Wings Of Starlight Quotes

Once upon a time, the sky knew the weight of angel armies on the move, and the wind blew infernal with the fire of their wings.

Ziri's soul felt like the high roaming wind of the Adelphas Mountains and the beat of stormhunters' wings, like the beautiful, mournful, eternal song of the wind flutes that had filled their caves with music he could not possibly remember. It felt like home.

Clarion." He said her name like a plea. "Weighed against your life, they are nothing to me. I would make that trade every time.

It was strangely comforting— and strangely beautiful, to be known without having to speak a word.

This is Velaris,” I explained. “The City of Starlight.” His throat bobbed. “And you are High Lady of the Night Court.” “Indeed she is.” My blood stopped at the voice that drawled from behind me. At the scent that hit me, awoke me.

White." He spoke with conviction and I knew he'd seen. "A thousand shades of white, from mist to snow to starlight.

For those who see the world as it could be: brighter and full of magic

Milori tipped her chin up so that he could meet her gaze. “You will have all your subjects to love you. And even if I am not beside you, you will still have me. There will never be a star brighter. I will always love you.

want to draw you,” I said. “As my birthday present to me.” His smile was positively feline. I added, flipping open my sketchbook and turning to the first page, “You said once that nude would be best.” Rhys’s eyes glowed, and a whisper of his power through the room had the curtains parting, flooding the space with midmorning sunshine. Showing every glorious naked inch of him sprawled across the bed, illuminating the faint reds and golds of his wings. “Do your worst, Cursebreaker.” My very blood sparking, I pulled out a piece of charcoal and began.

The humans were sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle of soldiers, pointing at things and learning more Chimaera words: salt, rat, eat, which unfortunate combination led to Zuzana rejecting the meat on her plate. "I think it's chicken," Mik said, taking a bite. "I'm just saying there were a lot more rats around here earlier." "Circumstantial evidence." Mik took another bite and said, in passable Chimaera and to guffaws of laughter, "Salty delicious rat." "It's chicken," insisted one of the Shadows That Live. Karou wasn't sure which it was, but she was flapping her arms like wings, and even producing chicken bones to prove it.

How could she ever teach new arrivals to fly? How could she dare to unfurl their wings with the tenderness they deserved when she would always remember the ones she had broken?

Be angry if you must," he said, "but I can't lose you.

It amazed her how a place could carry both such joyful and painful memories. But she wanted to remember Winter like this: a friend, holding its companionate silence with her.

Mine, I thought deliriously, as a shadow swept over us, like a cape had been thrown over the sky. Mine, as my hands stroked up that strong back, velvety and warm, where every dip and line of muscle fit sweetly into my palms. Mine, as the storm trembled in the air around us, and shook the earth beneath us. “Mine,” I murmured, as blue eyes met mine, wide and startled. And then closed again as he took my breath in a kiss so consuming that I barely noticed when the storm continued on toward the horizon, the midnight wings showing vague starlight through in patches as it passed overhead. As it missed us. “Yours,” Louis-Cesare groaned

When things seem impossibly dark, bulb flowers are sparks of hope. It takes time for things to bloom. You just have to be patient and nurturing. So be nice to yourself. You’ll grow into it, I promise.

She loved him. Perhaps she was always bound to, from the very moment she saw him standing on the border. How could she not? She loved his steadfastness, his kindness, even his reckless, selfless bravery. She loved his wry humor and his unshakable devotion to his people. She loved him because he had set her free, too. And yet, he had broken her heart.

I love you too." He said miserably.

Go," Clarion whispered. "Please." He looked stricken. "I can't." He knelt at her bedside. "Not yet.

I was too angry for subtle, too full of rage for calm, I had no patience for clever, nor the time for caution. I was fury given wings, grief given strength and power given life.

The stars overhead glittered brighter. Wonder filled Milori’s expression as their light danced on the snow fluttering around them. When his gaze found hers again, she could not remember how to draw breath. How beautiful, to see the exact moment he fell in love with her. Perhaps he had always loved her, on some level, ever since that night he allowed himself to hope again.

I don’t regret what I’ve done, nor do I blame you for what happened. I’d do it again if given the opportunity.

Weighed against your life, they are nothing to me. I would make that trade every time.

Perhaps it would have been better to pine than to mourn.

For a moment, the two of them lay side by side like a couple of stargazers. Slowly, Clarion splayed her fingers out across his chest and propped herself up to peer down at him. His hair pooled around him, a spill of white against the muted blue of the ice. For just a little longer, she wanted to stay here, where nothing existed but the two of them.

I understand why your father hid you from me.” His wings unspooled, stretched. Stretched. “He knew you’d become my obsession.

From the warm, secluded safety of her bedroom, there was something so peaceful about it - and so lonely. Just like her.

I needed to know if she'll be all right," Milori replied, his voice hoarse.

She’s worth protecting.

I was too angry for subtle, too full of rage for calm, I had no patience for clever, nor the time for caution. I was fury given wings, grief given strength and power given life. Whoever awaited us in that place would be better off running than trying to stand against the hell I brought with me now.

Few will ever know that even the most mundane thing - the waning of the moon, the flow of the tide, the serendipitous reappearance of a lost trinket beneath your kitchen table - is magical

I do not think I’ve been subtle about it, but I feel I should tell you that I like you, too.” Clarion couldn’t help laughing, even through the threat of tears constricting her throat. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, if only to hide how much his words had affected her. She supposed she had known for quite some time how he felt, but to hear him admit it aloud . . . It made *this*— whatever it was— real: something she could lose.

This close, she was struck by the true color of his eyes: a stormy gray, with the faintest touch of glacial blue. She could see his expression softening as he gazed back at her, and— She was still holding his hand.

