Throne Of The Fallen Quotes

Kallor shrugged. '[...] I have walked this land when the T'lan Imass were but children. I have commanded armies a hundred thousand strong. I have spread the fire of my wrath across entire continents, and sat alone upon tall thrones. Do you grasp the meaning of this?' 'Yes,' [said Caladan Brood.] 'You never learn.

The most powerful pure-blooded Fae male in the world,” Chaol said simply. “A worthy asset for any court. Especially when they had fallen in love with each other.

Of all the pairs the Throne endorsed None rose to burn as bright As Lucifer, the Morning Star, And Lucinda, his Evening Light

Then there were the shabti, magical figurines that were supposed to come to life when summoned. A few months ago, I’d fallen for a girl named Zia Rashid, who’d turned out to be a shabti. Falling in love for the first time had been hard enough. But when the girl you like turns out to be ceramic and cracks to pieces before your eyes—well, it gives “breaking your heart” a new meaning.

...Love is the only thing worth fighting for - Daniel, to The Throne

Darkness was never as appealing as the light to most, but that didn’t mean it was any less integral to life. Too much sunshine withered the soul. Balance was the key.

And I love being a sinner too much to ever be a saint.

Next morning, while her children were still asleep in their tent, Evie got up early. The acorn she had planted the day before had sprung to life and was nearly ten feet high. Sitting on the fallen log where the forest boy had sat thirty years earlier, she listened. There was no dancing partner. Maybe she was now too old, but the oak trees did sing for her.

Aelin ran for Manon, leaping over the fallen stones, her ankle wrenching on loose debris. The island rocked with her every step, and the sunlight was scalding, as if Mala were holding that island aloft with every last bit of strength the goddess could summon in this land. Then Aelin was upon Manon Blackbeak, and the witch lifted hate-filled eyes to her. Aelin hauled off stone after stone from her body, the island beneath them buckling. "You're too good a fighter to kill," Aelin breathed, hooking an arm under Manon's shoulders and hauling her up. The rock swayed to the left-but held. Oh, gods. "If I die because of you, I'll beat the shit out of you in hell." She could have sworn the witch let out a broken laugh as she got to her feet, nearly dead weight in Aelin's arms.

Women are not possessions. She belongs to herself, you arrogant halfwit.

I thought that what I felt for you was right," Luce said. "I loved you until it hurt me, until our love was consumed by your pride and rage. The thing you called love made me disappear. So I had to stop loving." She Paused. "Our adoration never diminished the Throne, but your love diminished me. I never meant to hurt you. I only meant to stop you from hurting me.

I will be your God, your Creator, your Destroyer, and every depraved dark thing in between.

I can't bury another friend." "You won't." "If anything ever happened to you, Rowan-" "Don't" he breathed. "Don't even say it. We dealt with that enough the other night." He lifted a hand - hesitated, and then brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. His callused fingers scrapped against her cheekbone, then caressed the shell of her ear. It was foolish to even start down that road, when every other man she'd let in had left some wound, in one way or another, accidentally or not. There was nothing tender in his face. Only a predator's glittering gaze. "When we get back," he said, "remind me to prove you wrong about every thought that just went through your head." She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?" He gave her a sly smile that made thinking impossible. Exactly what he wanted - to distract her from the horrors of tomorrow. "I'll even let you decide how I tell you: with words"- his eyes flickered once to her mouth- "or with my teeth and tongue.

Love is such a dangerous and powerful emotion. The gods curse it, for it has power. Empires have fallen for it, reduced to sand and scriptures. Worlds have burned for it, and they will once more. Love has the power to touch even the untouchable. Use it.

Honestly, Dorian had no idea how Aelin had survived months of this—let alone fallen in love with the warrior while she did. Though he supposed both the queen and prince possessed a sadistic streak that made them compatible. Some

He'd been right when he said she didn't want Prince Charming. She wanted the demon.

