So i’ve been rereading Heir of Fire and wow. I mean I knew I loved it, but I LOVE IT. Just WOW
Me: *enjoying chaolaena*
Part 2 of the Crown of Midnight existing
Me: F U C K
ok, hear me out, Angelina Jolie in Maleficent as Maeve…
An Insider’s Guide to Throne of Glass: Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s Assassin and the King’s Champion + Dorian Havilliard, Crown Prince of Adarlan, 2/?
An Insider’s Guide to Throne of Glass: Celaena Sardothien’s Apartment in Rifthold’s Warehouse District, 1/?
Aelin Galanthynius- Throne Of Glass
Tell me some of your throne of glass unpopular opinions, I’m feeling chaotic tonight
“— Estou com fome.
O Jovem rei sorriu devagar.
“Steel does not shatter nearly so easily as glass.”
A year after Sam’s death, he still hadn’t stopped marveling at - everything. How… similar it was to life. So vibrant and rich and brimming with a thousand untold stories. It was strange, sometimes he would forget that he was dead.
But he never could, not when a phantom memory of pain lingered in his dreams. Not when the image of Celaena’s blood staining the barren earth of Endovier was imprinted on his eyelids.
Watching Celaena had, as Elena said, been a test, to prove that Sam would not forget those in his life. The female’s words came back to him, uttered when he was trembling on the ground, longing for pain and comfort but finding only tears.
You cannot pass through the barrier. You can see them, can touch them, even, sometimes, but never pass through. They will never know you are here. It is our burden to bear, to watch those we love live, while we can do nothing to stop their pain.
He cringed at the memory of the words as he made his way through the crowded streets. His surroundings were almost like Rifthold, with the bustling throngs of people. But the diversity here… there were people from all over the world, from Wendlyn, from the Southern Continent, from Eyllwe. So many people, each trying - and failing, Sam thought with bitter amusement - to help or hinder those in their lives.
A sprinting figure came up to him, panting beneath the heavy cloak they wore. They skidded to a stop, barely avoiding crashing into him.
“Please. You have to help me.” They grabbed his wrists with thin, pale hands. Sam tilted his head, attempting to discern the face beneath the cloak. Coils of bright red hair, and tanned skin. He pulled his own hood farther forward, shielding his face. Her - he supposed it was - voice was urgent. “They’ll find me, and take me. Help me.”
Sam shook his head, hesitant to become involved in this woman’s troubles. But… Celaena wouldn’t hesitate to help her. “Slow down,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Who will find you?”
She trembled, so much he could make out the quivering beneath the heavy garments. “We must find somewhere safe, first. Then I will explain.” She inclined her head, motioning for him to follow, before running off into the busy streets.
She ran, hoping that the young man would follow. If not, she’d figure it out. She would do what was necessary to ensure her survival.
She reached an alleyway, grimy and dim. Looking back, Syleena paused, searching for the man. She couldn’t spy him in the crowd, and her heart sank. But - there. A figure dashing towards her, sprinting. She recognised him quickly, and caught his eye. She smiled, and turned into the dark alley.
The walls pressed in on her, and the faint smell of refuse threatened to make her sick. She tamped down on the urge, and slowed to a brisk walk. When she neared the end, Syleena stretched out a hand, probing the wall carefully. There. Her fingers met a slight edge, and she pressed in, before knocking twice.
“What are you doing?” She jumped at the voice, whipping her head around. The man had crept up on near-silent feet, a feline grace to every movement. She willed her racing heartbeat to slow, her voice to steady.“Finding somewhere safe.” She knocked once more, and waited. They stood in silence for a moment, almost as if expecting something grandiose. “What’s your name?” she asked, into the quiet.
The young man started, as if he had forgotten she was there. He swallowed audibly, before responding, “Sam Cortland.” He seemed to war with himself, before asking, “You?”
“Syleena Furybloom.” She practically spat the words, hating the way the words sounded on her tongue. She didn’t have a last name, so she used the one of her former masters. For a moment, Syleena was engulfed in memories.
The water splashed, and the joyous laughter of children met her ears. But Syleena could find no merriment in it, only callous cruelty and indifference. She swirled her fingers through the surface of the water, the water she had once loved so fiercely. A part of her longed to wield and create, to heal her scars with beauty. But the power, what she had once treasured - she couldn’t. What they had made her do… Syleena shivered, withdrawing her hand from the water. She hugged her knees to her chest, red hair falling over her face. Her skin glowed in the dappled sunlight, as if she had been bathed with the flickering warmth of firelight. A leaf drifted down from above, falling onto her arms. She gazed at the colours in it, transfixed by the simple beauty. Green and yellow and brown, jewel bright hues swirled together to create something soft and ethereal.
