excuse us, boys,” Wrath said. “Little quiet time, feel me?” There was a ripple of male approval, which Beth took in stride—and with a blush—and then it was time for some privacy.

Talon.” Her voice reached him just as he began the first note of his death song and his heart leaped. “Talon. Can you hear me?” He tried to open his eyes, but they were weighed down with mud. He smelled her. She was very close. He wanted to reach out to her, but he was so tired. “Talon.” Something warm and alive brushed his lips. Her caress was sweet and powerful. Feather-light, it jolted him with the intensity of a lightning bolt. If he didn’t hold on to her, the cold mud would seep into his nose and throat and choke the life from him. “Talon . . . don’t die,” she whispered. He opened his eyes just as she kissed him a second time with infinite tenderness. She gasped as he threw his good arm around her and crushed her against him. She was warm and alive. Vision or flesh and blood woman, she’d not leave him. Talon pressed his mouth against hers with searing heat. “Talon,” she cried, as she struggled free of his embrace and stood trembling, apparently unsure whether to run or fling herself back into his arms. “You’re . . . you’re awake,” she managed. A slow smile spread over his face. She covered her mouth with her hand. Her lips were tingling. “I was afraid . . .” she began. “I mean . . . I thought that you . . .” She put distance between them. “Your fever was very high,” she said quickly. “We . . . I was afraid that you—” “I am not dead, Becca,” he said hoarsely. “I . . . can see that.” Unconsciously, she rubbed her mouth. “You . . . you kissed me,” she whispered. “You kissed me first.” She felt giddy. “I did, didn’t I?” He closed his eyes again. “We must talk of this later,” he murmured. “Now, I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.” She reached for the brimming cup of medicine his sister had left when she went out. “You . . . you must have something to drink,” she said. “Are you in pain?” He made a sound that might have been either a low groan or a chuckle. “A man who was not a warrior of the Mecate Shawnee might say that.” “You fought with a bear,” she reminded him. “What shame is there to admit that you hurt? You’re human, aren’t you?” His black eyes snapped open with the intensity of a steel trap. “A Shawnee? Human?” he challenged. “Do you hear what you say?” “By Christ’s wounds, Talon! You’re as human as I am.” He sighed and his eyelids drifted closed. “Remember that, Becca . . . remember. I am just a man. A man . . . who cannot . . . cannot hate his . . . prisoner.

Is there anything worse than blindness? Oh, Yes! A person with sight and no vision. HELEN KELLER

Do they this often?” Kassandra asked, unable to draw her eyes from the men. “Often enough,” Joanna replied softly. “They are superb, are they not?” Kassandra watched a little longer before she nodded. “It is as well they are not enemies.” The men locked swords just as Royce happened to be facing the balcony. The moment he saw the women, he stepped away, disengaging with a quick word to Alex, who turned and looked up. “You are back,” Alex said as he joined Royce in lowering his sword. “How was Gunter’s?” “Sticky,” Joanna replied. “We were very bad. Are you done?” “Yes, of course,” Royce said. “I hope we didn’t disturb you.” He looked to Kassandra as he spoke. She returned his scrutiny calmly despite the sudden, rapid beating of her heart. With difficulty, she dragged her gaze away and followed Joanna down the steps from the balcony. As the women emerged into the gallery, Joanna said, “Why ever would I be disturbed by the sight of my husband and my brother seemingly intent on skewering each other?” “You know it is only play,” Alex said, a touch defensively. “It relaxes us.” “I would hate to see how you fight when you are not relaxed,” Joanna rejoined, but tenderly. Between these two flowed a love and understanding so absolute that Kassandra felt compelled to look away lest she trespass even inadvertently in a realm where only they belonged. Royce must have felt the same, for after a quick glance, he turned his attention to Kassandra. “And what did you think of your excursion?” “It was wonderful. Everything was as I imagined, only more so.” “You will make enthusiasm the fashion.” “Will I?” she asked, scarcely aware of what she said, for awareness of him overwhelmed all else. He stood, sword in hand, the damp fabric of his shirt revealing the powerful, sculpted muscles of his chest and arms. He looked, she thought, uncannily like the warriors she and every other young Akoran girl had peeked at during illicit visits to the training fields, giggling behind their hands even as they goggled appreciatively. Yet he was British from the top of his golden head to the bottom of his brilliantly polished boots.

