He'd said the sun could burn me. It certainly looked angry enough, all orange and glowing mad.

I’m as forgiving as the wall you hit at two hundred kilometers an hour.

They say funerals are not for the dead but for the living. Those rites are what permit you to move on, so if you don't deal with the remains, you can never deal with the memories. That might be true; we may have walked in their dust down on Venice Minor, but it's not the same as a proper good-bye.

But courage wasn't an absence of fear; it was fighting despite the knot in your stomach.

Sometimes I could almost hate you because you don't understand how much you mean to me, how dark and empty I was before. Solnyshko moyo.

My heart should be breaking, too, but there comes a point when you’re so inured to loss that you no longer feel the lash.

Nobility and self-sacrifice sound wonderful in theory, but now he’s seen how it feels. A dead hero is still dead at the end of the day, and you’re still alone.