I've never been on the best of terms with God.
“Only priests and fools are fearless, and I’ve never been on the best of terms with God.”
Control your belief before controlling the world
If you are going to impose your will on the world, you must have control over what you believe.”
When we look ahead, we leave our childhood behind
When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind
Quite an ironic sentence that Patrick Rothfuss wrote
When you wait a few span or month to hear a finished song, the anticipation adds savor. But after a year excitement begins to sour.
Music barrels its way into our hearts
Words have to find a man’s mind before they can touch his heart, and some men’s minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.”
Find someone you can hold and close your eyes to the world with
My parents danced together, her head on his chest. Both had their eyes closed. They seemed so perfectly content. If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind even after all these years.
Gossip
“The difference is between saying something to a person, and saying something about a person.The first might be rude, but the second is always gossip.”
The 4 Doors Of The Mind
Perhaps the greatest faculty, our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain. Classic thinking teaches us of the four doors of the mind, which everyone moves through according to their need. First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind’s way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door. Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying “time heals all wounds” is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door. Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind. Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.
Your insignificance cannot be described, it must be experienced.
I can tell you of the waves and water, but you don’t begin to get an inkling of its size until you stand on the shore. You don’t really understand the ocean until you are in the midst of it, nothing but ocean on all sides, stretching away endlessly. Only then do you realize how small you are, how powerless.
Regret is a wound of the mind that will never heal
“Bones mend. Regret stays with you forever.”
We are creatures of habit
But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves
A grain of sand
When Skarpi told a story, any interruption was like chewing a grain of sand in a mouthful of bread.
Our shoes tell others how we hoard secrets
“You can tell a lot about a person by their feet,” he mused. “Some men come in here, smiling and laughing, shoes all clean and brushed, socks all powdered up. But when the shoes are off, their feet smell just fearsome. Those are the people that hide things. They’ve got bad smelling secrets and they try to hide ’em, just like they try to hide their feet.”He turned to look at me. “It never works though. Only way to stop your feet from smelling is to let them air out a bit. Could be the same thing with secrets. I don’t know about that, though. I just know about shoes.”
The boy and the girl's growth
The boy grows upward, but the girl grows up.
Kvothe's cathartic performance
I touched the last string and tuned it too, ever so slightly. I made a simple chord and strummed it. It rang soft and true. I moved a finger and the chord went minor in a way that always sounded to me as if the lute were saying sad. I moved my hands again and the lute made two chords whispering against each other. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I began to play. The strings felt strange against my fingers, like reunited friends who have forgotten what they have in common. I played soft and slow, sending notes no farther than the circle of our firelight. Fingers and strings made a careful conversation, as if their dance described the lines of an infatuation. Then I felt something inside me break and music began to pour out into the quiet. My fingers danced; intricate and quick they spun something gossamer and tremulous into the circle of light our fire had made. The music moved like a spiderweb stirred by a gentle breath, it changed like a leaf twisting as it falls to the ground, and it felt like three years Waterside in Tarbean, with a hollowness inside you and hands that ached from the bitter cold. I don’t know how long I played. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. But my hands weren’t used to the strain. They slipped and the music fell to pieces like a dream on waking
Kvothe and Ambrose
To deem us simply enemies is to lose the true flavor of our relationship. It was more like the two of us entered into a business partnership in order to more efficiently pursue our mutual interest of hating each other.
Only fools and priests are never afraid
It would not be to Bast’s credit to say that he was afraid of nothing, as only fools and priests are never afraid
Let us set the stage for her arrival...
“Let me say one thing before I start. I’ve told stories in the past, painted pictures with words, told hard lies and harder truths. Once, I sang colors to a blind man. Seven hours I played, but at the end he said he saw them, green and red and gold. That, I think, was easier than this. Trying to make you understand her with nothing more than words. You have never seen her, never heard her voice. You cannot know.” Kvothe motioned for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “But still, I will try. She is in the wings now, waiting for her cue. Let us set the stage for her arrival… .”
On Etiquette
Etiquette is a set of rules people use so they can be rude to each other in public
Wild things are never caught with stealth but with slow care
As with all truly wild things, care is necessary in approaching them. Stealth is useless. Wild things recognize stealth for what it is, a lie and a trap. While wild things might play games of stealth, and in doing so may even occasionally fall prey to stealth, they are never truly caught by it. So. With slow care rather than stealth we must approach the subject of a certain woman. Her wildness is of such degree, I fear approaching her too quickly even in a story. Should I move recklessly, I might startle even the idea of her into sudden flight.