In the dark he glimmered with starlight. When they altered directions the swelling hush of the wind filled her ears, but when they glided, when they rode the wings of the air itself, she heard only him. The whispered resonance of his flight, respiration, heartbeat. Quiet. As if the cosmos had never held anything but them, as if above and below, in all the black glittering solitude of the universe, there would never be anyone else but them.

I On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping White Ophelia floats like a great lily; Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils... - In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort. For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river. For more than a thousand years her sweet madness Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze. The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath Her great veils rising and falling with the waters; The shivering willows weep on her shoulder, The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow. The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her; At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder, Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings; - A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars. II O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow! Yes child, you died, carried off by a river! - It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom. It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair, Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind; It was your heart listening to the song of Nature In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights; It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar, That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft; It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman Who one April morning sate mute at your knees! Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl! You melted to him as snow does to a fire; Your great visions strangled your words - And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye! III - And the poet says that by starlight You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

Both of us were caught up in our own things. I know it’s going to take some time to figure out how to fit into each other’s lives once you’re queen. But I’m not going anywhere.

If memory serves, queens aren't born from just any star, but a star that a child has wished upon. Maybe dream-talent magic lives on in you—in all governing talents.

You’re suggesting I stop thinking so much?

A present. Wrapped in black crepe paper and tied with silver thread. And beside it, smiling down at me, was Rhys. He'd propped his head on a fist, his wings draped across the bed behind him. 'Happy birthday, Feyre darling.' I groaned. 'How are you smiling after all that wine?' 'I didn't have a whole bottle to myself, that's how.

Lucien asked, 'What is this place?' We all looked at him. 'Home,' I said. 'This is- my home.' I could see the details now sinking in. The lack of darkness. The lack of screaming. The scent of the sea and citrus, not blood and decay. The laughter of children that indeed continued. The greatest secret in Prythian's history. 'This is Velaris,' I explained. 'The City of Starlight.' His throat bobbed. 'And you are High Lady of the Night Court.' 'Indeed she is.

She twined her fingers in the fabric of his cloak where it met at the dip of his collarbone. Holding his gaze, she said, "I don't want to leave." Milori looked as though he had been waiting his entire life for those words. A dam had given way within him, and the emotion burning in his eyes broke over her like a wave. His hands came to rest over hers, his fingers encircling her wrists. She could feel the wild thrum of his heart beneath her touch, the chill of his skin seeping into hers. "Then don't," he murmured into the bare space between them. Don't. As though it were the simplest thing in the world.

As early as the angels’ genesis, Lucinda’s wings were bright reflective silver, the color of starlight. They had shone in their singular glory since the dawn of the dawn of time.

He was so duty bound - and forever bound to fail.

For those who see the world as it could be: brighter and full of magic.

Milori pulled her to her feet and did not let go. His eyes were wild with concern, and his fingers curled urgently around her forearm. "You've done enough, Clarion. You should go inside." "No," she forced out through gritted teeth. "I can keep fighting. We have to hold them off until daybreak." There was something almost resigned glimmering within his eyes. Clarion saw the truth there: he did not expect to last until dawn, but he did not intend to stand down.

He was gazing at her like she was something to marvel at. His expression went soft and unguarded when he noticed her staring back at him, as though he hadn’t expected to be caught but did not mind it overmuch. There was no mistaking the wide-open yearning in his eyes. He had looked at her like this once before, she realized: the very first time she’d crossed into Winter. She wondered exactly how long he had wanted to kiss her—and felt very foolish, indeed, for being so oblivious.

They walked on into the dark and they slept like dogs in the sand and had been sleeping so when something black flapped up out of the night ground and perched on Sproule's chest. Fine fingerbones stayed the leather wings with which it steadied as it walked upon him. A wrinkled pug face, small and vicious, bare lips crimped in a horrible smile and teeth pale blue in the starlight. It leaned to him. It crafted in his neck two narrow grooves and folding its wings over him it began to drink his blood. Not soft enough. He woke, put up a hand. He shrieked and the bloodbat flailed and sat back upon his chest and righted itself again and hissed and clicked its teeth. The kid was up and had seized a rock but the bat sprang away and vanished in the dark. Sproule was clawing at his neck and he was gibbering hysterically and when he saw the kid standing there looking down at him he held out to him his bloodied hands as if in accusation and then clapped them to his ears and cried out what it seemed he himself would not hear, a howl of such outrage as to stitch a caesura in the pulsebeat of the world. But the kid only spat into the darkness of the space between them. I know your kind, he said. What's wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.

Spring is about renewal.''' Iris said serenly. ''When things seem impossibly dark, bulb flowers are sparks of hope. It takes time for things to bloom. You just have to be patient and nurturing.'' After a considering pause, she jabbed a finger at Clarion. ''So be nice to yourself.

I think you and I were meant to do this together- to solve the problem of the Nightmares for good." "You and I," he echoed, as solemn as a vow. Perhaps it was a bold declaration. But what they'd found felt a little like destiny- especially when the space between them crackled wjth possibility.

Winnowing into the freezing street, I pinwheeled my arms to keep upright as my boots slid on the ice coating the stones. Leaning against a lamppost, faelight gilding the talons atop his wings, Rhys chuckled. And didn’t move an inch. “Asshole,” I muttered. “Most males would help their mates if they’re about to break their heads on the ice.

I Love Thee I love thee, as I love the calm Of sweet, star-lighted hours! I love thee, as I love the balm Of early jes'mine flow'rs. I love thee, as I love the last Rich smile of fading day, Which lingereth, like the look we cast, On rapture pass'd away. I love thee as I love the tone Of some soft-breathing flute Whose soul is wak'd for me alone, When all beside is mute. I love thee as I love the first Young violet of the spring; Or the pale lily, April-nurs'd, To scented blossoming. I love thee, as I love the full, Clear gushings of the song, Which lonely--sad--and beautiful-- At night-fall floats along, Pour'd by the bul-bul forth to greet The hours of rest and dew; When melody and moonlight meet To blend their charm, and hue. I love thee, as the glad bird loves The freedom of its wing, On which delightedly it moves In wildest wandering. I love thee as I love the swell, And hush, of some low strain, Which bringeth, by its gentle spell, The past to life again. Such is the feeling which from thee Nought earthly can allure: 'Tis ever link'd to all I see Of gifted--high--and pure!

