Modern çağda yaşlanmanın bir sorun olması, anlamsız sayılmasından, dahası erken teşhis edilerek kararlılıkla mücadele verilmesi gereken bir hastalık gibi görülmesindendir; ileride bir vakit ameliyatla çözülecektir nihayetinde. Yaşlanmanın hiçbir anlamı olmayan, dolayısıyla bütün imkânlarla önlem alınması gereken bir şey olarak yorumlanması, modern çağın ifrada varan Benizminin bir ürünü olabilir; ebediyen genç kalacak bir Ben'in propagandacısıdır bu izm: her yerde hazır ve nazır ve ebedi bir Ben... Forever Young [Ebediyen Genç]
Long Live the Queen
Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected
from the sad lot of candidates.
Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his
eyes glowed.
The trumpets rang out.
A four-note summons. Repeated three times.
Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.
Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small
group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand,
sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude,
but better than nothing.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her
braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because
she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this
walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.
Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown
back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the
dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.
For Aelin’s coronation.
Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in
green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but
what she was.
The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take
down Erawan.
Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and
Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.
Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming,
those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran.
Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for
Reklam
A Perfect love Declaration
“So fucking devastated that I was going to lose you,” he replies,
stark honesty rumbling out of his gravelly voice. “That I was going to lose
you before I could tell you that I love you.”
Breath sucks in between my lips, my eyes widening as I stare at him.
“Love?”
He pauses and studies my face like his dark brown eyes are soaking
up every inch of me. “Yes, Rissa Bell. I fucking love you.”
My mind sputters, heart skipping. “But…we barely know each other.
We’ve barely spent any time together,” I say in a rush, looking around like
excuses are going to start falling onto the floor so I can pick them all up.
“We can’t even stand each other!”
He smirks. “We like the fire. We each don’t back down to the other,
and we like it that way. So don’t lie and try to act like we can’t stand each
other, because we both know that’s not true.”
My pulse feels like there are a thousand birds taking flight within
every vein, fluttering all over.
“You almost died,” he says again. “And I’ll never fucking forget
how close it was. Just like I won’t waste any more time now that we’ve
gotten a second chance. We can’t fight this anymore, Rissa. I’m claiming
you as mine.”
I stare at him. Mouth opening and closing like a struggling fish. “Are
you out of your mind? You can’t just…claim me!” I say shrilly.
“I just did.”
My back stiffens. “I am an independent woman. I decide who to be
with.”
“You’ll decide to be with me.”
My teeth grind. “You cocky son of a bitch.”
“And yours.”
“Mine?” I scoff and try to slap his hand away from my waist, but he
pays the swat no mind, his touch still holding me. “What, you’re mine until
Reklam
Reklam