The two ways to lose a friend
“There are two sure ways to lose a friend, one is to borrow, the other to lend.”
Music is a proud mistress
Music is a proud, temperamental mistress. Give her the time and attention she deserves, and she is yours. Slight her and there will come a day when you call and she will not answer.
Kvothe and Auri exchange pleasantries
“What did you bring me?” She asked excitedly. I smiled. “What did you bring me?” I teased gently. She smiled and thrust her hand forward. Something gleamed in the moonlight. “A key,” she said proudly, pressing it on me. I took it. It had a pleasing weight in my hand. “It’s very nice,” I said. “What does it unlock?” “The moon,” she said, her expression grave. “That should be useful,” I said, looking it over. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “That way, if there’s a door in the moon you can open it.” She sat cross-legged on the roof and grinned up at me. “Not that I would encourage that sort of reckless behavior.” I squatted down and opened my lute case. “I brought you some bread.” I handed her the loaf of brown barley bread wrapped in a piece of cloth. “And a bottle of water.” “This is very nice as well,” she said graciously. The bottle seemed very large in her hands. “What’s in the water?” she asked as she pulled out the cork and peered down into it. “Flowers,” I said. “And the part of the moon that isn’t in the sky tonight. I put that in there too.” She looked back up. “I already said the moon,” she said with a hint of reproach. “Just flowers then. And the shine off the back of a dragonfly. I wanted a piece of the moon, but blue-dragonfly-shine was as close as I could get.” She tipped the bottle up and took a sip. “It’s lovely,” she said, brushing back several strands of hair that were drifting in front of her face.
Pride pays silver and plays golden
“You’re a proud one, aren’t you?” he said frankly. I looked around the room. “Isn’t this the Eolian? I had heard that this is where pride pays silver and plays golden.
The Lay Of Sir Savien
I let the wave of whisper pass through the crowd. Those who knew the song made soft exclamation to themselves, while those who didn’t asked their neighbors what the stir was about. I raised my hands to the strings and drew their attention back to me. The room stilled, and I began to play.The music came easily out of me, my lute like a second voice. I flicked my fingers and the lute made a third voice as well. I sang in the proud powerful tones of Savien Traliard, greatest of the Amyr. The audience moved under the music like grass against the wind. I sang as Sir Savien, and I felt the audience begin to love and fear me. I was so used to practising the song alone that I almost forgot to double the third refrain. But I remembered at the last moment in a flash of cold sweat. This time as I sang it I looked out into the audience, hoping at the end I would hear a voice answering my own. I reached the end of the refrain before Aloine’s first stanza. I struck the first chord hard and waited as the sound of it began to fade without drawing a voice from the audience. I looked calmly out to them, waiting. Every second a greater relief vied with a greater disappointment inside me. Then a voice drifted onto stage, gentle as a brushing feather, singing… .
Savien and Aloine's music
She sang as Aloine, I as Savien. On the refrains her voice spun, twinning and mixing with my own. Part of me wanted to search the audience for her, to find the face of the woman I was singing with. I tried, once, but my fingers faltered as I searched for the face that could fit with the cool moonlight voice that answered mine. Distracted, I touched a wrong note and there was a burr in the music. A small mistake. I set my teeth and concentrated on my playing. I pushed my curiosity aside and bowed my head to watch my fingers, careful to keep them from slipping on the strings. And we sang! Her voice like burning silver, my voice an echoing answer. Savien sang solid, powerful lines, like branches of a rock-old oak, all the while Aloine was like a nightingale, moving in darting circles around the proud limbs of it. I was only dimly aware of the audience now, dimly aware of the sweat on my body. I was so deeply in the music that I couldn’t have told you where it stopped and my blood began.