What you call love does not sound very beautiful. Think of the way we adore the Throne. That adoration makes us the best version of ourselves. We feel encouraged to go further with or instincts, not to change ourselves for love. If I were yours and you were mine, I would want you to be exactly as you are. I would never eclipse you with my desires.

You have no morals.' 'True. But yours are as grey in tone as mine, my dear.' 'That's hardly true.' 'What a cunning little liar you are.' She was indeed.

All thrones should be made of ice, I think. Sit on that numb arse, sinking down and down, with the puddle of dissolution getting ever wider around you. Sit, dear ruler, and tell me all your grand designs.

It was that intensity she’d loved imagining, that feeling of being wholly consumed by another person. Just once she wanted someone to want her. Not her art. Not her talent. Her. Sometimes she felt so alone.

You can trust me with your life, Camilla. That is something precious. Something I’d never play with. No matter what game is happening. Truth?

Oh, my God.' Another growl. 'I assure you He had nothing to do with this.

This man could drag her down to hell and she'd gladly burn for eternity.

He argued that every certainty is an empty throne. That those who knew but one path would come to worship it, even as it led to a cliff’s edge. He argued, and in the silence of that ghost’s indifference to his words he came to realize that he himself spoke – fierce with heat – from the foot of an empty throne.

Do not call me pet.” “Noted, kitten.

Death. Now, that was an interesting notion. One that, perhaps, he should have been more familiar with than any other being, but the truth was, he knew nothing about it at all. The Jaghut went to war against death. So many met that notion with disbelief, or confusion. They could not understand. Who is the enemy? The enemy is surrender. Where is the battlefield? In the heart of despair. How is victory won? It lies within reach. All you need do is choose to recognize it. Failing that, you can always cheat. Which is what I did. How did I defeat death? By taking its throne.

She felt the words dangling there, felt herself dangling there, off the edge of the cliff. She swallowed. But Rowan had caught her each time she had fallen- first, when she had plummeted into that abyss of despair and grief; second, when that castle had shattered and she had plunged to the earth. And now this time, this third time...She was not afraid. Aelin met Rowan's stare and said clearly and baldly and without a speckle of doubt, I love you. I am in love with you, Rowan.

Bran knew that men slept on top of women when they shared a bed. Sleeping under Lord Manderly would be like sleeping under a fallen horse, he imagined.

Nature was a violent mistress, her beauty a mask to hide her cruelty.

Brace yourself, pet,” he growled. “I’m going to fucking devour you.

Anything more than friendship with her would destroy his chances of taking the throne. But every time one of them had fallen – in the snows of the Alps, in Istanbul, on the stormy topside, in that dusty canyon – the other had been there to pick them up. She couldn’t imagine Alek leaving her for some daft crown and scepter.

This time, when he shouted her name, then held her in his arms, she felt like he was already long gone. Like a star shooting across the night sky, there was nothing left but the memory of how beautifully bright it had once shined.

The way she moved, regardless if she knew it or not, was an enticement. She did nothing in particular; merely her existence made my blood thrum as if singing her praises. The night she’d stripped in front of me, I’d damn near fallen to my knees and begged for just a taste.

And I love being a sinner too much to ever be a saint.' 'No one would nominate you for sainthood.' 'And be glad of that. Saints don't typically kill to protect their investments.

I've been on my knees for you. If you want me there again, just ask. But if you expect an apology while I'm down there, you'll be disappointed. At least in that regard.

Doing things one shouldn't is often so freeing.

Who are you when the world fades away? What are you made of? How strong is your mind, your will, your capacity to fight? When there is nothing, who do you become?

It's morning.' His attention flicked to hers, amusement lacing his tone. 'I do comprehend what the sun indicates, pet.