Syleena started, jolting back into herself. Sam stared at her, brows furrowed with concern.
“Are you okay?” He asked, tugging his hood forward. “You blanked out for a moment.”
She let out a breath, before responding, “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” There was a beat of silence, deep and expectant. It was the kind of quiet that made Syleena think of chill winter nights, when the moon washed the snow covered forest with a silver glow.
She sighed longingly, remembering Terrassen’s cold, endless winters. How she had loved those winters, the still nights and breathless days. The frozen lakes and towering evergreens. And the riot of colours in the spring, the roaring Florine.
Syleena was snapped out of her memories by a low, eerie creak. Sam whipped his head around, and she snickered slightly at his shock. The brick wall slid away, revealing a long passageway of shadows. She heard Sam swallow.
“Are you afraid?” she teased, smirking beneath her hood. He stiffened, tensing at her mild words.
“Of course not,” he spat. She could practically feel his eyes burning into her. He stalked into the tunnel, not looking back.
Syleena huffed a breathy laugh, before following him into the gloom.
The darkness was thick and gloomy, almost tangible. Sam breathed in slowly, the air filling his lungs cold and sour. There was a quiet, but steady dripping noise coming from somewhere to his right. The echo of his footsteps was swallowed by the pooling shadows, disappearing beyond the far recessed of what was known. Syleena’s soft breath behind him was the only other sound.
A part of Sam wanted to speak, ask where she was taking him. But he didn’t want to disturb the silence, this momentary peace. It was obvious that Syleena had her scars, But - foolishly, idiotically - he was afraid to. He didn’t want to know. Celaena would laugh herself hoarse if she were here, would tell him to damn his fears, his reservations. But she wasn’t here. Celaena was in Endovier, being whipped and worked to her death. That she was even alive after a month astounded him. His only consolation was that at least they would be together soon.
“Wait,” Syleena’s soft whisper of a voice penetrated the silence, dragging him from his thoughts. Sam halted, footsteps fading away. “We’re here.” She walked in front of him, sidling past him with a wraith-like elegance. The hem of her cloak brushed the underside of his wrist, and he shivered.
The thin, razor-sharp edge of dagger tracing along his veins. A thick, muscle-corded hand gripping his forearm. Pain everywhere, blood dripping onto the table beneath it. Shallow breaths and erratic heartbeat. He wanted it to be over, to end. He wanted this agony to leave, to fade away into a star-kissed blanket of death. Wanted -
He slammed into himself, spiralling through his memories. He blinked his eyes open, which he had screwed closed. He turned around, spinning on his heel slowly.
Where nothing but endless shadows had been before, now an indomitable wall of rough stone blocked his path. Vaguely, from the light emitted from the torch in Syleena’s hand, he made out the faint imprint of a door. Sam frowned at it, wondering how they would open it.
He went up to it, examining the masonry closely. He felt Syleena come up behind him, close enough he could feel her breath scraping along his ear. Except, the breathing was so much heavier, the touch less light.
That wasn’t Syleena.
Sam spun around, hands instinctively searching for weapons that weren’t there. A hooded figure indeed stood there, but far taller and burlier. Syleena was shoved behind the man, against the stone wall.
His breath quickened slightly, heart thumping in his ears. How had someone snuck up on him like that? Were they really that quiet, or was he just distracted?
“Come with us, or your friend… well she won’t die, but it will be very unpleasant for her.” The voice was gravelly, as if it had been made to be so. It reminded him of Celaena, and her ridiculous mask.
But what could he possibly do to her here? Was the man bluffing, or was there truly some way to harm people?
“Very well,” he said, fully aware that he would likely regret it. But he couldn’t have the pain of an innocent on his hands - a silly thought, when he was a trained assassin who had killed dozens of people. But this, somehow, was different.
The man bound Sam’s hands behind him, patting him down, as if searching for weapons. A bag was thrown over his head, and the darkness crowded in, memories surging forward.
A thud, and he tried to writhe away from the strong arms gripping him, to no avail. A heavy blow landed against his skull, and Sam knew no more.