Even in the warm faelight of the foyer, the gown glittered and gleamed like a fresh-cut jewel. We had taken my gown from Starfall and refashioned it, adding sheer silk panels to the back shoulders, the glittering material like woven starlight as it flowed behind me in lieu of a veil or cape. If Rhysand was Night Triumphant, I was the star that only glowed thanks to his darkness, the light only visible because of him. I scowled up the stairs. That is, if he bothered to show up on time. My hair, Nuala had swept into an ornate, elegant arc across my head, and in front of it... I caught Cassian glancing at me for the third time in less than a minute and demanded, 'What?' His lips twitched at the corners. 'You just look so...' 'Here we go,' Mor muttered from where she picked at her red-tinted nails against the stair banister. Rings glinted at every knuckle, on every finger; stacks of bracelets tinkled against each other on either wrist. 'Official,' Cassian said with an incredulous look in her direction. He waved a Siphon-topped hand to me. 'Fancy.' 'Over five hundred years old,' Mor said, shaking her head sadly, 'a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complementing ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?' Azriel, wreathed in shadows by the front door, chuckled quietly. Cassian shot him a glare. 'I don't see you spouting poetry, brother.' Azriel crossed his arms, still smiling faintly. 'I don't need to resort to it.

I want to draw you,' I said. 'As my birthday present to me.' His smile was positively feline. I added, flipping open my sketchbook and turning to the first page, 'You said once that nude would be best.' Rhys's eyes glowed, and a whisper of his power through the room had the curtains parting, flooding the space with midmorning sunshine. Showing every glorious naked inch of him sprawled across the bed, illuminating the faint reds and golds of his wings. 'Do your worst, Cursebreaker.

My love, whose fingers are matches, whose waist is encircled by the arms of the wind. My love, how the world sleeps in your throat, how your heart is filled with the scents of raspberries and grapes, to live inside you, to live inside the warm peach. Otherwise there is no way to stop despair from lurking all night in the shadows beside the old toll gate. Otherwise we will have to weep in another language. It was on a country road. It was in the wrong tense. How do we stop all our words from falling in love with gravity? Otherwise we will have to stop taking breaths from this moment on. From this moment on the abandoned clocks will observe us. My love, our hearts are growing full of broken wings, My love, to find our voice in a drop of water, in the tracks the starlight leaves behind. If only this were enough. If only we could get the attention of Time, standing in that doorway, peeling an apple. It hurts here. It hurts here. — Richard Jackson, from “The Italian Phrase Book,” Richard Jackson Greatest Hits: 1980-2004 (Pudding House Publications, 2004)

The Wheel Revolves You were a girl of satin and gauze Now you are my mountain and waterfall companion. Long ago I read those lines of Po Chu I Written in his middle age. Young as I was they touched me. I never thought in my own middle age I would have a beautiful young dancer To wander with me by falling crystal waters, Among mountains of snow and granite, Least of all that unlike Po’s girl She would be my very daughter. The earth turns towards the sun. Summer comes to the mountains. Blue grouse drum in the red fir woods All the bright long days. You put blue jay and flicker feathers In your hair. Two and two violet green swallows Play over the lake. The blue birds have come back To nest on the little island. The swallows sip water on the wing And play at love and dodge and swoop Just like the swallows that swirl Under and over the Ponte Vecchio. Light rain crosses the lake Hissing faintly. After the rain There are giant puffballs with tortoise shell backs At the edge of the meadow. Snows of a thousand winters Melt in the sun of one summer. Wild cyclamen bloom by the stream. Trout veer in the transparent current. In the evening marmots bark in the rocks. The Scorpion curls over the glimmering ice field. A white crowned night sparrow sings as the moon sets. Thunder growls far off. Our campfire is a single light Amongst a hundred peaks and waterfalls. The manifold voices of falling water Talk all night. Wrapped in your down bag Starlight on your cheeks and eyelids Your breath comes and goes In a tiny cloud in the frosty night. Ten thousand birds sing in the sunrise. Ten thousand years revolve without change. All this will never be again.

Consider it a Solstice and birthday present in one.' He gestured to the house, the gardens, the grounds that flowed to the river's edge. With a perfect view of the Rainbow at night, thanks to the land's curve. 'It's yours. Ours. I purchased it on Solstice Eve. Workers are coming in two days to begin clearing the rubble and knock down the rest of the house.' I blinked again, long and slow. 'You bought me an estate?' 'Technically, it will be our estate, but the house is yours. Build it to your heart's content. Everything you want, everything you need- build it.' The cost alone, the sheer size of this gift had to astronomical. 'Rhys.' He paced a few steps, running his hands through his blue-black hair, his wings tucked in tight. 'We have no space at the town house. You and I can barely fit everything in the bedroom. And no one wants to be at the House of Wind.' He again gestured to the magnificent estate around us. 'So build a house for us, Feyre. Dream as wildly as you want. It's yours.' I didn't have words for it. What cascaded through me. 'It- the cost-' 'Don't worry about the cost.' 'But...' I gaped at the sleeping, tangled land, the ruined house. Pictured what I might want there. My knees wobbled. 'Rhys- it's too much.' His face became deadly serious. 'Not for you. Never for you.' He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple. 'Build a house with a painting studio.' He kissed my other temple. 'Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two- and for wings.' Another kiss, this time to my cheek. 'Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren, and an enormous dressing room for Mor.' I choked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss to my mouth, lingering and sweet. 'Build a house with a nursery, Feyre.' My heart tightened to the point of pain, and I kissed him back. Kissed him again and again, the property wide and clear around us. 'I will,' I promised.