Dear God, master of the universe, compassionate and merciful: we who are steeped in sin, kneel in supplication before your throne and beseech you to recall from this world Saadat Hasan Manto, son of Ghulam Hasan Manto, who was a man of great piety. Take him away, Lord, for he runs away from fragrance and chases after filth. He hates the bright sun, preferring dark labyrinths. He has nothing but contempt for modesty but is fascinated by the naked and the shameless. He hates sweetness, but will give his life to taste bitter fruit. He will not so much as look at housewives but is in seventh heaven in the company of whores. He will not go near running waters, but loves to wade through filth. Where others weep, he laughs; and where others laugh, he weeps. Faces blackened by evil, he loves to wash with tender care to make visible their real features. He never thinks about you but follows Satan everywhere, the same fallen angel who once disobeyed you.

The voice boomed from the Throne. "One more goodbye." Together, Luce and Daniel turned to acknowledge the Throne, but the second their eyes fell upon it, the stately figure of the woman blazed into white-hot glory, and they had to shield their eyes. The Throne was indiscernible again, a gathering of light too brilliant to be gazed upon by angels. "Hey, guys." Arriane sniffed. "I think she meant for you two to say goodbye to each other." "Oh," Luce said, turning to Daniel, suddenly panicked. "Right now? We have to-" He took her hand. His wings brushed hers. He kissed the centers of her cheeks. "I'm afraid," she whispered. "What did I tell you?" She sifted through the million exchanges she and Daniel had ever shared-the good, the sad, the ugly. One rose above the clouds of her mind. She was shaking. "That you will always find me." "Yes. Always. No matter what." "Daniel-" "I can't wait to make you the love of my mortal life." "But you won't know me. You won't remember. Everything will be different." He wiped away her tear with his thumb. "And you think that will stop me?" She closed her eyes. "I love you too much to say goodbye." "It isn't goodbye." He gave her one last angelic kiss and embraced her so tightly she could hear his steady heartbeat, overlapping her own. "It's until we meet again.

Now we are able to rejoice that we are saved not through the immanent mechanisms of history and nature, but by grace; that God will not unite all of history’s many strands in one great synthesis, but will judge much of history false and damnable; that he will not simply reveal the sublime logic of fallen nature but will strike off the fetters in which creation languishes; and that, rather than showing us how the tears of a small girl suffering in the dark were necessary for the building of the Kingdom, he will instead raise her up and wipe away all tears from her eyes – and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor any more pain, for the former things will have passed away and he that sits upon the throne will say, ‘Behold, I make all things new.

Theirs was a love that made it inconceivable to choose Lucifer or the Throne. The only side he could ever choose was hers. So now Daniel would pay for that choice, but he did not yet understand the shape his punishment would take. Only that she was gone from the place she belonged: at his side.

Camilla sobbed, and then gently pulled him onto her lap, stroking his head. 'Please. Please get up.' She had read enough fairy tales as a young girl to know that the prince was supposed to wake the love of his life with a kiss. But Envy was a demon, and Camilla was no damsel in distress. She pressed her lips to his forehead. He didn't magically stir.

...but I'm intrigued by you now, Miss Antonius. Is that how you welcome all patrons or just the ones you find incredibly handsome?

My only problem,' he said, gently nipping at her fingertips, 'is that I want you.

Envy did not believe in happily-ever-afters, only stretches of time that could be more enjoyable than others,

Her art was often her soul laid bare, a part of her she hesitated to share with just anyone.

Whether due to hubris or ego, man was the only creature who often ignored what no other prey did: trust your instincts or suffer the consequences.

Life would be so much simpler if she would fall for the male whose moral compass was as dependable as the North Star.

Touch her'- his voice was laced with malice, even as it faded to a mere whisper- 'and I'll annihilate you all.

Her father had told her repeatedly that fear was the one force that drove all darkness in the world. Love, on the other hand, was the greatest source of power. Love strengthened the weakest, gave them a ferocity that fear never offered. Mothers defended their children. Partners, friends, good people stared down evil, becoming something to be feared. Because of love. Yet love wasn't the path Camilla had chosen. She'd succumbed to that same moral trap. Change was terrifying. The unknown always was. It was the very essence of its being unknown that made it so. The familiar was comforting even when it wasn't necessarily good.