Easy, Lilenta.” The deep voice from her dreams filled her ears and Liv told herself she had to be dreaming again. But was she dreaming the warm, spicy scent of his skin? Was she dreaming the long fingers that stroked strands of hair away from her cheek so tenderly? Suddenly she knew where she was and what was going on. And none of it was a dream. The dark man! Liv sat up and jumped to her feet, staggering a few steps before his hand shot out to catch her. She backed away just before his fingers closed on her wrist. “How long have I been out?” She couldn’t believe she’d fainted in the first place—what a horribly weak and girly thing to do! But it had been so shocking, seeing what she thought was a dream turned into hard, cold reality. Well he’s certainly hard but I’d say hot describes him better than cold, jabbered a little voice in her brain. As in hotter than any guy you’ve ever been with. Liv hated that little voice but she had to agree with it—the Kindred warrior certainly put Mitch in the shade. “You collapsed.” There was a look of concern in his amber eyes. “How do you feel?” “How do you think I feel? I’m here against my will in nothing but my underwear,” Liv threw at him. “So I see.” Hot amber eyes raked her body again, making Liv flush when she realized she’d practically just given him permission to stare. “Who are you?” she demanded, pulling her thin lace robe tightly around her. “And what have you been doing in my head?” “The dreams you mean?” he asked, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to dream of him. “Yes, of course,” Liv snapped. “What the hell are those all about?” “I dreamed of you, too,” he said simply, ignoring her question in the most infuriating manner. “It was the only thing that kept me sane.” “I…I…

Easy, Lilenta.” The deep voice from her dreams filled her ears and Liv told herself she had to be dreaming again. But was she dreaming the warm, spicy scent of his skin? Was she dreaming the long fingers that stroked strands of hair away from her cheek so tenderly? Suddenly she knew where she was and what was going on. And none of it was a dream. The dark man! Liv sat up and jumped to her feet, staggering a few steps before his hand shot out to catch her. She backed away just before his fingers closed on her wrist. “How long have I been out?” She couldn’t believe she’d fainted in the first place—what a horribly weak and girly thing to do! But it had been so shocking, seeing what she thought was a dream turned into hard, cold reality. Well he’s certainly hard but I’d say hot describes him better than cold, jabbered a little voice in her brain. As in hotter than any guy you’ve ever been with. Liv hated that little voice but she had to agree with it—the Kindred warrior certainly put Mitch in the shade. “You collapsed.” There was a look of concern in his amber eyes. “How do you feel?” “How do you think I feel? I’m here against my will in nothing but my underwear,” Liv threw at him. “So I see.” Hot amber eyes raked her body again, making Liv flush when she realized she’d practically just given him permission to stare. “Who

Though there are many barriers to expressing unreserved love, no such impediments to a developing a loving and generous heart deter a spiritual warrior. He who is without love is bereft of richness of life. Compassion, empathy, kindness, tenderness, and patience are essential for love. Anger, frustration, jealously, greed, and hatred are the antonym to love. When we love other people with all our ferocity, we transcend the misuse, waste, pain, tragedy, death, anguish, erotic obsessions, unaccountable confusion, and self-absorbed personal ambitions that, if left unchecked, numb our earthly existence.

The first hunting patrols are coming back, and I picked out this vole for you. Voles are your favorite, aren’t they? Come on, sit up now, and while you’re eating it, I’ll fluff up your nest so you can have a nice nap.” While Fuzzball was chattering on, Jayfeather let out a long groan. He sat up, irritably shaking scraps of moss and fern from his pelt. “I’m cured,” he announced. “Are you sure?” Alderheart asked, trying to hide his amusement. “I think your belly is still a bit tender. You might do better with another day of rest.” “No, I’m completely cured,” Jayfeather insisted, shooting a glare at Alderheart before bending down to take hungry bites of the vole. “I’d better get back to my duties, and that means I can’t chat right now.” “That’s great, Jayfeather!” Fuzzball exclaimed. “Now I can help you with medicine-cat stuff.” “StarClan give me strength!” Jayfeather muttered through his teeth.

God is your warrior and protector, giving you refuge and fighting for you. He is also a gentle shepherd whose presence never leaves, holding you tenderly when you’re hurting, soothing your fears and calming you with His love. He sings over you, like a mother sings over her child. He loves you with a compassion and tenderness that is unmatched. Let His love calm your fears today. You are so very loved. For the LORD your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