“Steel does not shatter nearly so easily as glass.”
Sam couldn’t feel anything. He flexed his fingers, his toes, his arms, but couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t see, either, but somehow knew he was moving. If this was death, it was… empty. Empty, and silent. It was a waiting quiet, a complete absence of sound that even the ringing in his ears couldn’t penetrate.
No, this was not death, he was certain of it. A gateway, perhaps, to the afterlife. There was no pain in this in-between world, no fractured bones or aching muscles. There was nothing but shadows and silence here, a presence that seemed to linger in the air, swirling and writhing.
Wind and stars and dreams, dew and mist and rain.
Sam searched for light, searched for purchase in this endless void. There was nothing, nothing but emptiness. And yet…
Far in the distance, a glimmer of - something. Not of light, but a glimpse of colour, seen by the eye in perfect darkness. A leap of hope bounded in Sam’s no longer beating heart, that perhaps he would not be alone in this hopeless abyss. Somehow, he felt himself drifting towards it, a slow, steady motion. He was nearly there, the colour was growing clearer, gaining dimension, a concrete form. The light at the end of a long tunnel, the first star just rising above the horizon.
A woman stood with her back to him, silver hair trailing down her back in waves of moonlight. A pale lavender dress was hung on her lithe frame, with embroidery that seemed to flow like quicksilver through the silk.
“Who are you?” he asked, the words echoing oddly in the silence. She turned, the material of her dress pooling in a shimmering heap at her feet. Sam gasped at her alluring features’ ethereal beauty. Delicately arched ears poked up through her unbound hair. Bright, startlingly sapphire eyes glimmered with a thousand glistening stars, and an ancient grace and wisdom seemed to radiate from the swirling depths. Fae. This woman - this female - was Fae.
“Sam Cortland,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. She drifted closer, fingering a strand of frosted starlight draped over her shoulder. “I am Elena, and that is all you need to know about me. Let us speak about you, now.” He cocked his head slightly, her brisk manner disconcerting. Who was Elena, what was she, that she didn’t want to reveal her story… Sam didn’t want to know. “You were correct in assuming that this is no Afterlife. A gateway, as you put it.” He flinched, the words resounding in his mind. How did Elena know what he had thought? Sam didn’t pretend to understand the ways of magic, and didn’t particularly care to. “The Afterlife is not far from here, though not in the literal sense. I am sure that you will find it much more to your liking.” A smile softened her eyes, crinkling the smooth skin at the corners. “But, however, there is a catch. You must pass a test, of sorts.” The hope that had begun to flicker in his heart dimmed to nothing but a faint ember, and he slumped, despair overtaking him. What sort of test would this be? It seemed people were always testing him. Arobynn, Lysandra, even Rolfe, and now Elena. One day, perhaps Sam would just erupt, and prove to all those who claimed he was worthless that they were wrong.
“And no, it is not like what you are thinking,” Elena continued, features softening once more, this time with sympathy. “Think of it as a test to see whether you are ready to move on or not.” Elena tilted her head, as if asking whether he understood. Sam nodded, willing the silent words to rise up in his eyes. Whatever it takes. She closed her eyes for half a moment, too long to just be a blink. “So be it.” Elena waved her hand, and the darkness melted away to reveal harsh, dry light. He squinted, eyes struggling against the onslaught on his senses.
A lovely form, golden hair trailing down her back, turquoise eyes defiant. Celaena. His throat closed up for a moment at that swagger, that bold arrogance. But that was a glimmer of loss gleaming in her eyes, a glint of silver limning the gold. Yes, his death would have broken her, too. But where was she? At the thought, her surroundings were revealed in a swirl of white. Rocky mountains and wooden huts, and a crowd of teeming people clad in rags and dirt. Oh no.
A man, with tangled hair and muddy eyes, beside Celaena, spoke, leering gleefully, just a Farran had before Sam’s death. “Take off your shirt,” he ordered, pushing her down on her knees. Celaena obliged, even as she clenched her fists, curling her fingers around an imaginary blade. And as her sun-kissed tan was exposed to the frigid air, Sam stumbled forward, realising what they were doing. The overseer uncoiled a whip from his belt, lowering himself to meet Celaena’s eyes. “I would say this won’t hurt too much, but I don’t want to lie.” He rose up, grasping the whip with a practiced hand. A whistle, and a crack. Celaena gritted her teeth against the pain, and he gasped, as if he could feel it himself. Another lash landed, but still Celaena did not scream. Even in death, Sam could read the words in her eyes. The words he had given her. My name is Celaena Sardothien and I will not be afraid. And yet another blow landed, this time on top of the first. Celaena cried out, a scream shattering from her throat. He curled inward, the sound exactly the same to his yells when Farran was torturing him.
