Gods of Jade and Shadow

Words are seeds, Casiopea. With words you embroider narratives, and the narratives breed myths, and there's power in the myth. Yes, the things you name have power.

Is that why you stare at the stars?” he asked. “Are you searching for beauty or dreaming with your eyes wide open?

He'd fallen in love slowly and quietly, and it was a quiet sort of love, full of phrases left unsaid, laced with dreams.

Dreams are for mortals." "Why?" "Because they must die.

There was sadness in her, of course, but she didn't wish to crack like fine china either. She could not wither away. In the world of the living, one must live. And had this not been her wish? To live. Truly live.

The things you name grow in power.

In her spare time, she looked to books or the stars for company.

You did not rescue me,” Casiopea replied. “I opened that chest. Besides, I wasn’t a princess in a tower. I knew I’d get away one way or another, and I was not waiting for a god to liberate me.

Look at you, like the dawn. You can't understand, of course, but one day you'll want to be new again. You'll wish to return to this moment of perfection when you were the embodiment of all promises.

The things you name do grow in power, but others that are not ever whispered claw at one's heart anyway, rip it to shreds even if a syllable does not escape the lips.

Mortals have always been frightened of the night's velvet embrace and the creatures that walk in it, and yet they find themselves mesmerized by it.

Ah, there is none more fearful of thieves than the one who has stolen something, and a kingdom is no small something.

She was but a girl from nowhere. Let the heroes save the world, save kings who must regain their crowns. Live, live, she wanted to live, and there was a way.

When there was but a gray speck of his heart left, he bend down and kissed her again, briefly, a brush of lips. A grain of dust may contain a universe, and it was the same for him. Within that gray speck there lived his love and he gave it to Casiopea, for her to see. He'd fallen in love slowly and quietly, and it was a quiet sort of love, full of phrases left unsaid, laced with dreams. He had imagined himself a man for her, and he allowed her to see the extant of this man, and he gave her this speck of heart, which was a man, to hold for a moment before taking it back the second before it faded.

She longed. Not for one specific thing but for everything; she had longed for a long time

The imagination of mortals shaped the gods, carving their faces and their myriad forms, just as the water molds the stones in its path, wearing them down through the centuries.

if she didn’t sit down, calm herself, and close her eyes, she was going to smack the god of the dead across the face.

I like your daydreams, dear girl," he said quietly.

Fear is generous and does not exclusively lodge in the hearts of mortals.

I follow the direction of the wind, and I cannot be blamed if a new wind begins to blow

Take it from me. Now is always the answer. Besides, do you have anything better to do? Mope around for a decade or two?" Casiopea drummed her fingers against her skirt and chewed her lip. The dramatic poetry she'd read would have called for this and more. There was sadness in her, of course, but she didn't wish to crack like fine china either. She could not wither away. In the world of the living, one must live. And had this not been her wish? To live. Truly live.

Mythmaking. It’s greater than you or I, this tale.

It wasn’t fair. But there wasn’t an “after” in stories, was there? The curtain simply fell. She was not in a fairy tale, in any case. What “after” could there be?

She woke to an ache so deep in her bones and such copious sorrow that she thought she would not be able to rise from bed. The world outside seemed muted and gray, which she thought fitting. Had it not been gray for her since birth? The burst of colors she had experienced during the past few days was the anomaly.

I'd like to count stars with you. I don't know where I even got this idea, but it's there.

Like many young people, ultimately she saw herself as a completely new creature, a creation that had sprung from no ancient soils.

Anyone who expects sweetness from the grave is a fool...

Xibalba can be a frightful place, with its House of Knives and its House of Bats and many strange sights, but the court of the Lords of Death also possessed the allure of shadows and the glimmer of obsidian, for there is as much beauty as there is terror in the night.

She had a knack for quiet insurrection.

If you gave me a name, who is to say it is not mine? If I had an ordinary name, I could have an ordinary story. I could swear I first saw you in Merida, standing in the middle of the street.