Plants Fed On by Fawns" All the flowers: the pleated leaves of the hellebore; And the false blossom of the calla, a leaf like a petal— The white flesh of a woman bathing— a leaf over- Shadowing the small flowers hidden in the spadix; And fly poison, tender little flower, whose cursed root Pounded into a fine white powder will destroy flies. But why kill flies? They do not trouble me. They Are like the fruit the birds feed on. They are like The wind in the trees, or the sap that threads all things, The blue blood moving through branch and vine, Through the wings of dead things and living things.... If I lift my hand? If I write to you? The letters Can be stored in a box. Can they constitute the shape Of a love? Can the paper be ground? Can the box Be altar and garden plot and bed? Can there rise From the bed the form of a two-headed creature, A figure that looks both forward and back, keeping Watch always, one head sleeping while the other wakes, The bird head sleeping while the lion head wakes, And then the changing of the guard?.... No, The flies do not trouble me. They are like the stars At night. Common and beautiful. They are like My thoughts. I stood at midnight in the orchard. There were so many stars, and yet the stars, The very blackness of the night, though perfectly Cold and clear, seemed to me to be insubstantial, The whole veil of things seemed less substantial Than the thing that moved in the dark behind me, An unseen bird or beast, something shifting in its sleep, Half-singing and then forgetting it was singing: Be thou always ravished by love, starlight running Down and pulling back the veil of the heart, And then the water that does not exist opening up Before one, dark as wine, and the unveiled figure Of the self stepping unclothed, sweetly stripped Of its leaf, into starlight and the shadow of night, The cold water warm around the narrow ankles, The body at its most weightless, a thing so durable It will— like the carved stone figures holding up The temple roof— stand and remember its gods Long after those gods have been forsaken.

THE INDIAN UPON GOD I PASSED along the water’s edge below the humid trees, My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my knees, My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-fowl pace All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease to chase Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak: Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong or weak Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky. The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from His eye. I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk: Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk, For I am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide. A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes Brimful of starlight, and he said: The Stamper of the Skies, He is a gentle roebuck; for how else, I pray, could He Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me? I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say: Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers gay, He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light.

What's wrong?' His wings were nowhere to be seen, not even the shadow of them. 'I'm debating asking you to stay tomorrow.' I crossed my arms. 'I thought I was going.' Don't lock me up in this house, don't shove me aside- He ran a hand through his hair. 'What I ahve to be tomorrow, who I have to become, is not... it's not something I want you to see. How I will treat you, treat others...' 'The mask of the High Lord,' I said quietly. 'Yes.' He took a seat on the bottom step of the stairs. I remained in the centre of the foyer as I asked carefully. 'Why don't you want me to see that?' 'Because you've only started to look at me like I'm not a monster, and I can't stomach the idea of anything you see tomorrow, being beneath the mountain, putting you back into that place where I found you.' Beneath the mountain- underground. Yes, I'd forgotten that. Forgotten I'd see the court Amarantha had modelled her own after, that I'd be trapped beneath the earth... But with Cassian and Azriel, and Mor. With... him. I waited for the panic, the cold sweat. Neither came. 'Let me help. In whatever way I can.' Blackness shaded the starlight in those eyes. 'The role you will have to play is not a pleasant one.' 'I trust you,' I sat beside him on the stairs, close enough that the heat of his body warmed the chill night air clinging to my overcoat.

My light is just that,” Bryce said. “Light. The Asteri claim their powers are from holy stars inside themselves, but they can physically manipulate things with that light. Kill and destroy. Is starlight that can shatter rock actually light? Everything they’ve told us is basically a lie, so it’s possible they don’t have stars inside them at all—that it’s merely bright magic that looks like a star, and they called it a holy star to wow everyone.” Azriel said, wings rustling, “Does it matter what their power is called, then?” “No,” Nesta admitted. “I was only curious.” Bryce chewed on her lip. What was the Asteri’s power? Or hers? Hers was light, but perhaps theirs was actually the brute force of a star—a sun. So hot and strong it could destroy all in its path. It wasn’t a comforting thought, so Bryce asked Nesta, in need of a new subject, “What kind of sword is that, anyway?” Its simple, ordinary hilt jutted above Nesta’s shoulder. “One that can kill the unkillable,” Nesta answered. “So is the Starsword,” Bryce said quietly, then nodded to Azriel’s side. “Can your dagger kill the unkillable, too?” “It’s called Truth-Teller,” he said in that soft voice, like shadows given sound. “And no, it cannot.” Bryce arched a brow. “So does it … tell the truth?” A hint of a smile, more chilling than the frigid air around them. “It gets people to do so.

What the hell is that?' Cassian was grinning that next evening as he waved a hand toward the pile of pine boughs dumped on the ornate red rug in the centre of the foyer. 'Solstice decorations. Straight from the market.' Snow clung to his broad shoulders and dark hair, and his tan cheeks were flushed with cold. 'You call that a decoration? He smirked. 'A heap of pine in the middle of the floor is Night Court tradition.' I crossed my arms. 'Funny.' 'I'm serious.' I glared, and he laughed. 'It's for the mantels, the banister, and whatever else, smartass. Want to help?' He shrugged off his heavy coat, revealing a black jacket and shirt beneath, and hung it in the hall closet. I remained where I was and tapped my foot. 'What?' he said, brows rising. It was rare to see Cassian in anything but his Illyrian leathers, but the clothes, while not as fine as anything Rhys or Mor usually favoured, suited him. 'Dumping a bunch of trees at my feet is really how you say hello these days? A little time in that Illyrian camp and you forget all your manners.' Cassian was on me in a second, hoisting me off the ground to twirl me until I was going to be sick. I beat at his chest, cursing at him. Cassian set me down at last. 'What did you get me for Solstice?' I smacked his arm. 'A heaping pile of shut the hell up.' He laughed again, and I winked at him. 'Hot cocoa or wine?' Cassian curved a wing around me, turning us toward the cellar door. 'How many good bottles does little Rhysie have left?

