Why, Reshi?The words poured out of Bast in a sudden gush. Why did you stay there when it was so awful?Kvothe nodded to himself, as if he had been expecting the question. Where else was there for me to go, Bast? Everyone I knew was dead.Not everyone, Bast insisted. There was Abenthy. You could have gone to him.Hallowfell was hundreds of miles away, Bast, Kvothe said wearily as he wandered to the other side of the room and moved behind the bar. Hundreds of miles without my father's maps to guide me. Hundredsof miles without wagons to ride or sleep in. Without help of any sort, or money, or shoes. Not an impossible journey, I suppose. But for a young child, still numb with the shock of losing his parents. . . .Kvothe shook his head. No. In Tarbean at least I could beg or steal. I'd managed to survive in the forest for a summer, barely. But over the winter? He shook his head. I would have starved or frozen todeath.Standing at the bar, Kvothe filled his mug and began to add pinches of spice from several small containers, then walked toward the great stone fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face. You're right, of course. Anywhere would have been better than Tarbean.He shrugged, facing the fire. But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves. Perhaps I even viewed it as fair. My punishment for not being there to help when the Chandrian came. My punishment for not dying when I should have, with the rest of my family.Bast opened his mouth, then closed it and looked down at the tabletop, frowning.Kvothe looked over his shoulder and gave a gentle smile. I am not saying it's rational, Bast. Emotions by their very nature are not reasonable things. I don't feel that way now, but back then I did. I remember.He turned back to the fire. Ben's training has given me a memory so clean and sharp I have to be careful not to cut myself sometimes.Kvothe took a mulling stone from the fire and dropped it into his wooden mug. It sank with a sharp hiss.The smell of searing clove and nutmeg filled the room.Kvothe stirred his cider with a long-handled spoon as he made his way back to the table. You must also remember that I was not in my right mind. Much of me was still in shock, sleeping if you will. I needed something, or someone, to wake me up.He nodded to Chronicler, who casually shook his writing hand to loosen it, then unstoppered his inkwell.Kvothe leaned back in his seat. I needed to be reminded of things I had forgotten. I needed a reason to leave. It was years before I met someone who could do those things. He smiled at Chronicler. Before I met Skarpi.
Patrick Rothfuss
KINGDOM OF THE WOMBFrom her thighs, she gives you lifeAnd how you treat she who gives you lifeShows how much you value the life given to you by the Creator.And from seed to dustThere is ONE soul above all others --That you must always show patience, respect and trustAnd this woman is your mother.And when your soul departs your bodyAnd your deeds are weighed against the featherThere is only one soul who can save yoursAnd this woman is your mother.And when the heart of the universeAsks her hair and mind,Whether you were gentle and kind to herHer heart will be forced to remain silentAnd her hair will speak freely as a separate entity,Very much like the seaweed in the sea --It will reveal all that it has heard and seen.This woman whose heart has seen yours,First before anybody else in the world,And whose womb had opened the doorFor your eyes to experience light and more --Is your very own MOTHER.So, no matter whether your mother has been cruel,Manipulative, abusive, mentally sick, or simply childishHow you treat her is the ultimate test.If she misguides you, forgive her and show her the right wayWith simple wisdom, gentleness and kindness.And always remember,That the queen in the Creator's kingdom,Who sits on the throne of all existence,Is exactly the same as in yours.And her name is,THE DIVINE MOTHER.
Suzy Kassem
The bast, dispersing in shreds in the sunset whispered Time has begun. The son, Adam, stripped naked, descended into the Old Testament of his native land and arrayed himself in bast; a wreath of roadside field grass he placed upon his brow, a staff, not a switch, he pulled from the ground, flourishing the birch branch like a sacred palm. On the road he stood like a guard. The dust-gray road ran into the sunset. And a crow perched there, perched and croaked, there where the celestial fire consumed the earth.There were blind men along the dust-gray road running into the twilight. Antique, crooken, they trailed along, lonely and sinister silhouettes, holding to one another and to their leader's cane. They were raising dust. One was beard-less, he kept squinting. Another, a little old man with a protruding lip, was whispering and praying. A third, covered with red hair, frowned. Their backs were bent, their heads bowed low, their arms extended to the staff. Strange it was to see this mute procession in the terrible twilight. They made their way immutable, primordial, blind. Oh, if only they could open their eyes, oh if only they were not blind! Russian Land, awake!And Adam, rude image of the returned king, lowered the birch branch to their white pupils. And on them he laid his hands, as, groaning and moaning they seated themselves in the dust and with trembling hands pushed chunks of black bread into their mouths. Their faces were ashen and menacing, lit with the pale light of deadly clouds. Lightning blazed, their blinded faces blazed. Oh, if only they opened their eyes, oh, if only they saw the light!Adam, Adam, you stand illumined by lightnings. Now you lay the gentle branch upon their faces. Adam, Adam, say, see, see! And he restores their sight.But the blind men turning their ashen faces and opening their white eyes did not see. And the wind whispered Thou art behind the hill. From the clouds a fiery veil began to shimmer and died out. A little birch murmured, beseeching and fell asleep. The dusk dispersed at the horizon and a bloody stump of the sunset stuck up. And spotted with brilliant coals glowing red, the bast streamed out from the sunset like a striped cloak. On the waxen image of Adam the field grass wreaths sighed fearfully giving a soft whistle and the green dewy clusters sprinkled forth fiery tears on the blind faces of the blind. He knew what he was doing, he was restoring their sight.(Adam)
Andrei Bely
With her hands still fisted in his shirt, she gave a gentle tug until he bent enough that she could kiss him softly. And then not so softly.What was that for? he asked when she pulled free, his voice sexy low and gruff now.For being the kind of guy who can admit he has emotions.He cupped her face. We don’t have to tell anyone, right?She smiled. It’ll be our secret. But then her smile faded because she wasn’t good at secrets.Or maybe she was too good at them . . . I’m not helpless, she said. I want you to know that.I do know it. He paused, looking a little irritated again. Mostly.Good, she said. Now that’s settled, you should know, the caveman thing you just pulled . . . it turned me on a little bit.He slid her a look. Yeah?Yeah.Looking a little less like he was spoiling for a fight, his hands went to her hips and he pulled her in tighter.What the hell was she doing? Clearly, she wasn’t equipped to stay strong and who could? The guy was just too damn potent. Too visceral. Testosterone and pheromones leaked off of him. She dropped her head to his chest. Ugh. You’re being . . . you.Was that in English?This is all your fault.Nope. Definitely not English.You’re being all hot and sexy, dammit, she said. She banged her head on his chest a few times. And I can’t seem to . . . not notice said hotness and sexiness.He smiled. You want me again.Again. Still . . . She tossed up her hands. You wear your stupid sexiness on your sleeve and you don’t even know it.
Jill Shalvis