Quotes About Struggle

The troll lives in his bones and walks abroad wearing his skin, even under the sun.

If Hild thought of sides, she thought of plots, of her mother, of Lindsey, its blood, its stink, and the world began to dissolve into a white hiss so that she wanted to step away from her body and become the marble maid again.

The dark was many things: the cold, the alien world, the virus, her own fear.

Marghe could feel the words bubble under her tongue like lava.

He smiled again, pleased but it didn't hide the tightness in his jaw, the worry and the weariness.

It was as their lady, dealer of wyrd and woe, that she judged the miserable bandits they chased down, the children, women, and men hauled cowering in groups of bramble thickets, hiding in twos in an overstood coppice, or sniveling along in a half-eaten bud in the lee of a rock.

Here she was Stranger Woman, or the SEC rep. Not Marguerite Angelica Taishan, not Marghe. She wondered if that person existed anymore.

Hild felt herself split in two: the butcher-bird thinking, I could take him, and the seer, I serve the king.

The child would wake in the night to her mother's dream cries-a man coming to steal her, steal her child, steal her payment-and her mother would not eat, only hunch over the bowel and scry, and follow the girl about with haunted eyes.

Under the ferocity Fursey heard the howling loneliness. But ferocity was winning.

She looked like a tear-streaked maid sleepless under the weight on unbearable knowledge. She smiled.

The way my parents see me, more Crip than Kick, I saw I've been doing that to myself. Cutting myself down to size before anyone else could do it." "Protecting yourself." "Making myself small.

It wasn't her blood. It was the blood of those who had fought over her like mad beasts while she lay stunned.

Angst was for the dark.

It was a good place, a fine place, it should have been her place to belong. Only it was not; Arturus did not want her.

I know how to look after myself; I have the money to buy whatever I need. Neither of these things is any protection for the raw wound that is grief, and this man sat like a sack of sharp salt in the middle of the only safe place I knew.

To not being nine years old and at the mercy of the world.

She walked alone in the rain, half mad with trying not to remember the soft warmth of Onnen's motherly breast and the smell of her clothes, trying not to think of the glint of firelight on Begu's escaping hair because then she'd remember it always, one more meory to torment her.

How would she be the light of the world feeling like this?

Most of those who would become bandits were good, decent folk; they would form if they could. He is right to try. Right to hope for it, right to fight for it. That's what I would fight for.

Hild bent over and vomited stinging bile, then through her weeping, killed the man at her feet.

She could not move fast against the weight of water, not against a mounted man, so she did the only thing she could and hurled the boar spear across the horse's path, straight into the bank.

She had no idea why it was so much harder for her to folk in Anglisc to anyone but Begu, it just was, though these last weeks she was learning how to let the words come. It helped if there was no weightiness behind them, no import; if they were only words with no life or death hanging in the balance.

The burning was something to hold on to as her headache threatened to engulf the world.