I get this feeling,' I said, pacing a step, the ancient wood floorboards creaking beneath my boots, my power a writhing, living thing prowling through my veins, 'that it's all some sort of joke. Some sort of cosmic trick, and that no one- no one- can be this happy and not pay for it.' 'You've already paid for it, Rhys. Both of you. And then some.' I waved a hand. 'I just...' I trailed off, unable to finish the words. Cassian stared at me for a long moment. Then he crossed the distance between us, gathering me in an embrace so tight I could barely breathe. 'You made it. We made it. You both endured enough that no one would blame you if you danced off into the sunset like Miryam and Drakon and never bothered with anything else again. But you are bothering- you're both still working to make this peace last. Peace, Rhys. We have peace, and the true kind. Enjoy it- enjoy each other. You paid the debt before it was ever a debt.' My throat tightened, and I gripped him hard around his wings, the scales of his leathers digging into my fingers. 'What about you?' I asked, pulling away after a moment. 'Are you... happy?' Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. 'I'm getting there.' A halfhearted answer. I'd have to work on that, too. Perhaps there were threads to be pulled, woven together. Cassian jerked his chin toward the door. 'Get going, you bastard. I'll see you in three days.' I nodded, opening the door at last. But paused on the threshold. 'Thanks, brother.' Cassian's crooked grin was bright, even if those shadows still guttered in his eyes. 'It's an honour, my lord.

All beauty calls you to me, and you seem, Past twice a thousand miles of shifting sea, To reach me. You are as the wind I breathe Here on the ship's sun-smitten topmost deck, With only light between the heavens and me. I feel your spirit and I close my eyes, Knowing the bright hair blowing in the sun, The eager whisper and the searching eyes. Listen, I love you. Do not turn your face Nor touch me. Only stand and watch awhile The blue unbroken circle of sea. Look far away and let me ease my heart Of words that beat in it with broken wing. Look far away, and if I say too much, Forget that I am speaking. Only watch, How like a gull that sparking sinks to rest, The foam-crest drifts along a happy wave Toward the bright verge, the boundary of the world. I am so weak a thing, praise me for this, That in some strange way I was strong enough To keep my love unuttered and to stand Altho' I longed to kneel to you that night You looked at me with ever-calling eyes. Was I not calm? And if you guessed my love You thought it something delicate and free, Soft as the sound of fir-trees in the wind, Fleeting as phosphorescent stars in foam. Yet in my heart there was a beating storm Bending my thoughts before it, and I strove To say too little lest I say too much, And from my eyes to drive love’s happy shame. Yet when I heard your name the first far time It seemed like other names to me, and I Was all unconscious, as a dreaming river That nears at last its long predestined sea; And when you spoke to me, I did not know That to my life’s high altar came its priest. But now I know between my God and me You stand forever, nearer God than I, And in your hands with faith and utter joy I would that I could lay my woman’s soul. Oh, my love To whom I cannot come with any gift Of body or of soul, I pass and go. But sometimes when you hear blown back to you My wistful, far-off singing touched with tears, Know that I sang for you alone to hear, And that I wondered if the wind would bring To him who tuned my heart its distant song. So might a woman who in loneliness Had borne a child, dreaming of days to come, Wonder if it would please its father’s eyes. But long before I ever heard your name, Always the undertone’s unchanging note In all my singing had prefigured you, Foretold you as a spark foretells a flame. Yet I was free as an untethered cloud In the great space between the sky and sea, And might have blown before the wind of joy Like a bright banner woven by the sun. I did not know the longing in the night– You who have waked me cannot give me sleep. All things in all the world can rest, but I, Even the smooth brief respite of a wave When it gives up its broken crown of foam, Even that little rest I may not have. And yet all quiet loves of friends, all joy In all the piercing beauty of the world I would give up– go blind forevermore, Rather than have God blot from out my soul Remembrance of your voice that said my name. For us no starlight stilled the April fields, No birds awoke in darking trees for us, Yet where we walked the city’s street that night Felt in our feet the singing fire of spring, And in our path we left a trail of light Soft as the phosphorescence of the sea When night submerges in the vessel’s wake A heaven of unborn evanescent stars.