On the seventh day God rested in the darkness of the tomb; Having finished on the sixth day all his work of joy and doom. Now the Word had fallen silent, and the water had run dry, The bread had all been scattered, and the light had left the sky. The flock had lost its shepherd, and the seed was sadly sown, The courtiers had betrayed their king, and nailed him to his throne. O Sabbath rest by Calvary, O calm of tomb below, Where the grave-clothes and the spices cradle him we do not know! Rest you well, beloved Jesus, Caesar’s Lord and Israel’s King, In the brooding of the Spirit, in the darkness of the spring.

A slave is a fallen king whose only hope to live is to one day recover his throne

He flashed a knowing grin. 'Sweet deviant. You like me bowing before you?

I have my throne, I have my sword, I have an empire. But I have . . . no-one.

He’ll pursue you, become wildly territorial until he successfully captures you, then toss you aside. He isn’t cruel. He’s simply ruled by his own sin like we all are.

What is reality? If it feels real, looks real, is it not so?

Said the wolf pretending to be a sheep.

Sweet dreams, my filthy little darling.

Her warmth enveloped him almost instantly, her scent filling the space between them until all he could think of was how much he envied her perfume for touching her skin when he couldn't.

Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.

Want to know when I first fell a little in love with you?” “When I didn’t faint from fright after meeting Secmis?” She’d come close, practically falling into Brishen’s arms when they escaped the throne room. “That was impressive. No cowering subject before her, but no.” He tugged the blanket over her shoulder where it had fallen away. “It was when you ate the scarpatine and declared it tasted nothing like chicken.” She sniffed. “Then you’re easily impressed. I don’t think I fell in love with you just because you choked down a potato. Granted, you didn’t have to engage it in battle before you ate it.” ‘You’re hard to please.” She thumped his chest above his sternum. “I am not.” “Ouch.” He rubbed the injured spot.

A change in direction was required. The story you finished was perhaps never the one you began. Yes! He would take charge of his life anew, binding his breaking selves together. Those changes in himself that he sought, he himself would initiate and make them. No more of this miasmic, absent drift. How had he ever persuaded himself that his money-mad burg would rescue him all by itself, this Gotham in which Jokers and Penguins were running riot with no Batman (or even Robin) to frustrate their schemes, this Metropolis built of Kryptonite in which no Superman dared set foot, where wealth was mistaken for riches and the joy of possession for happiness, where people lived such polished lives that the great rough truths of raw existence had been rubbed and buffed away, and in which human souls had wandered so separately for so long that they barely remembered how to touch; this city whose fabled electricity powered the electric fences that were being erected between men and men, and men and women, too? Rome did not fall because her armies weakened but because Romans forgot what being Roman meant. Might this new Rome actually be more provincial than its provinces; might these new Romans have forgotten what and how to value, or had they never known? Were all empires so undeserving, or was this one particularly crass? Was nobody in all this bustling endeavor and material plenitude engaged, any longer, on the deep quarry-work of the mind and heart? O Dream-America, was civilization's quest to end in obesity and trivia, at Roy Rogers and Planet Hollywood, in USA Today and on E!; or in million-dollar-game-show greed or fly-on-the-wall voyeurism; or in the eternal confessional booth of Ricki and Oprah and Jerry, whose guests murdered each other after the show; or in a spurt of gross-out dumb-and-dumber comedies designed for young people who sat in darkness howling their ignorance at the silver screen; or even at the unattainable tables of Jean-Georges Vongerichten and Alain Ducasse? What of the search for the hidden keys that unlock the doors of exaltation? Who demolished the City on the Hill and put in its place a row of electric chairs, those dealers in death's democracy, where everyone, the innocent, the mentally deficient, the guilty, could come to die side by side? Who paved Paradise and put up a parking lot? Who settled for George W. Gush's boredom and Al Bore's gush? Who let Charlton Heston out of his cage and then asked why children were getting shot? What, America, of the Grail? O ye Yankee Galahads, ye Hoosier Lancelots, O Parsifals of the stockyards, what of the Table Round? He felt a flood bursting in him and did not hold back. Yes, it had seduced him, America; yes, its brilliance aroused him, and its vast potency too, and he was compromised by this seduction. What he opposed in it he must also attack in himself. It made him want what it promised and eternally withheld. Everyone was an American now, or at least Americanized: Indians, Uzbeks, Japanese, Lilliputians, all. America was the world's playing field, its rule book, umpire, and ball. Even anti-Americanism was Americanism in disguise, conceding, as it did, that America was the only game in town and the matter of America the only business at hand; and so, like everyone, Malik Solanka now walked its high corridors cap in hand, a supplicant at its feast; but that did not mean he could not look it in the eye. Arthur had fallen, Excalibur was lost and dark Mordred was king. Beside him on the throne of Camelot sat the queen, his sister, the witch Morgan le Fay.