And before another lash could be inflicted on her, Celaena brought her head up, golden hair matted in blood streaked clumps. Her turquoise eyes were dull, her usual manner dissolved into pain. But she smirked, though it came out as more of a grimace. And spat blood in the overseer’s face.
The look on his face would have made Sam laugh in a different circumstance. But the tears Celaena fought to keep back, the screams she could not silence, erased any amusement he may have felt.
Still, she seemed to rally her courage, her strength, and spoke with a weary version of her insufferable swagger. “You can whip me, and torture me, and mutilate me. But you will never, never, break Celaena Sardothien.”
The words snapped something in Sam.
He was at the barrier, pounding and pounding and pounding. He couldn’t feel it, not really. One moment his hand was moving, the next it wasn’t. He longed to bleed, to break and to bruise, if only so his Celaena would not be alone. But no pain came, nothing but an empty hollowness in his soul.
Through it all, Elena watched, cold and grave. A flicker of grief flashed through her sapphire eyes, dimming the stars which revolved around an inky pupil.
“Please,” he begged her, voice already raw from screaming. “She needs me.”
But Elena did not move, did not speak. And Celaena was whipped again and again and again.
There was nothing Sam could do. Nothing he could do, as the one he loved was mutilated and brutalised as he had been.
And despite everything, they were both alone.
In the end, Sam spent the better part of a year in that in-between world, watching Celaena’s misery.
He kicked and scratched, at the barrier separating them, at his own tanned skin. Despite how he had bled, how he had screamed ere his untimely death, he desired more. To share in Celaena’s suffering, to prove to himself that this was real, not just another form of torture spun for him.
And through it all, Elena watched him, ever stoic and grave. She did not seem to be moved by Sam’s pleading, by Celaena’s suffering. A cold and unyielding Fae queen, born of pain and ashes.
It could have continued forever, until Celaena was turned to nothing but dust and ashes brought on a fell wind. It could have never ended.
But one day, it did.
Watching Celaena’s haggard, gaunt face, her empty eyes which once sparked with such wicked delight and untamed wildness, Sam could have watched forever. But Elena crouched before him, bending down to his eye level, silver hair brushing his cheekbones.
“Come, Sam Cortland. Your time here is done,” she said, offering him a hand. He glared at it distrustfully, the slender shape and pale skin. She smiled sadly, sensing his hesitation. “You will still be able to watch Celaena, or anyone else you wish to. But you cannot remain here forever.” He found himself nodding, despite his reservations. And still her hand was extended, fine boned and elegant.
He took her hand.
“Steel does not shatter nearly so easily as glass.”
He rose to consciousness slowly, drifting through a sea of hazy darkness like a feather on water. He didn’t open his eyes, not yet. Sensing his surroundings, reaching out with his instincts.
Sam lay on an unyielding surface, the cold chill of metal seeping through his clothes, down into his bones. His wrists and ankles were pinned to the table, arms and legs stretched away from him, muscles straining with every breath. Cuffs ground into his skin, sharp edges already drawing blood.
Darkness pressed in on his closed eyelids, clawing and grappling with his reason. He peeled his eyes open slowly, oh so slowly. Blinking away the blurriness that came from a drug-induced sleep, and wincing from a crick in his neck, he raised his head, craning to see the room. It was shrouded with shadows, but training had sharpened his senses, his instincts. A heartbeat had him assessing the scene, the sparsely furnished area. A wooden chest, simple and plain, rested against the wall opposite him, nothing more. A window was cracked open above him, a slice of balmy air working its way through. Not enough to escape.
As he surveyed the room, memories came rushing back, a throbbing headache with them. Rourke Farran’s men, at first knocked to the ground, dead or unconscious. Then rising up, taking advantage of his surprise. A sharp, metallic scent in his nose. And darkness
Sam had insisted that Celaena stay away, terrified of what Farran would do to her should they fail. He knew he was right to do so, right to take on this task alone. Even if it led to his death… she would live. Though alone once more, she would live.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.