All beauty calls you to me, and you seem” All beauty calls you to me, and you seem, Past twice a thousand miles of shifting sea, To reach me. You are as the wind I breathe Here on the ship's sun-smitten topmost deck, With only light between the heavens and me. I feel your spirit and I close my eyes, Knowing the bright hair blowing in the sun, The eager whisper and the searching eyes. Listen, I love you. Do not turn your face Nor touch me. Only stand and watch awhile The blue unbroken circle of the sea. Look far away and let me ease my heart Of words that beat in it with broken wing. Look far away, and if I say too much, Forget that I am speaking. Only watch, How like a gull that sparkling sinks to rest, The foam-crest drifts along a happy wave Toward the bright verge, the boundary of the world. I am so weak a thing, praise me for this, That in some strange way I was strong enough To keep my love unuttered and to stand Altho' I longed to kneel to you that night You looked at me with ever-calling eyes. Was I not calm? And if you guessed my love You thought it something delicate and free, Soft as the sound of fir-trees in the wind, Fleeting as phosphorescent stars in foam. Yet in my heart there was a beating storm Bending my thoughts before it, and I strove To say too little lest I say too much, And from my eyes to drive love's happy shame. Yet when I heard your name the first far time It seemed like other names to me, and I Was all unconscious, as a dreaming river That nears at last its long predestined sea; And when you spoke to me, I did not know That to my life's high altar came its priest. But now I know between my God and me You stand forever, nearer God than I, And in your hands with faith and utter joy I would that I could lay my woman's soul. Oh, my love To whom I cannot come with any gift Of body or of soul, I pass and go. But sometimes when you hear blown back to you My wistful, far-off singing touched with tears, Know that I sang for you alone to hear, And that I wondered if the wind would bring To him who tuned my heart its distant song. So might a woman who in loneliness Had borne a child, dreaming of days to come, Wonder if it would please its father's eyes. But long before I ever heard your name, Always the undertone's unchanging note In all my singing had prefigured you, Foretold you as a spark foretells a flame. Yet I was free as an untethered cloud In the great space between the sky and sea, And might have blown before the wind of joy Like a bright banner woven by the sun. I did not know the longing in the night-- You who have waked me cannot give me sleep. All things in all the world can rest, but I, Even the smooth brief respite of a wave When it gives up its broken crown of foam, Even that little rest I may not have. And yet all quiet loves of friends, all joy In all the piercing beauty of the world I would give up--go blind forevermore, Rather than have God blot from out my soul Remembrance of your voice that said my name. For us no starlight stilled the April fields, No birds awoke in darkling trees for us, Yet where we walked the city's street that night Felt in our feet the singing fire of spring, And in our path we left a trail of light Soft as the phosphorescence of the sea When night submerges in the vessel's wake A heaven of unborn evanescent stars.

My twin was my other half. My brother my wings of guidance. My mate my soul-bound love.

My words verge on silence like great birds that disappear into the early evening: their strenuous white wings carry off the intense sweetness of dusk, visible then in starlight. My words turn toward the night with no look back at what is lost or won, or what is missing, — Cinto Vitier, from “Greater Solitude,” transl. Kathleen Weaver, Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 65, Spring 2010)

On the way home we blast the radio and roll down the windows and sing at the top of our lungs. The night air tastes like starlight. I haven’t had a drop to drink and don’t know what being drunk feels like, but right now I swear I’m tipsy. The edges of the moment are blurred like an old photograph. Just enough that I can’t quite see Aaron’s expression, and I force his words into the music box in my brain, slam the lid, turn the key, and forget about them.

We can’t be drowned or silenced, for you taught us how to swim and while you slept, we bathed in starlight till the moon granted us wings.

Laurel paused. Then she took David's hand and wrapped it around Chelsea's. After a long moment he nodded and led Chelsea through the gateway and out of Avalon. Laurel took one look before following. She saw Marion, her face a picture of shock; Jamison, his fist raised in triumph, a roar of cheers and applause surrounding him; Yasmine, still standing on the bench, looking every bit like the queen Laurel had no doubt she would one day be. Grinning, she twined her fingers through Tamani's and together they walked out into the glittering starlight of California. Laurel considered the words Tamani had just spoken. They were technically true; soon they would be in David's car, headed to the house where she lived. But she knew the truth now. With Tamani beside her--his hand in hers-- she was already home." Aprilynne Pike Destined pg. 300-301

Angels waltz around like in one of my daydreams, glitter-dusted as the faeries I was warned about as a child. They're mystic, with spindly limbs and gossamer hair and skin that glows. Their wings unfurl behind them, some gilded and others adorned with pale pink shimmer. They flutter across the flower-filled glade, twirling like falling feathers. A few of the angels thread starlight into garlands or coax the flowers to bloom. A train of them braid baby's breath into one another's hair. Others lay fruit in front of what looks like shrines--- seashells brimming with water and floating petals that gleam with reflections of the moon. It's like something out of a storybook. Lanterns are strung between the evergreens, casting their light over a long table. On top of a silk tablecloth, candelabras drip with wax and flowers are strewn about--- cerise roses, vibrant marigolds, velvet violets, and pale bluebells. Fresh fruit spills out of a giant shell like a cornucopia--- mangoes, peaches, guavas, champagne grapes and deep red cherries. Dark wine fills crystal cups. Rose-jam tarts with wild raspberries and hibiscus petals pile alongside tea cakes piped with custard and sugared primroses. In the center of the feast is a roasted duck glazed with honey and decorated with slices of pineapple. The smell of buttered potatoes lingers in the air, fragrant with hints of rosemary and garlic.

Flames licked at the rooms which had been exposed by the damage to the building and for several long moments, all any of us could do was stare at the girl in the epicentre of that blast. Tory Vega stared back at us with her chest heaving and blood still frozen to her side from that massive wound. More cuts and bruises were revealed across her skin as she released her hold on her Phoenix and the fire guttered from her body, her wings disappearing with it, leaving the girl I knew standing in place of the creature of legend we had all just witnessed wielding power beyond all measure.

Then she spread the wings of her coat, revealing the shimmering lining. Except he saw it wasn't a coat. It was wings-- huge, brown, beautiful wings, dappled in the street light. Not a bird's wings, but more like the wings of a moth, all silk and starlight spreading out against the smoky London sky. For a moment, she stood there, wings spread; shock-headed, wild-eyed, a thing from a dream. Then, as Tom watched open-mouthed, she flew off, soundlessly, into the night.

Beautiful.” Gasping, I whirled around. Ash stood only a few feet from me. He wore all black, the tunic devoid of any embellishments. His hair was down, softening the sharpness of his cheekbones and the hardness of his jaw. Startled by his sudden appearance, I bumped into one of the winged-back chairs. “It is,” I whispered. There was no way I could deny the eerie beauty of the cavernous chamber. “This room is very beautiful.” A tight-lipped smile appeared as his gaze, so much like the starlight, swept over me. “I hadn’t even noticed the room.