The slave’s grin was hard with malice. ‘Damn you, Fear Sengar.’ ‘How did that offend you?’ ‘You just stated the central argument – both for and against the institution of slavery. I was wasted, was I? Or of necessity kept under firm heel. Too many people like me on the loose and no ruler, tyrant or otherwise, could sit assured on a throne. We would stir things up, again and again. We would challenge, we would protest, we would defy. By being enlightened, we would cause utter mayhem. So, Fear, kick another basket of fish over here, it’s better for everyone.’ ‘Except you.’ ‘No, even me. This way, all my brilliance remains ineffectual, harmless to anyone and therefore especially to myself, lest my lofty ideas loose a torrent of blood.’ Seren Pedac grunted, ‘You are frightened by your own ideas, Udinaas?’ ‘All the time, Acquitor. Aren’t you?

And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial, very soothing—I know that. Here it comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart.” “Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.” “Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne—between a guide and a seducer?” “I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it.” “Not at all—it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don’t make yourself uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wanderer!” He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being. “Now,” he continued, again addressing me, “I have received the pilgrim—a disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine.

One of them spotted the halo in Daniel’s hand and gasped. “They have stolen the first relic.” “And they were working together! Angels and demons and”-narrowed eyes fell on Luce-“those who do not know their place, all working together for an impure cause. The Throne does not endorse this. You will never find the desideratum!

Lord Balon grunted. “Casterly Rock has never fallen.” “Until now.” Theon smiled. And how sweet that will be. His father did not return the smile. “So this is why Robb Stark sends you back to me, after so long? So you might win my consent to this plan of his?” “It is my plan, not Robb’s,” Theon said proudly. Mine, as the victory will be mine, and in time the

By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne, between a guide and a seducer

She's been wrong. He was no jaguar, he was a wolf.

You ought to know, if I had taken a lover, I would have needed hours, Miss Antonius.

Sentimentality often grew fangs and bit a person in the rump.

Do you believe I’m a gentleman, Miss Antonius? I’d wager your heart is beating so wildly because deep down you hope I’m not.

The time for talking was through. He'd promised to be a demon and right now he was being far too charming.

You saw me but didn't say hello? I'm wounded, Miss Antonius.' Synton's voice was like a deep rumble of thunder in her ear as he finally dropped his hands but didn't step back. 'Perhaps I was getting the lay of the land. A lady must know where it's safe to step,' she quipped. 'Yet you're stepping all over my ego.' 'Forgive me, my lord. I had no idea you'd be so easily damaged.

I wish we could always be together, Papa,” she whispered. “All of us.” He leaned closer to hear. “That you never had to leave again.” “I wish the same.” His callused hands clasped one of hers. “I make you this promise. One day, when you give your throne to your own daughter, when your mother and I have white hair and wrinkles, we shall all live in Hróth together. Every winter, we will watch the sky lights, and every summer, we will dance and laugh under the midnight sun.” “Truly?” “My solemn oath.” Glorian nodded, tears prickling. “I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that more than anything.” “Then let it be our dream.” His smile creased his eyes. “For now, I will see you in the summer, dróterning.” Mustering her strength, Glorian shifted onto her elbows. Her father drew her into his embrace, the fur of his collar tickling her cheek. “I love you, Papa.” “And I you.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Look after my heart. Rest, Glorian. Be strong.

You cannot murder him,' Camilla said, sounding- of all things- partly aghast and mildly frustrated. He didn't slow his pace. 'I assure you, I can.' 'Allow me to rephrase. You will not murder him?

If she could paint him now, she’d focus on the harsh lines of his face cast by shadows, the littering promise of death in his eyes, and the violent slash of his mouth as it twisted into a vow of pain and torment.

She huddled next to Daniel in the Meadow, basking in the warmth of a burgeoning love that was pure and sustaining, as Daniel’s name rang out across the Meadow. He had been called. He rose above the riot of angelic light and said with calm self-possession, “With respect, I will not do this. I will not choose Lucifer’s side, nor will I choose the side of Heaven.” A roar went up from the vast camps of angels, from those who stood beside the Throne, from Lucifer most of all. Lucinda had been stunned. “Instead, I choose love,” Daniel went on. “I choose love and leave you to your war. You’re wrong to bring this upon us,” Daniel said to Lucifer. Then, to the Throne: “All that is good in Heaven and on Earth is made of love. Maybe that wasn’t your plan when you created the universe-maybe love was just one aspect of a complicated and brutal world. But love was the best thing you made, and it has become the only thing worth saving. This war is not just. This war is not good. Love is the only thing worth fighting for.” The Meadow fell silent after Daniel’s words. Most of the angels looked dumbfounded, as if they did not understand what Daniel meant. It had not been Lucinda’s turn. The angels’ names were called by the celestial secretaries according to their rank, and Lucinda was one of a handful of angels higher than Daniel. It didn’t matter. They were a team. She rose to his side in the Meadow. “There should never have to be a choice between love and You,” Lucinda declared to the Throne. “Maybe one day You will find a way to reconcile adoration and the true love You have made us capable of. But if forced to choose, I must stand beside my love. I choose Daniel and will choose him forevermore.

Camilla realized that fear had shaken something awake inside her, made her want to shed her civility and become all animal too. Dangerous. Batting aside these pestering sins, it was the only thing that truly tempted her,

Honestly, Dorian had no idea how Aelin had survived months of this—let alone fallen in love with the warrior while she did. Though he supposed both the queen and the prince possessed a sadistic streak that made them compatible.

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum? The barbarians are due here today. Why isn't anything happening in the senate? Why do the senators sit there without legislating? Because the barbarians are coming today. What laws can the senators make now? Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating. Why did our emperor get up so early, and why is he sitting at the city's main gate on his throne, in state, wearing the crown? Because the barbarians are coming today and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader. He has even prepared a scroll to give him, replete with titles, with imposing names. Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas? Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts, and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds? Why are they carrying elegant canes beautifully worked in silver and gold? Because the barbarians are coming today and things like that dazzle the barbarians. Why don't our distinguished orators come forward as usual to make their speeches, say what they have to say? Because the barbarians are coming today and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking. Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion? (How serious people's faces have become.) Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly, everyone going home so lost in thought? Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come. And some who have just returned from the border say there are no barbarians any longer. And now, what's going to happen to us without barbarians? They were, those people, a kind of solution

How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! . . . For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God. . . . I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the Most High. Isaiah 14:12–14

Despite her agitation, Camilla thought it was already rather lovely; it captured her as all the things she wished she could openly be. Soft, feminine, boldly powerful. Someone who owned her desire without apology, without pretending to humble herself for a world that oppressed.