A fish dragged from deep water
I struck the beginning chord of Savien’s verse and I heard a piercing sound that pulled me out of the music like a fish dragged from deep water
Another clever simile that Rothfuss uses
Kvothe fighting by playing with six strings rather than seven
Without knowing what I did, I set my fingers back to the strings and fell deep into myself. Into years before, when my hands had calluses like stones and my music had come as easy as breathing. Back to the time I had played to make the sound of Wind Turning a Leaf on a lute with six strings. And I began to play. Slowly, then with greater speed as my hands remembered. I gathered the fraying strands of song and wove them carefully back to what they had been a moment earlier. It was not perfect. No song as complex as “Sir Savien” can be played perfectly on six strings instead of seven. But it was whole, and as I played the audience sighed, stirred, and slowly fell back under the spell that I had made for them. I hardly knew they were there, and after a minute I forgot them entirely. My hands danced, then ran, then blurred across the strings as I fought to keep the lute’s two voices singing with my own. Then, even as I watched them, I forgot them, I forgot everything except finishing the song. The refrain came, and Aloine sang again. To me she was not a person, or even a voice, she was just a part of the song that was burning out of me.
Music sounds different to the one who plays it
Music sounds different to the one who plays it. It is the musician’s curse. Even as I sat, the ending I had improvised was fading from my memory. Then came doubt. What if it hadn’t been as whole as it had seemed? What if my ending hadn’t carried the terrible tragedy of the song to anyone but myself? What if my tears seemed to be nothing more than a child’s embarrassing reaction to his own failure?
What metheglin tastes like
“Metheglin,” Stanchion informed me. “Try it and you can thank me later. Where I’m from, they say a man will come back from the dead to get a drink of it.” I tipped an imaginary hat to him. “At your service.” “Yours and your family’s,” he replied politely. I took a drink from the tall tankard to give myself a chance to collect my wits, and something wonderful happened in my mouth: cool spring honey, clove, cardamom, cinnamon, pressed grape, burnt apple, sweet pear, and clear well water. That is all I have to say of metheglin. If you haven’t tried it, then I am sorry I cannot describe it properly. If you have, you don’t need me to remind you what it is like.
We are greater than the sum of our parts
She wasn’t a perfect beauty by any means, Reshi. I should know. I’ve made some study of these things.” Kvothe stared at his student for a long moment, his expression solemn. “We are more than the parts that form us, Bast.”
We stare at a fire because of how it glows but we are drawn by its warmth
“No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room.” Kvothe frowned. “Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near. The same was true of Denna.”
Glowing from its light
Her expression brightened, as if someone had lit a candle inside her and she was glowing from its light.
How Denna's smile made Kvothe feel
When she smiled at me, I felt … I honestly cannot think of how I could describe it. Lying would be easier. I could steal from a hundred stories and tell you a lie so familiar you would swallow it whole. I could say my knees went to rubber. That my breath came hard in my chest. But that would not be the truth. My heart did not pound or stop or stutter. That is the sort of thing they say happens in stories. Foolishness. Hyperbole. Tripe. But still … Go out in the early days of winter, after the first cold snap of the season. Find a pool of water with a sheet of ice across the top, still fresh and new and clear as glass. Near the shore the ice will hold you. Slide out farther. Farther. Eventually you’ll find the place where the surface just barely bears your weight. There you will feel what I felt. The ice splinters under your feet**. Look down and you can see the white cracks darting through the ice like mad, elaborate spiderwebs. It is perfectly silent, but you can feel the sudden sharp vibrations through the bottoms of your feet.** That is what happened when Denna smiled at me. I don’t mean to imply I felt as if I stood on brittle ice about to give way beneath me. No. I felt like the ice itself, suddenly shattered, with cracks spiraling out from where she had touched my chest. The only reason I held together was because my thousand pieces were all leaning together. If I moved, I feared I would fall apart.
Formal greetings give you a certain script for life
For the first time in my life I understood the true purpose of this sort of formal greeting. It gives you a script to follow when you have absolutely no idea what to say.
A description of the night
It is quiet, and when the belling tower strikes the late hour, it doesn’t break the silence so much as it underpins it. The crickets, too, respect the silence. Their calls are like careful stitches in its fabric, almost too small to be seen. The night is like warm velvet around them. The stars, burning diamonds in the cloudless sky, turn the road beneath their feet a silver grey.
On Etiquette
Etiquette is a set of rules people use so they can be rude to each other in public
The home that fits you is the one you'll like most
And while my suite of rooms at the Horse and Four had been luxurious, my tiny room at Anker’s was comfortable. Think in terms of shoes. You don’t want the biggest you can find. You want the pair that fits. In time, that tiny room at Anker’s came to be more of a home to me than anywhere else in the world.
A careful thought in peace is worth nine frantic thoughts in panic
“You must learn patience, E’lir Kvothe. A moment in the mind is worth nine in the fire.”