With wings unfurled and joy unbound, I dance on laughter-spangled winds. I bathe in freedom’s rushing breath And drink cool nectar from the clouds. Up, up, through sunlit fields of blue, I soar through boundless ether. Look! Starlight shines at height of day. I hear infinity calling.—Tairen’s Flight, by Cadrian vel Sorendahl, Tairen Soul

I hadn’t realized they’d have individualized starlight. I always thought mine was only … brighter than yours.” She frowned at Ruhn. “I guess it makes sense that there could be nuances to the light amongst the Fae that got interbred. Theia’s elder daughter, Helena, had the gift—and married Prince Pelias. Your ancestor.” “He’s your ancestor, too,” Ruhn muttered. “Pelias was no true prince,” Aidas spat, fangs bared. “He was Theia’s high general and appointed himself prince after he forcibly wed Helena.” “I’m sorry,” Ithan said, scrubbing at his face, “but what the fuck is this about?” He glanced at the pizza on the table, as if wondering whether it had been spiked with something. Welcome to our lives, Hunt wanted to say. But Bryce’s face had gone pale. “Queen Theia allowed this?” “Theia was dead by that point,” Aidas said flatly. “Pelias slew her.” He nodded to the Starsword in Ruhn’s hand. “And stole her blade when he’d finished.” He snarled. “That sword belongs to Theia’s female heir. Not the male offspring who corrupted her line.” Bryce swallowed audibly, and Ruhn gaped at his blade. “I’ve never heard any of this,” the Fae Prince protested. Aidas laughed coldly. “Your celebrated Prince Pelias, the so-called first Starborn Prince, was an impostor. Theia’s other daughter got away—vanished into the night. I never learned of her fate. Pelias used the Starsword and the Horn to set himself up as a prince, and passed them on to his offspring, the children Helena bore him through rape.” That very Horn that was now tattooed into Bryce’s back. A chill went down Hunt’s spine, and his wings twitched. “Pelias’s craven blood runs through both of your veins,” Aidas said to Ruhn.

I've made my thoughts clear enough on what I want from you.' He'd never met someone able to imply so much in so few words, in placing so much emphasis on you as to make it an outright insult. Cassian clenched his jaw. And didn't bother to restrain himself when he said, 'I'm tired of playing these bullshit games.' She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. 'I'm not.' 'Well, everyone else is. Perhaps you can find it in yourself to try a little harder this year.' Those striking eyes slid toward him, and it was an effort to stand his ground. 'Try?' 'I know that's a foreign word to you.' Nesta stopped at the bottom of the street, right along the icy Sidra. 'Why should I have to try to do anything?' Her teeth flashed. 'I was dragged into this world of yours, this court.' 'Then go somewhere else.' Her mouth formed a tight line at the challenge. 'Perhaps I will.' But he knew there was no other place to go. Not when she had no money, no family beyond this territory. 'Be sure to write.' She launched into a walk again, keeping along the river's edge. Cassian followed, hating himself for it. 'You could at least come live at the House,' he began, and she whirled on him. 'Stop,' she snarled. He halted in his tracks, wings spreading slightly to balance him. 'Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.' He knew a wounded animal when he saw one. Knew the teeth they could bare, the viciousness they displayed. But it couldn't keep him from saying, 'Your sisters love you. I can't for the live of me understand why, but they do. If you can't be bothered to try for my happy little circle's sake, then at least try for them.' A void seemed to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void. She only said, 'Go home, Cassian.' He could count on one hand the number of times she'd used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one. She turned away- toward her apartment, her grimy part of the city. It was instinct to lunge for her free hand. Her gloved fingers scraped against his calluses, but he held firm. 'Talk to me, Nesta. Tell me-' She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty vengeful queen. He waited, panting, for the verbal lashing to begin. For her to shred him into ribbons. But Nesta only stared at him, her nose crinkling. Stared, then snorted- and walked away. As if he were nothing. As if he weren't worth her time. The effort. A low-born Illyrian bastard. This time, when she continued onward, Cassian didn't follow. He watched her until she was a shadow against the darkness- and then she vanished completely. He remained staring after her, that present in his hands. Cassian's fingertips dug into the soft wood of the small box. He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled the box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact. Ice instantly re-formed over the hole he'd blown over. As if it, and the present, had never been.

How could I not love you? The man made of crystalline cicada wings that remind me of home?” I ask, taking his hand away from my cheek and pressing my lips to it. He exhales and closes his eyes as he leans into the affection. He unwinds his other hand from my hair and rests them both against the small of my back as if we’re dancing on the ballroom floor once more. “The man so beautiful that even his scars are golden?His tears silver?” I kiss the scar on his cheekbone, tiptoeing as I do. I take a step forward, he follows my lead. “The man so kind that even his skin reminds me of stained glass cathedral windows?” I kiss the jawline of his slightly silver-stained, iridescent skin. He’s pressed against the wooden bedpost like a flower into a diary entry.

BOOKS BY SARAH J. MAAS THE COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES SERIES A Court of Thorns and Roses A Court of Mist and Fury A Court of Wings and Ruin A Court of Frost and Starlight A Court of Silver Flames A Court of Thorns and Roses Coloring Book THE CRESCENT CITY SERIES House of Earth and Blood House of Sky and Breath House of Flame and Shadow THE THRONE OF GLASS SERIES The Assassin’s Blade Throne of Glass Crown of Midnight Heir of Fire Queen of Shadows Empire of Storms Tower of Dawn Kingdom of Ash The Throne of Glass Coloring Book

Rhys—it’s too much.” His face became deadly serious. “Not for you. Never for you.” He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple. “Build a house with a painting studio.” He kissed my other temple. “Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two—and for wings.” Another kiss, this time to my cheek. “Build a house with rooms for all our family.” He kissed my other cheek. “Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren, and an enormous dressing room for Mor.” I choked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss to my mouth, lingering and sweet. “Build a house with a nursery, Feyre.