The door creaked open, a shaft of pale, dry light illuminating Farran’s burly figure. Dark, shaggy hair fell into his sunken eyes, moon white skin distinctly contrasting with his lightless eyes. Sam inhaled sharply, a shiver of fear winding up his spine. At the noise, Farran straightened slightly, a cruel smirk curving his lips, and he walked over with a casual stroll.
“Ah, Sam… you’re awake,” he drawled, voice a soft and deadly purr. Dripping with the promise and violence and death. Sam knew the tones, the threats. He’d heard them from Celaena’s lips so many times before. Had spoken with them himself.
Farran sauntered to the chest, a lethal gleam buried in those obsidian depths. He lit a torch, attaching it to a sconce by the doorway. With a heaving moan, the trunk was opened, Farran’s arms straining to heft the heavy lid. Faint light glinted on the ceiling, flickering and changing with the firelight, molten quicksilver skittering across the room. Sam groaned, fighting to control his breath. He could guess what the box contained, even without the tinkling of metal on metal.
“No, not that one. Maybe… No, not yet,” the crime lord muttered to himself as he foraged, examining various torture devices with a critical eye. Sam knew what he was doing, why he was doing it. Farran enjoyed toying with his prey, and he wanted them to be absolutely saturated with fear.
It was working.
He forced his breath to calm, his thundering heartbeat to slow.
Farran crept back, twirling a pair of pliers through his long, pale hands. Sam stared at him, defiant, even as his bones quaked. “Now, Sam Cortland, let’s begin.” He brandished the pliers menacingly, his yellow teeth bared in a crazed leer.
Sam knew what was coming next. Removal of fingernails was one of the first forms of torture he had learned to withstand in the Assassin’s Guild. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but… he could survive. He would survive.
My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid. He repeated the words to himself, willing them to be true. My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid. Farran lined up the pliers with Sam’s right thumb, humming merrily to himself. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. A small suction sound, and -
He bit down on the scream working its way up his throat, blood oozing from his finger. Tears swam in his eyes, blurring his vision, but he blinked them back, refusing to let any weakness show. My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid. His pointer finger was next, the pain so much more intense the second time. His middle finger. Soon all of his right hand was bleeding and fingernail-less, throbbing steadily with a dull ache.
Farran frowned at his stone-faced reaction, his icy refusal. “We can’t have that, can we? You’ll ruin my fun,” he pouted, jet black hair covering the dangerous glint in his eyes. He reached for Sam’s uninjured left hand, jewel embedded rings pressing into his scars and calluses. The hand was lifted up, or as much as it could be with the shackles. “Now, which finger did you hold your sword with? Was it this one?” Farran grasped Sam’s index finger, holding it in his hands for a moment, before -
Sam gritted his teeth, salty tears pooling in his eyes. He couldn’t blink them away, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t -
“Or was it this one?” Farran continued, this time clenching his middle finger. A moment of silence, and roaring heat coursed through his hand. Oh gods. Oh gods.
My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid.
But he would endure it. For Celaena, for himself, he would endure it. For the people they both used to be, before the killing and the bloodshed and the rivalry, he would endure it.
Through a scarlet haze of pain, he distantly heard Farran speaking, his voice triumphant. “Would you like to know a secret, Sam?” He leant closer, bracing himself against the table. “You are never going to see your pretty girlfriend again. Do you know why?” He cackled gleefully, a callous grin lighting his features. Farran leant closer still, his stale breath, smelling of ale and garlic, huffing against Sam’s neck. He stiffened, longing to slide away, to escape, to kill this man who had brought suffering down on so many. “Because Arobynn doesn’t like to share his belongings.” The words were barely more than a sigh of breath, and took a moment to register in his mind.
Arobynn doesn’t like to share his belongings.
Arobynn - betrayed them. Betrayed them so that Celaena, his perfect, lethal lapdog, would stay with him. And Sam would be out of the picture, forever erased from memory.
He couldn’t believe it - he wouldn’t believe it. And yet… some part of it made perfect sense. Arobynn had always enjoyed playing games, and what was this but another elaborate scheme to keep his protégée shackled to him? The King of Assassins had pitted them against each other, forcing them to compete for every job, every payment, every moment of his attention. Sam had always been second best, the spare. He had learnt to accept that, but… sometimes he still resented Arobynn for it. Not Celaena - never Celaena - but Arobynn certainly hadn’t made their relationship easy.
Farran whistled, drawing Sam out of his thoughts. “You didn’t see that coming, did you?” he snickered, gleeful and cruel. “Oh, and don’t worry about Adarlan’s Assassin. It’s either me or Endovier for her.”
White-hot rage flooded his mind, burning, burning, burning. How could he? Sam couldn’t see, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but fury and desperation. How could Arobynn betray them to a sadist? Endovier would break Celaena, kill her within a month. He wouldn’t allow it, that final breaking. Even if he had to crawl out of here, he was not letting Celaena go to that festering hellhole.
“But, let’s continue.” He returned to the chest, gathering new supplies.
His breath quickened in expectation of what was coming, fear trickling into his core, flowing through his veins, pounding with every beat of his thundering heart. Farran returned, carrying numerous large cylinders of metal in both hands. He attached them to the side of the table, positioning the cylinders near his hands, feet, and abdomen. He went to the torch, lifting it from the wall, whistling audibly. As Farran neared, Sam tensed, breath hitching. Were those… Braziers. Oh gods.
My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid.
Farran smiled at the evident fear in Sam’s eyes, drawing closer. He leant down, lighting the braziers. A lick of heat fanned against his fingers, still throbbing. Gods. Oh gods.
My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid.
But the table was beginning to warm, the shackles on his limbs. And his hair would burn and crumble away, his skin would melt like wax. My name is Sam Cortland and I will -
The thought cut off suddenly, as he let out an involuntary bellow of pain. Heat lanced down his spine, through his nerves. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breath, couldn’t do anything but scream and thrash as the metal became unbearably hot, as his skin blistered and burned.He prayed for unconsciousness to take him, prayed to gods who had long since abandoned him.
But it did not come. There was no relief, no escape from this obliterating agony. Burning and burning and burning and burning and -
My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid.
But the words were meaningless now.
He was afraid.
Sam didn’t know how long Farran worked, breaking his body and his will apart. The pain was all he knew now, this agony, this oblivion. Every part of him was shattered and broken and aching. Blood pooled beneath him, crusting his crumbling hair, his tender skin, his eyelashes. The metallic taste coated his tongue, the scent filling his nostrils. Tears tracked down his cheeks, and darkness closed in. He couldn’t see, thanks to Farran, his eyes nothing but bloody sockets. He could barely breathe, each breath shallow and gurgling. He couldn’t have spoken, even if he wanted to, his throat raw and hoarse from screams, from pleading and begging.
The agony was a song in his blood, and he knew there was no escape. He had long since given up hope of rescue, of release from this anguish. Celaena was nothing but a distant memory, a hazy form floating through his fragmented mind.
He could feel an end coming, cold and empty, a whisper of silence. He was nestled in Death’s clawed hand, each breath a struggle, his thoughts growing sluggish. A shadowed form seemed to loom over him, counting his heartbeats, his laboured breaths.
Still Farran continued, and likely would, even once Sam’s body was nothing but a vacant corpse. A sadist. Farran was a merciless sadist. He longed to beg, to plead for mercy, for a peaceful passing, though he knew it was futile. Was opening his mouth to do so, but -
You do not yield. He imagined Celaena’s voice in his ear, a whispered, comforting murmur. Her turquoise eyes seemed to peer at him from the depths of despair, a spark of joy, of unchecked wildness, belying those flames of gold. You do not yield. He imagined Celaena was with him, a presence only he could detect. He imagined that he was not alone, at this terrible end.
And he flung out his consciousness, willing her to hear it, as he felt himself fade away. I’m sorry I can’t hold on. I’m sorry I am leaving you alone.
Though Farran continued to torture him, whipping and mutilating and branding, it was distant, secondary. And though he screamed, and thrashed, and struggled, he was not afraid.
My name is Sam Cortland and I will not be afraid.
I really hope some of you bitches read the throne of glass series because I always think back to this moment and I couldn’t help it
An Insider’s Guide to Throne of Glass: Adarlan’s Assassin, 1/?
— Manon and Dorian headers
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throne of glass - sam cortland headers
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— Sam amava você?
Sim. Mais que qualquer um já a amou. Ele a amava o suficiente para arriscar tudo — para desistir de tudo. Ele a amava tanto que Celaena ainda sentia os ecos daquele amor, mesmo agora.
— Muito — disse ela, com um sussurro.
- Coroa da Meia Noite
An Insider’s Guide to Rifthold: Dine Along the Avery River, 1/?