Oh, darling, no. There’s a reason people say reformed rakes make the very best husbands. You want a wicked man in the bedroom. The wickeder the better, in fact. If anything, you ought to thank Vexley for his recent escapades. At least you know he’s well seasoned and has stamina.

He didn’t believe her, not fully, but she’d seem that wild desperation in his gaze. She knew, too, that he saw what everyone else in Waverly Greem did - a young, aristocratic woman who’d been groomed to obey men. While he might suspect a trap, he’d also been groomed to believe he could handle her.

He was not good, and he was not mortal. The sooner she realised that, the better it would be for her. If Camilla was sunshine, he was the darkest of nights. And if she wasn't careful, his shadows would snuff out her light. If only for the fleeting chance to possess her warmth before destroying it.

Elena had never considered where she might die—never considered that it might be so far from the rocky green of Terrasen. That her body might not be burned, but devoured by the dread-lord’s beasts. There would be no marker to tell the world where a Princess of Terrasen had fallen. There would be no marker for any of them.

Holy gods, when she looked at him, he’d almost fallen to his knees. Queen, and lover, and friend—and more. He hadn’t cared that they had an audience. He had needed to touch her, to reassure himself that she was all right, to feel the woman who could do such great and terrible things and still look at him with that beckoning, vibrant life in her eyes.

Song When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. Sir Thomas Wyatt has been credited with introducing the Petrarchan sonnet into the English language. Wyatt's father had been one of Henry VII's Privy Councilors and remained a trusted adviser when Henry VIII came to the throne in 1509. Wyatt followed his father to court, but it seems the young poet may have fallen in love with the king’s mistress, Anne Boleyn. Their acquaintance is certain, although whether or not the two actually shared a romantic relationship remains unknown. But in his poetry, Wyatt called his mistress Anna and there do seem to be correspondences. For instance, this poem might well have been written about the King’s claim on Anne Boleyn:

Apologies for any insult this causes,' she said without peering out from around her easel, 'but I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. Please just go.' A beat of silence passed. With any luck, Vexley would be insulted by the bite in her tone and would turn right back around and leave for some faraway city at the edge of the world. 'Well, that's quite a relief considering I'm in want of a painting, not a wife.

ISA14.12 How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!  ISA14.13 For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north:  ISA14.14 I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High.

He rises bloodless from dust, with dead eyes that are pits twin reaches to eternal pain. He is the lodestone to the gathering clan, made anew and dream-racked. The standard a rotted hide, the throne a bone cage, the king a ghost from dark fields of battle. And now the horn moans on this grey clad dawn drawing the disparate host To war, to war, and the charging frenzy of unbidden memories of ice. - Lay of the First Sword

She was a queen Raised to sit on a golden throne In a kingdom of crystal and ice All I had to offer was my sword of smoke and world of gasoline With soldiers shielded by leather and coated in tatts My currency was love and loyalty In a market that traded in diamonds and class I would do anything to convince her That she might have been raised to sit on a golden throne But she belonged on the seat of iron with a crown of steel At my side.

Pelor’s freckled face paled a bit. “Bill Chastain—the Eye Eater—was found stone cold dead this morning.” A Champion was dead? And a notorious killer at that. “How?” she demanded. Pelor swallowed hard. “Verin said it wasn’t pretty. Like someone ripped him wide open. He passed the body on his way here.” Nox cursed under his breath, and Celaena studied the other Champions. A hush had fallen on the group, and clusters of them stood together, whispering. Verin’s story was spreading fast. Pelor went on. “He said Chastain’s body was in ribbons.

She had sensed the truth of it long ago, Dany thought as she took a step closer to the conflagration, but the brazier had not been hot enough. The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. Mirri Maz Duur had fallen silent. The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn.