A present. Wrapped in black crepe paper and tied with silver thread. And beside it, smiling down at me, was Rhys. He’d propped his head on a fist, his wings draped across the bed behind him. “Happy birthday, Feyre darling.

Just so you're aware,' Mor chirped from the other side, 'We do have to go soon.' ... 'We have thirty minutes,' he said with remarkable smoothness. 'And it takes you two hours to get dressed,' Mor quipped through the door. A sly pause. 'And I'm not talking about Feyre.' ... 'Go terrorise someone else,' he called to Mor, rolling his neck as his wings vanished and he stalked for the bathing room. 'I need to primp.

You brought weapons to Solstice?' I asked, leaning against the door frame. ... Cassian shrugged, plopping onto the bed, which was better suited to a child than an Illyrian warrior. 'Some might be gifts.' 'And the rest?' Cassian toed off his boots and leaned against the headboard, folding his arms behind his head as his wings draped to the floor. 'The females bring their jewelry. I bring my weapons.' 'I know a few females in this house who might take offense to that.' Cassian offered me a wicked grin in response.

Chiara gasped as her mentor passed her the wand, and a small star appeared at its tip. It should have warmed Chiara's heart to see it, but she could barely muster a smile. "The reception of a fairy's wand is often a bittersweet occasion. Let that be a reminder for you that magic can bring great joy as well as sorrow, hope as well as fear. May you use yours to shine light upon darkness." "I will," Chiara vowed. As soon as the words left her lips, the star on her wand came aglow and a pair of iridescent wings bloomed from her back. "What name will you take, Chiara Belmagio?" The answer was one she had toyed with ever since she'd considered the fairies' invitation. "The Blue Fairy." Blue was the color that brought her joy. The color of the walls of the music room where she and Ilaria had spent countless hours laughing and chasing each other and making music; the color of her father's eyes, like hers; the color of the sea where she and Niccolo took their little boat out when the weather was fair. Her dress shimmered with stardust. The pale color deepened into a warm and rich blue, and the fabric softened into gossamer silk. The threads stitched themselves into a gown worthy of a good fairy, turning her long sleeves into iridescent swaths of starlight. A beautiful yet understated uniform. Perfect for the new fairy. Only the ribbon she wore in her hair was the same as before. A reminder of Chiara Belmagio, daughter of Pariva.

You could honestly get Cassian a new knife and he'd kiss you for it. But Az would probably prefer no presents at all, just to avoid the attention while opening it.

Nice wings!” Paula remarked. ​“Thanks!” Carmen replied. ​“I was being cynical!” Paula told her. “Man, you Starlight City kids just don’t get it.” She sighed and turned to Carmen. “So, what’s your power, Tinker Bell?” ​“I can fly!” Paula said. ​“Yeah, I’m an evil genius. I did the mental math when I saw the wings! Anything else?” Paula taunted.

Everything goes forward like oiled clocks; for each minute of the dial there are a million noiseless clocks which tick off the rinds of time. We are traveling faster than the lightning calculator, faster than starlight, faster than the magician can think. Each second is a universe of time. And each universe of time is but a wink of sleep in the cosmogony of speed. When speed comes to its end we shall be there, punctual as always and blissfully undenominated. We shall shed our wings, our clocks and our mantelpieces to lean on. We will rise up feathery and jubilant, like a column of blood, and there will be no memory to drag us down again.

Azriel tucked in his wings and left without another word, stalking through the house and onto the front lawn to sit in the frigid starlight. To let the frost in his veins match the air around him. Until he felt nothing. Was again nothing at all.

I was fury given wings, grief given strength and power given life.

I think that's smart," Tsunami said. "even with Glory's magical death spit, we probably couldn't have fought off the whole palace, and it would have given away our best secret weapon." Glory looked surprised. "well, thank you," she said. "although I'm going to vote against calling it 'magical death spit,' please." "Maybe tonight," Tsunami said, lowering her voice. "When most of the palace is sleeping. Maybe we can fight our way out then." "past the shocks that might kill us?" sunny asked "what good is magical death spit against lightning eels?" "electric eels." starlight corrected her. "We are NOT CALLING IT MAGICAL DEATH SPIT" Glory said "Or..." Tsunami remembered the guards who had given her the key. "Maybe we can convince someone to let us go" "I like that plan," Clay said, bobbing his head. "I like the one where we melt everyone's eyeballs on our way out the door," Glory said. "with magical death spit," Sunny said, then buried her head in Clay's wings to hide her giggles as Glory glared at her.

Algunas heridas, no debían ser hurgadas

Las palabras se evaporaron mientras lo miraba fijamente. Como siempre, su belleza austera era como una cuchilla de hielo en el corazón.

Tal vez hubiera sido mejor añorar que llorar.

No debes culparte por cosas que están fuera de tu control”,

Había sido un deseo tan hermoso, por el que valía la pena luchar.

No puedes simplemente devolverme mi consejo. No hasta que tú mismo lo pongas en práctica".

I didn’t even know what you called a horse that had a horn and no wings. I’d never heard of such a thing.

The clouds shifted and the heavy beating of huge wings sounded, making me turn towards it instinctively, my ears twitching with the familiarity of that noise. My heart lurched and a glint of gold made me fly that way, seeking out my brother in the clouds, breathing in the scent of smoke on the air, certain he was here. Maybe not in any corporeal way, but the ghost of him was present, I could sense him everywhere.

queens aren’t born from just any star, but a star that a child has wished upon. Maybe dream-talent magic lives on in you—in all governing-talents. It’s possible you could repair the barrier. If there’s one thing stronger than fear, it’s hope.

Few will ever know that even the most mundane thing—the waning of the moon, the flow of the tide, the serendipitous reappearance of a lost trinket beneath your kitchen table—is magical.

Luckily, it was nothing a spoonful of sugar wouldn’t fix—