The Knight and the Moth

You don’t have to be good, or useful, for someone to care about you.

People who love you for your usefulness don't love you at all.

When you do the right thing for the wrong reason, no one praises you. When you do the wrong thing for the right reason, everyone does, even though what is right and wrong depends entirely on the story you’re living in. And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special.

Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?

You want to throw me down. And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.

It's hard to see who I am when I am lost in what's expected of me.

You know this story, Bartholomew, though you do not remember it. I'll tell it to you as best I can and promise to be honest in my talebearing. If I'm not, that's hardly my fault. To tell a story is in part to tell a lie, isn't it?

It is easier, swearing ourselves to someone else's cause than to sit with who we are without one.

To the child in each of us, yearning to be special. Take my hand, you strange little creature, and together we shall walk beyond the wall.

If you only ever look up at something, can you ever see it clearly?

I cannot decide which I like best. The sunrise, or the sunset. They are like life, and her quiet companion, death.

It sounds awful when I say it out loud.” “True things often do.

I confess horses are not the intelligent beasts I imagined them to be. Though I don’t think that merits the abuse they suffer postmortem.” That one took me a moment. “No one actually beats dead horses, gargoyle. It’s an expression.” “Really? How morbid.

To tell a story is in some part to tell a lie, isn’t it?

I was losing my faith in everything. But the two of us meeting… it felt almost divine.

You are more special than you realize. I don’t even know your name”—he drew in a breath—“and I would do anything for you.

How undignified.” The gargoyle let out a whimper. “Did anyone see me fall?

Just as well. Sometimes, Bartholomew, I think her quite the bitch.

No honor among thieves, and even less among gods.

Please, Rory. Take it off. I want someone to see me.” I whispered against his lips. “I want it to be you.

My armor may dent, my sword may break, but I will never diminish.

She's a guest of the king's. Affront her in any way, the knighthood will answer. Attempt to look beneath her shroud, and she and the gargoyle will respond as they see fit. With full immunity to any carnage tended." The gargoyle batted his eyes. "Oh, Bartholomew. He's dreamy.

Once, there was a foundling boy who didn’t believe in anything. He grew up, became a worldly knight, and still he struggled to believe. He bore hardly any hope, and a mountain of disdain. And that should have been the end.” He took my hand, squeezed it, tightening my hold on my hammer. “But then he came to a cathedral upon a tor, and met a woman there. And all the tales he’d troubled himself with about cruelty, about unfairness and godlessness… he started to forget. He was afforded another chance, as if by magic, to believe in something. He’d never be a very good knight, but every time he looked at the woman, he had the distinct faith”—his eyes roved my face—“that things could be better than they’d been.

I washed the Divining robes this morning." The gargoyle led me down the nave. On the final pew, six silk robes waited. "It was an abundant chore. I am within myself with fatigue." "Beside," I murmured, peeling off my clothes. " 'Beside myself with fatigue' is the proper expression." The gargoyle's stone brow knit. "If I were beside myself, there would be two of me, and the washing would have taken half the time.

I’ll do anything you ask of me.

The pretty one.” Rory’s eyes flitted to me. But the King’s finger, the knighthood’s collective gaze, was trained on Four.

You want to throw me down,” Rory said, eyelids dropping as he whispered into my parted lips. “And I, prideful, disdainful, godless, want to drag you into the dirt with me.

He held me in his gaze like he needed to. “Do you want to know how it ends?” “Does it end?” He nodded. “It ends a handful of minutes from now. After you’ve won, and there is one less Omen in the world.” He grinned. “It ends when you kiss me.” “You mean it ends after I’ve won, and there is one less Omen in the world—and I hit you as hard as I can.” “With your mouth.