The desperate feel of the last warm night of summer
It had the desperate feel of the last warm night of summer. We spoke of everything and nothing, and all the while I could hardly breathe for the nearness of her, the way she moved, the sound of her voice as it touched the autumn air.
Alcohol's prupose
“Beer dulls a memory, brand sets it burning, but wine is the best for a sore heart’s yearning.”
Denna was lovely as the moon
It was nice just being near her. You wouldn’t think a girl in bandages with a blackened eye could be beautiful, but Denna was. Lovely as the moon: not flawless, perhaps, but perfect.
Denna's warmth
Denna touched my arm. I felt the sudden warmth of her hand through my shirt. I drew a deep breath and smelled the smell of her hair, warm with the sun, the smell of green grass and her clean sweat and her breath and apples. The wind sighed through the trees and lifted her hair so that it tickled my face.
The difference between a woman wearing a knife and carrying a knife
I’ve never seen you wearing a knife,” I pointed out. “Why is that?” “Why would I wear a knife?” Denna asked. “I am a delicate blossom and all that. A woman who goes around wearing a knife is obviously looking for trouble.” She reached deep into her pocket and brought out a long, slender piece of metal, glittering all along one edge. “However a woman who carries a knife is ready for trouble. Generally speaking, it’s easier to appear harmless. It’s less trouble all around.”
The things we want are sweet yet the things we need are bitter
I walked over to a young birch tree, cut off several long strips of bark, and brought them back to her. “The inside of the bark is a good painkiller.” “You’re a handy fellow to have around.” She peeled some off with a fingernail and put it in her mouth. She wrinkled her nose. “Bitter.” “That’s how you know it’s real medicine,” I said. “If it tasted good it would be candy.” “Isn’t that the way of the world?” she said. “We want the sweet things, but we need the unpleasant ones.”
Denna Has No Purpose.
“I had pneumonia when I was just a tiny baby,” Denna said with no particular inflection. “That’s why my lungs aren’t good. It’s horrible not being able to breathe sometimes.” Denna’s eyes were half closed as she continued, almost as if she were talking to herself. “I stopped breathing for two minutes and died. Sometimes I wonder if this all isn’t some sort of mistake, if I should be dead. But if it isn’t a mistake I have to be here for a reason. But if there is a reason, I don’t know what that reason is.” There was the distinct possibility that she didn’t even realize that she was talking, and an even greater possibility that most of the important parts of her brain were already asleep and she wouldn’t remember any of what was happening now in the morning. Since I didn’t know how to respond, I simply nodded. “That’s the first thing you said to me. I was just wondering why you’re here. My seven words. I’ve been wondering the same thing for so long.”
I'm lucky to get you just a little
“You’re important with your green eyes looking at me like I mean something. It’s okay that you have better things to do. It’s enough that I get you sometimes. Once in a while. I know I’m lucky for that, to get you just a little.”
The most wonderful moment of my life
I sat there in the dark, holding her sleeping body in my arms. She was soft and warm, indescribably precious. I had never held a woman before. After a few moments my back began to ache with the pressure of supporting her weight and my own. My leg started to go numb. Her hair tickled my nose. Still, I didn’t move for fear of ruining this, the most wonderful moment of my life.
Spoons
We lay on our sides, like spoons nesting in a drawer.
"I've got you..."
“You have other options,” I said, then stalled, thinking of my conversation with Deoch. “You’ve … you’ve got …” “I’ve got you,” she said dreamily. I could hear the warm, sleepy smile in her voice, like a child tucked into bed. “Will you be my dark-eyed Prince Gallant and protect me from pigs? Sing to me? Whisk me away to tall trees… .” she trailed off to nothing. “I will,” I said, but I could tell by the heavy weight of her against my arm that she had finally fallen asleep.
Precious as a jewel
I lay awake, feeling Denna’s gentle breath against my arm. I couldn’t have slept even if I’d wanted to. The closeness of her filled me with a crackling energy, a low warmth, a gentle thrumming hum. I lay awake savoring it, every moment precious as a jewel
Kvothe began here
“Now it’s tuned to you,” I said. “No matter what, no matter where it is, it will protect you and keep you safe. You could even break it and melt it down and the charm would still hold.” She threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Then stood suddenly, blushing. No longer pale and stricken, her eyes were bright. I hadn’t noticed before, but she was beautiful. She left soon after that and I sat for a while on my bed, thinking. Over the last month I had pulled a woman from a blazing inferno. I had called fire and lighting down on assassins and escaped to safety. I had even killed something that could have been either a dragon or a demon, depending on your point of view. But there in that room was the first time I actually felt like any sort of hero. If you are looking for a reason for the man I would eventually become, if you are looking for a beginning, look there.
