Juliet Marillier (born 27 July 1948) is a New Zealand-born writer of fantasy, focusing predominantly on historical fantasy.
Stronger than iron crueler than death sweeter than springtime it lives beyond breath
Only - only that, if you believe the tales, it's in the nature of our people to go to war and to kill, just as it is to sing and play and tell stories. Perhaps they are two halves of the same whole.
Third person allows a deeper exploration of the relationships between characters. We can see their misunderstandings and hear what they think about each other. We can create a more complex structure with various story threads running parallel.
Ask us for any help you need. . . Let us be strong for you.
Bran held his voice leve. "In time,you will regret these words. You may hold me captive now, and believe me helpless. But each foulword you speak of her brings your death a little closer. " --Bran to Eamonn
Breath of the winds; dancing flame; peace of the earth; song of the waves.
Liadan," he said, staring intently at the ground. "Yes," I whispered. "Don't wed that man Eamonn. Tell him, if he takes you, he's a dead. " --Bran
With respect," said Red, and his voice had gone so quiet people hushed each other to hear him, "my tale is yet unfinished; you should hear me out. And it is her answer I have come to hear, not yours.
We cannot know the future. All we can do is face it bravely. We should take heed of those we love and respect. But in the end, we make every decision alone.
I like the truth, even when it does trouble me.
The greatest tales, well told, awaken the fears and longings of the listeners. Each man hears a different story. Each is touched by it according to his inner self. The words go to the ear, but the true message travels straight to the spirit.
I do not view suicide as wicked, just terribly sad. There is only one death, but it is like a stone cast into a pond - the ripples stretch far. Such an act must leave a burden of sorrow, guilt, shame and confusion on an entire family. A natural death, such as my father suffered, is hard enough to deal with. A decision to end one's life must be still more devastating for those left behind. I cannot imagine the degree of hopelessness someone must feel to contemplate such an act.
Trust is a thing you know without words.
Hope is such a tenuous quality. To feel it and then to be denied what one most longs for. . . Better, surely, not to hope at all, than to open the heart to a hope that is impossible.
The world is simple, I think, in its essence. Life, death, love, hate. Desire, fulfillment. Magic.
You will find the way, daughter of the forest. Through grief and pain, through many trials, through betrayal and loss, your feet will walk a straight path.
More like some small, fierce bird of prey, something with a sharp bite. An owl perhaps, that speaks only when the rest of the world sleeps. Jenny will do well enough.
Your actions are your own. Your choices are your own. Each of us carries a burden of guilt for decisions made or not made. You can let that rule your whole life or you can put it behind you and move on. Only a madman lets jealousy determine the course of his existence. Only a weak man blames others for his own errors.
For indeed you have a choice. You can flee and hide, and wait to be found. You can live out your days in terror, without meaning. Or you can take the harder choice, and you can save them.
I know it's hard for you to trust me. If I ever find the man who did this to you, who made you so frightened, I'll kill him with my bare hands. But you can trust me.