Aşık olunan kişiye biçilen sonsuz değer, o kişinin zihinsel herhangi bir vasfına dayanmadığı gibi, tam olarak nesnel ya da gerçek meziyetlerine de dayanmaz. Zira Petrarca' da olduğu gibi, âşık olan erkek çoğu kez kadını yeterince iyi tanımaz. O kadının, amaçları açısından kendisi için ne denli değerli olduğunu yalnız türün ruhu bir bakışta görebilir. Büyük tutkular da genellikle ilk bakışta ortaya çıkar.
"Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?
İlk görüşte âşık olmayan hiç âşık olmamıştır."
Sevilen kimsenin kendi amaçları için sahip olduğu değeri sadece türün ruhu bir bakışta anlayabilir. Ve büyük tutkular da genellikle ilk bakışta doğar:
"Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight."
"Kimi sevsem ilk bakışta benim sevdiğim değil."
His first sight of her ... like a magnet pulling him, his heart hammering, pulse racing.
Onu ilk gördüğünde... sanki bir mıknatıs onu kendine çekmiş gibiydi, kalbi gümbür gümbür atıyor, nabzı hızlanmıştı.
She Escaped
“Someone’s making a move this way,” Lorcan murmured to Gavriel.
“But Whitethorn’s still over there.”
Fenrys. Or Connall, perhaps. Maybe Essar’s sister, who he’d never
liked. But he wouldn’t give a shit about that if she hadn’t betrayed them.
He pointed north of the entrance. “You take that side. Be ready to
strike from the flank.”
Gavriel sped off, a predator ready to pounce unseen when Lorcan
attacked head-on.
Death glimmered. Whitethorn was nearly at the camp’s center. And
that force approaching their eastern entrance …
To hell with waiting.
Lorcan broke from the cover of trees, dark power swirling, primed to
meet whatever broke through the line of tents.
Freeing the sword at his side, he searched the sky, the camp, the world
as death flickered, as the rising sun gilded the rolling grasses and set the
dew steaming.
Nothing. No indication of what, of who—
He’d reached the first of the hollows that flowed to the camp edge,
the dips narrow and steep, when Aelin Galathynius appeared.
Lorcan didn’t expect the sob in his throat as she raced between the
tents, as he beheld the iron mask and the chains on her, hands still bound.
As he beheld the blood soaking her skin, the short white shift, her
hair, longer than he’d last seen and plastered to her head with gore.
His knees stopped working, and even his magic faltered at the sight of
her wild, desperate race for the camp’s edge.
Soldiers ran toward her.
Lorcan surged into motion, flaring his magic up and wide. Not to her,
but to Whitethorn, still charging for the center of the camp.
She’s here, she’s here, she’s here, he signaled.
But Lorcan was too far, the grassy bumps and hollows between them
See you next book
Fight it, he willed her, sending the words down the bond—the mating
bond, which perhaps had settled into place that first moment they’d become
carranam, hidden beneath flame and ice and hope for a better future. Fight
her. I am coming for you. Even if it takes me a thousand years. I will find
you, I will find you, I will find you.
Only salt and wind and water answered him.
Rowan rose to his feet. And slowly turned to face them.
But their attention snagged on the ships now sailing out of the west—
from the battle site. His cousins’ ships, with what remained of the fleet
Ansel of Briarcliff had won for them, and Rolfe’s three ships.
But it was not those boats that made him pause.
It was the one that rounded the eastern tip of the land—a longboat. It
swept closer on a phantom wind, too fast to be natural.
Rowan braced himself. The boat’s shape didn’t belong to any of the
fleets assembled. But its style nagged at his memory.
From their own fleet, Ansel of Briarcliff and Enda were soaring over the
waves in a longboat, aiming for this beach.
But Rowan and the others watched in silence as the foreign boat crested
through the surf and slid onto the sand.
Watched the olive-skinned sailors haul it up the beach. A broadshouldered young man nimbly leaped out, his slightly curling dark hair
tossed in the sea breeze.
He did not emit a whiff of fear as he stalked for them—didn’t even go
for the comforting touch of the fine sword at his side.
“Where is Aelin Galathynius?” the stranger asked a bit breathlessly as
he scanned them.
And his accent …
“Who are you,” Rowan ground out.
But the young man was now close enough that Rowan could see the
color of his eyes. Turquoise—with a core of gold.
Aedion breathed as if in a trance, “Galan.”
To Queen Morgana
Last year, on my birthday, I was sitting at a café in the South of France
by myself, eating blackberry cake I hadn’t ordered and fielding
frantic phone calls from my mother.
A year ago today, I was running for my life from the Fey trying to
murder me. I got kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend, Raphael, and taken across
the English Channel to Avalon Tower. I spent the journey terrified,
bewildered, and totally unprepared for what came next. With no idea I’d
survive training at Avalon Tower, let alone that I’d become the Lady of the
Lake.
A year ago today, I discovered I had hidden magic, that I was half Fey.
And this year?
This year, I’m not alone. This year, I have friends who would bleed for
me, and I’d do the same for them. A family carved out of chaos. A mom
I’ve left behind in Camelot to finally learn how to look after herself.
Today, my birthday takes place on a mossy island of rambling ruins and
ancient Fey magic.
As I polish the crystal glasses, my gaze roams over the castle’s carvings
—the triple spirals above each arched doorway that hum with magic
whenever I pass beneath them. Already, musicians are setting up in the
banquet hall, a drummer, a lyre player with shimmering silver hair, and a
lutist.
Aisling bustles in over the sun-dappled floor of cowslips, violets, and
rue. She sets out a crystal tray of buttered chanterelles with apple slices.
“So, Brados said to me, like he was serious, ‘We control the kingdom now.’
A republic. Can you imagine such a thing? He ran a bloody tavern, pulling
pints of goat piss for mead, now he’s overseeing a bloody kingdom with
some backward farmers? Not that I’m judging the country types, but in my
experience, they don’t know their arses from their elbows. Of course, most
of the Fey who stayed in Brocéliande seem to be happy. My