I remembered the shape of her eyes but not the weight of them
Despite the fact that I’d been searching out her face in every shadow and carriage window for days, the sight of her stunned me. I’d remembered the shape of her eyes, but not the weight of them. Their darkness, but not their depth. Her closeness pressed the breath out of my chest, as if I’d suddenly been thrust deep underwater. I’d spent long hours thinking about how this meeting might go. I had played the scene a thousand times in my mind. I feared she would be distant, aloof. That she would spurn me for leaving her alone in the woods. That she would be silent and sullenly hurt. I worried that she might cry, or curse me, or simply turn and leave. Denna gave me a delighted smile. “Kvothe!” She caught up my hand and pressed it between her own. “I’ve missed you. Where have you been?” I felt myself go weak with relief. “Oh, you know. Here and there.” I made a nonchalant gesture. “Around.” “You left me dry in the dock the other day,” she said with a mock-serious glare. “I waited, but the tide never came.”
Banter, Simmon calling out Kvothe and Denna
“You know I’m right!” Simmon pushed his hair out of his eyes, laughing boyishly. “You can’t argue your way out of this one! She’s obviously stupid for you. And you’re just plain stupid, so it’s a great match.
Kvothe calls the name of the wind
He tossed it to me, but lutes are not meant to be tossed. It twisted awkwardly in the air, and when I grabbed, there was nothing in my hands. Whether he was clumsy or cruel makes not the slightest difference to me. My lute hit the cobblestones bowl first and made a splintering noise. The sound reminded me of the terrible noise my father’s lute had made, crushed beneath my body in a soot-streaked alley in Tarbean. I bent to pick it up and it made a noise like a wounded animal. Ambrose half-turned to look back at me and I saw flickers of amusement play across his face. I opened my mouth to howl, to cry, to curse him. But something other tore from my throat, a word I did not know and could not remember. Then all I could hear was the sound of the wind. It roared into the courtyard like a sudden storm. A nearby carriage slid sideways across the cobblestones, its horses rearing up in panic. Sheet music was torn from someone’s hands to streak around us like strange lightning. I was pushed forward a step. Everyone was pushed by the wind. Everyone but Ambrose, who pinwheeled to the ground as if struck by the hand of God. Then everything was still again. Papers fell, twisting like autumn leaves. People looked around, dazed, their hair tousled and clothes in disarray. Several people staggered as they braced against a storm that was no longer there. My throat hurt. My lute was broken. Ambrose staggered to his feet. He held his arm awkwardly at his side and blood was running down from his scalp. The look of wild, confused fear he gave me was a brief, sweet pleasure. I considered shouting at him again, wondering what would happen. Would the wind come again? Would the ground swallow him up?
Kvothe lost himself, in a fit of rage and confusion
My mind was a whirl of confusion and half-formed questions. My throat was sore. My body was weary and full of sour adrenaline. In the middle of it all, deep in the center of my chest, a piece of me burned in anger like a forge coal fanned red and hot. All around me there was a great numbness, as if I were sealed in wax ten inches thick. There was no Kvothe, only the confusion, the anger, and the numbness wrapping them. I was like a sparrow in a storm, unable to find a safe branch to cling to. Unable to control the tumbling motion of my flight.
