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The last light of the sun.
Heyyyyy
The doorways of our lives take many shapes, and the arrivals that change us are not always announced by thunderous pounding or horns at the gates. We may be walking a known laneway, at prayer in a familiar chapel, entering a new one and simply looking up, or we may be deep in quiet talk late of a summer’s night, and a door will open behind us.
You stood by kin in this world because there was no one else to stand by, or who might ever stand by you. A rule of the northlands. You died if you were too much alone.
What lingers, or comes back unsummoned, is not always what we would expect, or desire to keep with us.
What he felt was fury, endlessly, from first awareness of himself, a bent child in a warrior world.
“I know that. Of course I know. Is it . . . unworthy to feel their absence?” This was not the conversation he’d been expecting to have. Ceinion thought about it. “I think . . . it is necessary to feel that. Or we will not desire a world that lets us have them.”
We celebrate our losses, knowing how they are woven into the gift of our being here.
They leave no ripples upon the surface of succeeding events, cause nothing, achieve nothing. Are trivial, marginal. This can be hard to accept.
Is this the thesis of the book?
and it signified nothing at all, in the wheel and turn of that night.
Is this intended to constantly subvert our expectations?
Those inside a story do not usually think of themselves that way, though some may have an eye to fame and those who come after.
Who are you talking to???
and Burgred of Denferth had been one of the three great men in these lands.
Should have introduced him before...
“I believe that what doctrine tells us, is . . . becoming truth. That by teaching it we help it become the nature of Jad’s world. If there are spirits, powers, a half-world beside ours, it is . . . coming to an end. What we teach will be true, partly because we teach it.”
What if it was fear that made men believe the Jormsvik mercenaries were deadly? They could be beaten, after all; they had just been beaten.
Sometimes, despite all the weight of likelihood, we can.
I get it; you don't have to keep TELLING me
Meirion—in a frenzy born of waiting—took Elyn’s pallet apart.
<3
Looking up, Bern saw his father there.
Dun dun DUN
She knew it now. She was seeing it. The world was too hard. You needed to become harder yourself.
GOT?
They burned witches, for heresy.
Mmmm, did they though?
The Cyngael, it was said, were never far from sadness. Rain and mist, dark valleys, music in their voices.
A story finishes—or does for some, not for others—and there are other tales, intersecting, parallel, or sharing nothing but the time. There is always something more.
He had ridden into a different, older story, it seemed.
Like in Ysabel?
And he was here (in a tale he had never known he was in) to set them free with silver, under stars.
Cool but that wasn't set up at all
