The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

To the child in each of us, yearning to be special. Take my hand, you strange little creature, and together we shall walk beyond the wall.

To tell a story is in some part to tell a lie, isn’t it?

“Swords and armor are nothing to stone.”

Coin. The only portent, the only prosperity—the only god of men—is coin.

but like this, loose and infinite, when my soul was split open and thrown skyward in delight.

“Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?”

“Fear is not an outward-pointing compass, my girl. You should not let it guide your way.

“You’d like me better if you called me Rory.” “I’d like you better if you were on your back again.” He smiled.

“I think contentedness,” I said bitterly, “is just a story we tell ourselves.”

“It is all the same, then. Contentedness. Truth and honesty and virtue. Omens. They are all stories, and we”—he gestured to the Seacht’s climbing walls—“tread the pages within them.”

“Still fixed on Myndacious, I see.” “I like the way it rolls off the tongue.” “I’ll bet.”

Like you’re nothing if you’re not the best, the most useful version of yourself.”

“I’d bet my oath your whole body is awake right now, aching and eager at the thought of putting me in my place.”

He was breathing against my mouth and I against his and the sound wasn’t like any hunger I’d known. Torrid and depraved and desperate—

“You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.”

“She’s a guest of the king’s. Affront her in any way, the knighthood will answer. Attempt to look beneath her shroud, she and the gargoyle will respond as they see fit. With full immunity to any carnage tended.” The gargoyle batted his eyes. “Oh, Bartholomew. He’s dreamy.”

Lmfaoooo i love Bartholomew

There was a world behind Rory’s dark eyes. It was as if he could see everything all at once when he looked at me, and it was far too much, but he wanted all of it.

“Bartholomew is in the throes of despair.” The gargoyle kept on humming. “A rather undervalued state of being, if you ask me.”

Lmaooo

“I’m so far the opposite of repulsed or regretful about you that I’m lost.”

We lost our gods, our armor, our own names. We spent ourselves on each other, completely and utterly vanishing into the craft of desire. Completely, utterly— Gone.

“It’s hard to see who I am when I am lost in what’s expected of me.”

And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special.”

When we’d been witness, pupil, visitor, then craftsman, of each other’s pleasure.

Not everything had to hurt to be holy. Bad, to be good. But damn me if I wanted it to sometimes.