John Eldredge Quote the Devil Knows Who You Were Created to Be and He Fears You
It is a roughshod occupation,he wrote, and God aid me, if I am no hero, I am damned good at it. You understand, I think, for I know you lot are the same.
The quill had left marks on his fingers, then tightly as he'd gripped it. He laid it down briefly, rubbing his hand, then took information technology upwards again.
God help me further,he wrote, more slowly. I am agape.
Afraid of what?
Some arsehole panicked….
I am afraid of everything. Afraid of what I may have done, unknowing—of what I might do. I am afraid of expiry, of mutilation, incapacity—but any soldier fears these things, and fights regardless. I have done it, and—
He wished to write firmly, and will do it again.Instead, the words formed beneath his quill as they formed in his mind; he could non help only write them.
I am afraid that I might find myself unable. Not only unable to fight, merely to control.He looked at that for a moment, and put pen tentatively to the newspaper once more.
Have you known this fear, I wonder? I cannot call up it, from your outward aspect.
That outward aspect was vivid in his mind; Fraser was a human who would never pass unnoticed. Even during their about relaxed and cordial moments, Fraser had never lost his air of command, and when Gray had watched the Scottish prisoners at their piece of work, it was patently that they regarded Fraser as their natural leader, all turning to him as a matter of class.
And and then, there had been the thing of the scrap of tartan. He felt hot blood wash through him and his stomach clamp with shame and anger. Felt the startling thud of a true cat-o'-nine-tails on bare flesh, felt it in the pit of his breadbasket, searing the peel betwixt his shoulders.
He shut his eyes in reflex, fingers clenching so tightly on the quill that it cracked and aptitude. He dropped the ruined feather and sat even so a moment, animate, so opened his eyes and reached for some other.
Forgive me,he wrote. And then, hardly pausing, And yet why should I beg your forgiveness? God knows that it was your doing, equally much as mine. Between your deportment and my duty…Just Fraser, too, had acted from duty, fifty-fifty if at that place was more to the matter. He sighed, crossed out the last bit, and put a period later on the words Forgive me.
We are soldiers, yous and I. Despite what has lain between us in the past, I trust that…
That we empathize one some other.The words spoke themselves in his mind, but what he saw was not the understanding of the burdens of command, nor yet a sharing of the unspoken fears that haunted him, precipitous equally the sliver of metal next his middle.
What he saw was that one frightful glimpse of nakedness he had surprised in Fraser's face, naked in a way he would wish to meet no man naked, let lone a human being such as this.
"I understand," he said softly, the sound of the words surprising him. "I wish it were non so."
He looked down at the muddled mess of paper before him, blotched and crumpled, marked with spider blots of confusion and regret. It reminded him of that terse notation, written with a burnt stick. Despite everything, Fraser had given him aid when he asked information technology.
Might he e'er come across Jamie Fraser again? There was a skilful gamble he would non. If chance did not kill him, cowardice might.
The mania of confession was on him; best make the most of it. His quill had stale; he did not dip it again.
I honey you,he wrote, the strokes calorie-free and fast, making scarcely a mark upon the paper, with no ink. I wish it were not so.
And then he rose, scooped upward the scribbled papers, and, crushing them into a brawl, threw them into the burn.
He was unfortunately notdead when he woke in the morning, but wished he were. Every muscle in his body ached, and the ghastly rest of everything he had boozer clung like dusty fur to the within of his throbbing head.
Tom Byrd brought him a tray, paused to view the remains, and shook his head in a resigned manner, but said nix.
Oddly enough, his easily did not shake. Still, he clasped them carefully circular his teacup and raised it cautiously to his lips. As he did so, he noticed a letter on the tray, sealed with a blob of crimson wax, in which the initials SC were incised. Simon Coles.
He sat up, narrowly avoiding spilling the tea, and fumbled open the missive, which proved to contain a brief notation from the lawyer and a sail of paper containing several drawings, with penciled descriptions written tidily below. Descriptions of the bits of jewelry that Anne Thackeray had taken with her when she eloped with Philip Lister.
"Tom," Gray croaked.
"Yes, me lord?"
"Go tell the stable lad to ready the horses, then pack. Nosotros'll leave in an hour."
Both Tom'due south eyebrows lifted, but he bowed.
"Very good, me lord."
Hdue east had hoped to escape from Blackthorn Hall unnoticed, and was in the act of depositing a gracious notation of thanks—pleading urgent business as excuse for his abrupt removal—on Edgar's desk, when a vocalism spoke of a sudden behind him.
"John!"
He whirled, guilt stamped upon his features, to find Maude in the doorway, a garden trug over i arm, filled with what looked like onions but were probably daffodil bulbs or something agricultural of the sort.
"Oh. Maude. How pleased I am to come across you. I thought I should have to take my leave without expressing my thanks for your kindness. How fortunate—"
"You're leaving usa, John? So soon?"
She was a tall woman, and handsome, her dark good looks a proper match for Edgar's. Maude'southward optics, however, were non those of a poetess. Something more in the nature of a gorgon's, he had always felt; riveting the attention of her auditors, fifty-fifty though all instinct bade them abscond.
"I…yep. Yep. I received a alphabetic character—" He had Coles's note with him, and flourished information technology as bear witness. "I must—"
"Oh, from Mr. Coles, of class. The butler told me he had brought y'all a note, when he brought me mine."
She was looking at him with a almost unaccustomed fondness, which gave him a small chill upwardly the back. This increased when she moved all of a sudden toward him, setting aside her trug, and cupped a hand backside his head, looking searchingly into his optics. Her jiff was warm on his cheek, smelling of fried egg.
"Are yous certain yous are quite well plenty to travel, my dear?"
"Ahh…yes," he said. "Quite. Quite sure." God in heaven, did she mean to buss him?
Thank God, she did not. After examining his face feature by feature, she released him.
"You should have told usa, you know," she said reproachfully.
He managed a vaguely interrogative noise in answer to this, and she nodded toward the desk. Where, he at present saw, the newspaper cutting referring to him equally the Hero of Crefeld was displayed in all its glory, forth with a annotation in Simon Coles'south handwriting.
"Oh," he said. "Ah. That. It actually—"
"We had not the slightest idea," she said, looking at him with what in a lesser woman would accept passed for doe-eyed respect. "You are so modest, John! To recollect of all you lot accept suffered—it shows and then clearly upon your haggard countenance—and to say not a word, even to your family!"
It was a cold day and the library fire had not been lit, just he was start to feel very warm. He coughed.
"There is, of course, a certain degree of exaggeration—"
"Nonsense, nonsense. Simply of form, your natural nobility of character causes yous to shun public acclamation, I sympathise entirely."
"I knew you would," Grey said, giving up. They beamed at each other for a few seconds; and then he coughed once again and made purposefully to pass her.
Source: https://litlife.club/books/171204/read?page=53
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