Dawn Treader Valley Να πνίξεις όλα όσα οι άλλοι λεν μες τη σιωπή

Her words sparked a shift in Faustus like the first warm breeze of spring overtaking winter; a glimpse of something genuine and perhaps vulnerable. Andromache was startled, and for the first time she saw nothing of Crispinus in him. Still, she tensed; he was a Roman, and his true intentions were unknown to her.

Her gaze dropped for a moment as she tried to decide how she felt about his touch. Only a moment. Then she took a breath and regained her composure, and that moment passed as if it had never come at all. He wished to know her. Had any man ever said such a thing to her? It seemed ridiculous.

And in a way, it scared her. Either Faustus was playing a cruel and dangerous game, or he was a rare sort of man. The sort she might come to like. Andromache looked back toward the river. Did you know Myros? She asked finally, her voice soft. Her verdant streets, the song of her rivers. Or the people; did you see the crowded markets, or the riots at midnight, or the festivals that filled the streets with color?

A princess belongs to her kingdom and to her people, my father always said, She glanced down to where Faustus's paw touched hers. There is nothing more. I am nothing more. But Myros was gone, burned, crumbled to ash and dust and

I am nothing.