Let there be light. Gen. 1:3 Let there be enlightenment; let there be understanding. Darkness. Gen. 1:4 Ignorance; lack of enlightenment and understanding. Eden. Gen. 2:8 A delightful place; temporal life. Garden. Gen. 2:8 Metaphorically—a wife; a family. Tree of life in the midst of the garden. Gen. 2:9 Sex; posterity, progeny. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Gen. 2:9 Moral law; the knowledge of good and evil. The tree of life. Gen. 2:9 Eternal life. The tree of good and evil. Gen. 2:17 Metaphorically—sexual relationship. Good. Gen. 2:17 Anything perfect. Evil. Gen. 2:17 Anything imperfect; contrary to good; immature. Naked. Gen. 2:25 Exposed; ashamed. Serpent. Gen. 3:1 An enemy; deception. Thorns and thistles. Gen. 3:18 Grievances and difficulties. Sent forth from the garden. Gen. 3:23 A loss of harmony; a lost paradise. God took him away. Gen. 5:24 He died painlessly. He had a heart attack. Sons of God. Gen. 6:2 Good men; the descendants of Seth. My spirit shall not dwell in man forever. Gen. 6:3 I have become weary and impatient. (A scribal note.) The Lord was sorry that He made man. Gen. 6:6 (A scribal note. See Old Testament Light—Lamsa.) I set my bow in the clouds. Gen. 9:13 I set the rainbow in the sky. I have lifted up my hands. Gen. 14:22 I am taking a solemn oath. Thy seed. Gen. 17:7 Your offspring; your teaching. Angels. Gen. 19:1 God’s counsel; spirits; God’s thoughts. Looking behind. Gen. 19:17 Regretting; wasting time. A pillar of salt. Gen. 19:26 Lifeless; stricken dead. As the stars of heaven. Gen. 22:17 Many in number; a great multitude. Went in at the gate. Gen. 23:18 Mature men who sat at the counsel. Hand under thigh. Gen. 24:2 Hand under girdle; a solemn oath. Tender eyed. Gen. 29:17 Attractive eyes. He hath sold us. Gen. 31:15 He has devoured our dowry. Wrestling with an angel. Gen. 32:24 Being suspicious of a pious man. Coat of many colors. Gen. 37:23 A coat with long sleeves meaning learning, honor and a high position. Spilling seed on the ground. Gen. 38:9 Spilling semen on the ground. (An ancient practice of birth control.) No man shall lift up his hand or foot. Gen. 41:44 No man shall do anything without your approval. Put his hand upon thine eyes. Gen. 46:4 Shall close your eyes upon your death bed. Laying on of hands. Gen. 48:14 Blessing and approving a person. His right hand upon the head. Gen. 48:17 A sincere blessing. Unstable as water. Gen. 49:4 Undecided; in a dilemma. The sceptre shall not depart from Judah. Gen. 49:10 There shall always be a king from the lineage of Judah. Washed his garments in wine. Gen. 49:11 He will become an owner of many vineyards. His teeth white with milk. Gen. 49:12 He will have abundant flocks of sheep. His bow abode in strength. Gen. 49:24 He will become a valiant warrior. The stone of Israel. Gen. 49:24 The strong race of Israel. He gathered up his feet. Gen. 49:33 He stretched out his feet—He breathed his last breathe; he died.

we can choose to be perfect and admired or to be real and loved. We must decide. If we choose to be perfect and admired, we must send our representatives out to live our lives. If we choose to be real and loved, we must send out our true, tender selves. That’s the only way, because to be loved we have to be known. If we choose to introduce our true selves to anyone, we will get hurt. But we will be hurt either way. There is pain in hiding and pain outside of hiding. The pain outside is better because nothing hurts as bad as not being known. The irony is that our true selves are tougher than our representatives are. My tender self was never weak at all. She was made to survive the pain of love. My tenderness is my strength. Turns out that I never needed to hide. I was a Warrior all along.

The cultivation of tender feelings breeds considerate regard for the sufferings of others. Modesty and complaisance, actuated by respect for others' feelings, are at the root of politeness.

People with wombs have always known that bodies and consciousness are cyclical, tied to a rhythm that is larger than the individual. The cycle is twenty-eight days, full moon to full moon. Moon sounds like a name or a noun. But let us remember that moon is a gerund. Always moving. Always moon-ing. It is time to give the masculine back its lunar knowledge. Wombs swell, yearn, mulch, and release in twenty-eight days. But a womb is not just an organ. It is an invitation that anyone of any physicality and any gender expression can accept. It is an invitation to dance inside change for twenty-eight days. To practice softness for a cycle. The masculine has a womb, too. A moon. All it need do is look up at the night sky. What is lunar wisdom? Even on a new moon night, the moon is still present: replete and whole, while also void and occluded. This is a completion that holds loss tenderly inside its body. It is neatly summed up by Octavia Butler’s powerful words: “God is change.”1 The moon is every gender, every sexuality, mostly both, always trans: waxing and waning. The moon only ever flirts with fullness or emptiness for a brief, tenuous moment before slipping into change. Here is our blended, androgynous Dionysus. Wine-drunk, love-swollen, wind-swept, in ecstatic union with the holy, the moon encourages us to dissolve our edges rather than affirm them. Lunar knowledge keeps us limber. Keeps us resilient. Awe, whether somatic or spiritual, transforms us. The alternative to patriarchy and sky gods is not equal and opposite. It is not a patriarchy with a woman seated on a throne. The Sacred Masculine isn’t a horned warrior bowing down to his impassive empress. The divine, although it includes us, is mostly inhuman. Mutable. Mostly green. Often microscopic. And it is everything in between. Interstitial and relational. The light and the dark. Moonlight on moving water. The lunar bowl where we all mix and love and change.

