Storm

“Jordan doesn't really care about the blood," Simon said now. "His whole thing is about me being comfortable with what I am. Get in touch with your inner vampire, blah, blah."
Clary slid in next to him onto the bed and hugged a pillow. "Is your inner vampire different from your...outer vampire?"
"Definitely. He wants me to wear midriff-baring shirts and a fedora. I'm fighting it."
Clary smiled faintly. "So your inner vampire is Magnus?”
― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls

“When evening in the Shire was grey
his footsteps on the Hill were heard;
before the dawn he went away
on journey long without a word.

From Wilderland to Western shore,
from northern waste to southern hill,
through dragon-lair and hidden door
and darkling woods he walked at will.

With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men,
with mortal and immortal folk,
with bird on bough and beast in den,
in their own secret tongues he spoke.

A deadly sword, a healing hand,
a back that bent beneath its load;
a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,
a weary pilgrim on the road.

A lord of wisdom throned he sat,
swift in anger, quick to laugh;
an old man in a battered hat
who leaned upon a thorny staff.

He stood upon the bridge alone
and Fire and Shadow both defied;
his staff was broken on the stone,
in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

“He was Antinous, wild. You would have said, seeing the thoughtful reflection of his eye, that he had already, in some preceding existence, been through the revolutionary apocalypse. He knew its tradition like an eyewitness. He knew every little detail of that great thing.
A pontifical and warrior nature, strange in a youth. He was officiating and militant; from the immediate point of view, a soldier of democracy; above the movement of the time, a priest of the ideal.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

“What a pity!” said Combeferre. “What hideous things these butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twent at the most; he might be your brother.” “He is,” said Enjolras. “Yes,” replied Combeferre, “he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him.” “Let me alone, it must be done.” And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras’ marble cheek.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables