"And it was there, upon him, he noticed her enchantment working. Crimson tresses of silken hair and eyes as emerald as his own were magic beyond the most skilled sorcerer. She was constant and kind. His shelter in the terror of his existence, and as he beheld her before him he was fell once more. He loved her."
'Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
16. Becca. Christian. Aspiring writer and veterinary technician. Unashamed fan of Loki, lover of Narnia and animals of all shapes.
"And he kissed her now, not as friend to encourage, but as love to cherish. It was a simple joining of two lives in a brief moment of revelation to the other. He would be her prince until the dawn of Ragnarok, and even until death."