Words are pale shadows of forgotten names
“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are ten words that will break a strong man’s will. But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself”
Kvothe and Auri exchange pleasantries once more
“Good evening, Kvothe.” “Good evening, Auri,” I said. “How are you?” “I am lovely,” she said firmly, “and it is a lovely night.” She held both her hands behind her back and shifted from foot to foot. “What have you brought me tonight?” I asked. She gave her sunny smile. “What have you brought me?” I pulled a narrow bottle from underneath my cloak. “I brought you some honey wine.” She took hold of it with both hands. “Why, this is a princely gift.” She peered down at it wonderingly. “Think of all the tipsy bees.” She pulled the cork and sniffed it. “What’s in it?” “Sunlight,” I said. “And a smile, and a question.” She held the mouth of the bottle up to her ear and grinned at me. “The question’s at the bottom,” I said. “A heavy question,” she said, then held her hand out to me. “I brought you a ring.” It was made of warm, smooth wood. “What does it do?” I asked. “It keeps secrets,” she said. I held it to my ear. Auri shook her head seriously, her hair swirling around her. “It doesn’t tell them, it keeps them.” She stepped close to me and took the ring, sliding it onto my finger. “It’s quite enough to have a secret,” she chided me gently. “Anything more would be greedy.” “It fits,” I said, somewhat surprised. “They’re your secrets,” she said, as if explaining something to a child. “Who else would it fit?” Auri brushed her hair away behind her and made her curious half step to the side again. Almost like a curtsey, almost like a tiny dance. “I was wondering if you would join me for dinner tonight, Kvothe,” she said, her face serious. “I have brought apples and eggs. I can also offer a lovely honey wine.” “I’d love to share dinner with you, Auri,” I said formally. “I have brought bread and cheese.” Auri scampered down into the courtyard and in a few minutes returned with a delicate porcelain teacup for me. She poured the honey wine for both of us, drinking hers in a series of dainty sips from a silver beggar’s cup hardly bigger than a thimble. I sat down on the roof and we shared our meal. I had a large loaf of brown barley bread and a wedge of hard white Dalonir cheese. Auri had ripe apples and a half dozen brown-spotted eggs that she had somehow managed to hard-boil. We ate them with salt I brought out from a pocket in my cloak. We shared most of the meal in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. Auri sat cross-legged with her back straight and her hair fanning out to all sides. As always, her careful delicacy somehow made this makeshift meal on a rooftop seem like a formal dinner in some nobleman’s hall.
I will still be here long after she has forgotten your name
They clung to her with desperate determination. Some of them merely resented my presence, saw me as a rival. But others had a frightened knowledge buried deep behind their eyes from the beginning. They knew she was leaving, and they didn’t know why. So they clutched at her like shipwrecked sailors, clinging to the rocks despite the fact that they are being battered to death against them. I almost felt sorry for them. Almost. So they hated me, and it shone in their eyes when Denna wasn’t looking. I would offer to buy another round of drinks, but he would insist, and I would graciously accept, and thank him, and smile. I have known her longer, my smile said. True, you have been inside the circle of her arms, tasted her mouth, felt the warmth of her, and that is something I have never had. But there is a part of her that is only for me. You cannot touch it, no matter how hard you might try. And after she has left you I will still be here, making her laugh. My light shining in her. I will still be here long after she has forgotten your name.
We all become what we pretend to be
Have you seen The Ghost and the Goosegirl or The Ha’penny King? ”Chronicler frowned. “Is that the one where the king sells his crown to an orphan boy?” Bast nodded. “And the boy becomes a better king than the original. The goosegirl dresses like a countess and everyone is stunned by her grace and charm.” He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted. “You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being. Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.” Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. “That’s basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.”
We build ourselves out of the stories we tell about ourselves
“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”
The Law Of Attraction
You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding.” Bast gave a grudging shrug. “And sometimes that’s enough.” His eyes brightened. “But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you …” Bast gestured excitedly. “Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn’t seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen.”
Bast threatening Chronicler, "You do not know the first note of the music that moves me."
Do not mistake me for my mask. You see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath.” The tendons in Bast’s hand creaked as he tightened his grip on the circle of iron. “Listen. You cannot hurt me. You cannot run or hide. In this I will not be defied.” As he spoke, Bast’s eyes grew paler, until they were the pure blue of a clear noontime sky. “I swear by all the salt in me: if you run counter to my desire, the remainder of your brief mortal span will be an orchestra of misery. I swear by stone and oak and elm: I’ll make a game of you. I’ll follow you unseen and smother any spark of joy you find. You’ll never know a woman’s touch, a breath of rest, a moment’s peace of mind.” Bast’s eyes were now the pale blue-white of lightning, his voice tight and fierce. “And I swear by the night sky and the ever-moving moon: if you lead my master to despair, I will slit you open and splash around like a child in a muddy puddle. I’ll string a fiddle with your guts and make you play it while I dance.” Bast leaned closer until their faces were mere inches apart, his eyes gone white as opal, white as a full-bellied moon. “You are an educated man. You know there are no such things as demons.” Bast smiled a terrible smile. “There is only my kind.” Bast leaned closer still, Chronicler smelled flowers on his breath. “You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared. You do not know the first note of the music that moves me.”