All This Twisted Glory

He was terrified she'd go and do something brutal, like smile at him.

He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to bring her tea and walk with her through the seasons. He wanted to watch her conquer the earth.

He came to life when she smiled, drew breath when her eyes brightened, died when she left a room.

But life cannot be experienced one emotion at a time. It is a tapestry of sensation, a braided rope of feeling. We must allow for reflection even when we suffer. We must reach for compassion even when we triumph. If you spend your days waiting for your sorrows to end so that you might finally live” – he shook his head – “you will die an impatient man.

You can’t lie to me forever, Cyrus. I’m going to find out the truth about you, and when I do, I promise you this: I’ll ruin him. I’ll make the devil regret the day he was born.

Angel,” he breathed. “My angel.

It occurred to him then, with a vague panic, that he'd follow her off a cliff if she were the one to lead him there.

For as long as he lived he feared he'd know the scent of her, the sound of her walking toward him. She was a fool to think otherwise. He was a fool to think of her at all.

He wondered if she had any idea what he'd do for her, the worlds he'd destroy for her.

You really do love her?" Cyrus said nothing. He didn't need to.

Master yourself so that you will never be mastered. Know yourself so that you might live with conviction. Live with conviction so that your steps never falter.” He paused. “The mastery of self means never fearing the consequences of doing what is right.

I want it all, angel. Not just your joy but your sorrow. Not just your hope but your fear, I want your anger and disdain, your frustration and contempt--

She didn't know how to describe this feeling, this breathless languor. No one had ever looked at her the way he did, as if the sight of her might be fatal. Her lips had parted under the weight of his silent want, her mouth growing heavy with the sound of his name and a desperate, foolish impulse to whisper the word against his skin.

This tremble inside him, this madness in his heart--it was all for her. All for her.

Fiction or not, she'd embedded inside him, replaced the air in his lungs. That she'd proven to be real--more exquisite than he'd dreamed--and entirely ignorant of him, had been more than he could bear.

Every night a new facet of his soul died for her.

He might be driven to kill a man just to improve her view out a window. He might renege on the entire deal, just as the devil desired.

Do I get one, too?” Cyrus frowned. “Would that… please you?” “Yes, I think so.” “All right.” He blinked slowly. “You can have a dragon.

More than that, he wanted to fall to his knees. This tremble inside him, this madness in his heart—it was all for her. All for her. He could hardly look at Alizeh without losing his mind; nearly four weeks he’d seen her only in his dreams, and he’d all but forgotten how finely wrought she was in real life, how delicate her features, how soft the curves of her cheeks. He came to life when she smiled, drew breath when her eyes brightened, died when she left a room. She’d smelled like roses. His roses.

As much as it tortured him to look at her, it tortured him more to look away.

You must not resist life when it becomes inconvenient to live. You cannot outrun fear. You should not ignore pain. You will not outlive death.

What are friends for, if not to kill your enemies?

When you suffer,” Rostam went on, “you can choose to endure, or you can choose to overcome.” He gestured around them, to the vast expanse of the meadow. “Here, even in the midst of your discomfort, there existed elements of relief, if only you had bothered to search.

Fate, he thought bitterly, was only romantic when one was destined to be the hero.

He didn't need to turn to see her, for Alizeh lived always in luxury behind his eyes; he turned because the act of aligning his body towards hers was chased every time by a strange relief.

The constant, gnawing ache inside him---this pitiful need that grew only more fraught in the wake of every darkness that devoured him---he longed for her warmth, for her radiance.

He only closed his eyes against her hair and fought the desperate crush of his chest, the violence of his affection for her. How she managed to disarm him even now, on the brink of death, he could not understand. She’d wept for his pain, wiped the blood from his eyes, taken an arrow in the back for him. She’d shown him more loyalty and tenderness in two days than he’d ever felt in his life, and he knew then, with a force that drove the air from his lungs, that he would never survive her.

He knew at once he'd been tricked; he knew at once she was an instrument of the devil, sent to ruin him. And yet he weakened each time she looked in his direction. His need grew only more explosive as she solidified into someone real; always he desired another glance, another accidental graze of her skin.

More extraordinary was that her beauty was but a vessel, physical majesty forged for a soul so tender it defied description.