My skill didn't lie in planning battles, only in fighting them.

We stood back-to-back, blocking and striking in harmony; sometimes it felt like his arms and legs were an extension of me. I could count on him to keep them off me from behind.

He’s worth fighting for, but I won’t change who I am for any man. No more than he should alter himself to suit me.

What was the good of having such a fine home if you weren't willing to fight for it?

I shake my head, but I can’t change this. I can only bear the scars, as I have always done, as I ever do.

We're broken in complementary ways, thus rendering our damage comprehensible to each other.

Here in the enclave, one didn't prosper by demonstrating too much independent thought.