Who are you?” Luce asked, falling to her knees. “What do you want?” “Show some respect.” The angel’s throat convulsed as if he meant to bark, but his voice came out warbled and faint and old. “Earn my respect,” Luce said. “And I’ll give it to you.” He gave her half an evil smirk and dropped his head low. Then he pulled down the cloak to expose the back of his neck. Luce blinked in the dim light. His neck bore a painted brand, which shimmered gold in the glow of streetlights mingled with the moon. She counted seven points on the star. He was one of the Scale. “Recognize me now?” “Is this how the Throne’s enforcers work? Bludgeoning innocent angels?” “No Outcast is innocent. Nor is anyone else, for that matter, until they are proven to be so.” “You’ve proven yourself innocent of any honor, striking a girl from behind.” “Insolence.” He wrinkled his nose at he. “Won’t get you far with me.” “That’s exactly where I want to be.” Luce’s eyes darted to Olianna, to her pale hand and the starshot clenched in its grip. “But it’s not where you will stay,” the Scale said haltingly, as if having to force himself to commit to heir illogical banter.

When the clock struck ten and he still hadn’t come to her, she found herself walking to his rooms. Perhaps he was waiting for her there. Perhaps he’d just fallen asleep without meaning to. But she hurried down the halls and stairs, her palms turning slicker with each step. Chaol was the Captain of the Guard. He held his own against her every day. He’d bested her in their first sparring match. Yet Sam had been her equal in many ways, too. And he’d still been caught and tortured by Rourke Farran—still died the most brutal death she’d ever seen. And if Chaol … She was running now.

But there was another shrine at the back of the room, where the throne had once been. There, the dais had been lowered, and there was no throne, no deer, no rays of sun. There were still some who worshipped Arren the Sunbringer, Fireheart, but Lessa was determined he be remembered as only a king, stacker of Lesscia and Blenraden, burner of his people, not the winner of their war. For he had not won it. In the space where his throne had been, a small but grand shrine had been raised. Its walls were panelled in etched brass, showing green leaves, patterns and feathers, and its totem was white marble, beautifully carved: a hare with a stag’s horns and a bird’s wings. His eyes had been set with amber, his fur detailed so meticulously it looked as if he might spring up and move at any moment. Offerings had already been draped on his antlers, pooled in the bowls before him. Libations, incense, sweets and wine. Inara’s offerings were different. They were written notes on long thick pages. Inked stories of what he had been, what they had done together. She had one tucked in her pocket, ready to read aloud. His history, and hers. It was a greater shrine than he had ever dreamed, etched at its base with his name: Skediceth. God of hope and telling tales.

This age is truly crooked, perverse, and adulterous; it is full of fornication and immorality. People talk about immorality without one bit of shame. Who can stand in such a generation? Not one of us is able to stand. We all have a fallen nature within us, the same evil nature that all men have. We need grace. We must come to the throne of grace boldly and say, “Lord, I am here. I need Your grace. I am not coming to ask You to give me good things. I am coming to find grace to meet my need. Lord, I cannot go to work or to school without Your presence. Lord, I cannot go to a department store without Your presence. Lord, I need You to stand with me. Come to be my strength. Lord, uphold me and sustain me.

Trull Sengar saw chains upon the Letherii. He saw the impenetrable net which bound them, the links of reasoning woven together into a chaotic mass where no beginning and no end could be found. He understood why they worshipped an empty throne. And he knew the manner in which they would justify all that they did. Progress was necessity, growth was gain. Reciprocity belonged to fools and debt was the binding force of all nature, of every people and every civilization. Debt was its own language, whithin which were used words like negotiation, compensation and justification, and legality was a skein of duplicity that blinded the eyes of justice. An empty throne. Atop a mountain of gold coins. Father Shadow had sought a world wherein uncertainty could work its insidious poison against those who chose intransigence as their weapon - with which they held wisdom at bay. Where every fortress eventually crumbled from within, from the very weight of those chains that exerted so inflexible an embrace. [...] He argued that every certainty is an empty throne. That those who knew but one path would come to worship it, even as it led to a cliff's edge. He argued, and in the silence of that ghost's indifference to his words he came to realize that he himself spoke - fierce with heat - from the foot of an empty throne.