Feel the sadness without drowning in it MY teacher Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche once said: “Hold the sadness and pain of samsara in your heart and at the same time the power and vision of the Great Eastern Sun. Then the warrior can make a proper cup of tea.” The notion of holding the sadness and pain of samsara in my heart rang true, but I realized I didn’t do that; at least, I had a definite preference for the power and vision of the Great Eastern Sun—the quality of being continually awake. If you can live with the sadness of human life (what Rinpoche often called the tender heart or the genuine heart of sadness), if you can be willing to feel fully and acknowledge continually your own sadness and the sadness of life, but at the same time not be drowned in it, because you also remember the vision and power of the Great Eastern Sun, you experience balance and completeness, joining heaven and earth, joining vision and practicality.

Firepaw crouched down and took a large bite from the mouse. It was juicy and tender, and sang with the flavors of the forest.

THE EVANGELICAL MEN’S MOVEMENT of the 1990s was marked by experimentation and laden with contradictions. “Soft patriarchy” papered over tensions between a harsher, authoritarian masculinity and a more egalitarian posture; the motif of the tender warrior reconciled militancy with a kinder, gentler, more emotive bearing. Inconsistencies within the evangelical men’s movement reflected those within evangelicalism as a whole in the post–Cold War years. Earlier in the decade, it might have appeared that the more egalitarian and emotive impulses had the upper hand. It was a new era for America, and for American evangelicals. Rhetoric of culture wars persisted, but evangelicals’ interests had expanded to include a broader array of issues, including racial reconciliation, antitrafficking activism, and addressing the persecution of the global church. At the end of the decade, however, the more militant movement would begin to reassert itself. When it did, this resurgent militancy would become intertwined both with the sexual purity movement and with the assertion of complementarianism within evangelical circles. In time it would become clear that the combination of all three could produce toxic outcomes.

real fearlessness is the product of tenderness. It comes from letting the world tickle your heart, your raw and beautiful heart. You are willing to open up, without resistance or shyness, and face the world … If a person does not feel alone and sad, he cannot be a [spiritual] warrior at all…

I am black, I was born black, I will die black and I will never ever be apologetic for being black. I have tasted the bitterness of racism from my mother’s breast, I have felt the ugliness of racism crawling through my tender veins. I have seen the blanket of suffocated the black nation in its own land. I have heard the bleating cry of many young, old people and babies all over the globe but no one had guts to take action and save them. I have watched my black nation swallowed up by the vicious waves of racism. I am a mother, I am grandmother and I am pleading with the prayer warriors, wailing mothers and peacemakers to avail themselves especially for those who called themselves the blood washed vessels of the Almighty God. Those who believe and have knowledge and wisdom that God is no respecter of persons, He has no favourites. Let’s come together and lift our holy hands, nation to nation, black, brown, yellow and white and call for equality of humanity. Prayer warriors arise, uproot and tear down this beast of racism which raises its head like never before to devour the black nation every second. The black nation is the creation of the Almighty God too The black nation is a hundred percent human too The black nation belongs to this planet too The black nation is worth living too The black nation has feelings too The black nation deserves better too The black nation deserves justice too The black nation is loved by God too

By Warrior I do not mean one who loves war or draws sadistic pleasure from fighting or bloodshed. There is a difference between a warrior and a brute. A warrior is a protector... Men stand tallest when they are protecting and defending.

We are shaped, in a way, by our earliest primitive memories and sensations that come through the skin. Later in life, the skin becomes not only the receptor of rich and constant sensory input, it also serves as a kind of organ of communication through which we both experience and express tenderness and pleasure and, alternatively, hurtfulness and pain. And in a thousand different societies—ancient and modern, technological and preliterate—the skin has been manipulated, decorated, scarred, revealed, hidden, tattooed, cut, and branded to communicate standing, prestige, status as a warrior or wife or slave, and attainment of adulthood. Skin communicates. Skin signals. Skin tells a story.

love you, too, munatara a la frah.” Sumi pulled back to stare up at him. She couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Not until she saw the truth in his eyes. No one had ever looked at her like that. Like she was the air he breathed. “I am not going to let Dariana have you, Dancer. If I have to cut her fucking throat to keep you safe, I will. And I will relish her blood flowing over my hands.” A smile spread across his face, exposing his fangs. “Spoken like a true Andarion warrior.” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a tender kiss across her palm. “I am, and will always be yours and yours alone, Sumi.” He pressed his cheek to hers before he stepped away.