When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
“
| — | W.B. Yeats “When You are Old” (via thewordbar) |
He was speaking to her in a placating way, as if worried she would get angry. For her part, though, she couldn’t even figure out what he was trying to say. “Out with it, man. What is a Narlad?”
He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “Why, it’s ladies, you see. Ladies who like other ladies. Romantically.”
[….]
“And?”
“And… and they might—well, that is, some of the more old-fashioned folk might treat you differently.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I have no intention of dressing to fit a certain expectation just so people know where my interests lie. If they treat me differently because I wear pants—because they think it signifies more than just comfort and because they think I should not be allowed to love who I want to love—I’ll simply have to educate them.” Red shifted uncomfortably, and she realized, looking around, that the room had gone silent and that everyone was watching her.
Greyson cleared his throat and spoke with a frown. “By educate, I hope you don’t mean maim.” He turned to Red to explain. “That’s what she usually means.”
Beautiful art by novangla for Chapter 4 of The Wizard’s Prophecy! This is one of my all-time favorites.
The Wizard’s Prophecy
The candlelight glinted sharply off the blade of her knife as she set it on the table before her. “So,” she said.
“So,” he returned. His chair creaked as he shifted positions, resting his massive arms on the table before him.
“We have an agreement then?”
He nodded. “Two weeks. I’ll have it for you then.”
She traced the edge of the knife handle with her finger gently, languidly. “Two weeks?”
“If I said two weeks, I meant two weeks. Not a day longer. I’m a man of my word. And,” he said, a hard glint coming into his eye, “I don’t need weapons to prove it, either.”
A corner of her mouth curled up. This one had spunk. Attitude. She liked him. But she said nothing. She was not allowed to like him.
He held her eyes for just a moment longer than he should have before looking away. Ordinarily, she would have been offended, but something about his look made her breath catch in her throat. Was he—? She scrutinized him. Dark hair. Dark eyes. But the prophecy had said the man would have bright eyes, didn’t it? She would swear an oath that it did. She drummed her fingers on the table, uncertain.
He looked up at her, then glanced down at her knife. He looked up again. “Well? Was there something else you wanted?”
The candlelight flickered and, for a moment, reflected off of his eyes. She gasped. Could he know? Only three others knew about her part of the prophecy, and two of those were dead. Of course he couldn’t know. But she did. Suddenly everything about him interested her: his hands, large and calloused; his broad chest; his stubbled chin. Could it be?
“Yes,” she breathed.
