Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“She had a crooked nose, Reshi,” Bast said, interrupting his master’s reverie.

Kvothe looked at him, a line of irritation creasing his forehead. “What?”

Bast held his hands up defensively. “It’s just something I noticed, Reshi. All the women in your story are beautiful. I can’t gainsay you as a whole, as I’ve never seen any of them. But this one I did see. Her nose was a little crooked. And if we’re being honest here, her face was a little narrow for my taste. She wasn’t a perfect beauty by any means, Reshi. I should know. I’ve made some study of these things.”

Kvothe stared at his student for a long moment, his expression solemn. “We are more than the parts that form us, Bast,” he said with a hint of reproach.

“I’m not saying she wasn’t lovely, Reshi,” Bast said quickly. “She smiled at me. It was . . . it had a sort of . . . it went right down into you, if you understand me.”

“I understand, Bast. But then again, I’ve met her.” Kvothe looked at Chronicler. “The trouble comes from comparison, you see. If I say ‘she was dark haired,’ you might think, ‘I’ve known dark-haired women, some of them lovely.’ But you would be far off the mark, because that woman would not really have anything in common with her. That other woman wouldn’t have her quick wit, her easy charm. She was unlike anyone I have ever met. . . .”

Kvothe trailed off, looking down at folded hands. He was quiet for such a long moment that Bast began to fidget, looking around anxiously.

“There’s no sense worrying, I suppose,” Kvothe said at last, looking up and motioning to Chronicler. “If I ruin this as well, it will be a small thing as far as the world is concerned.”

Chronicler picked up his pen, and Kvothe began to speak before he had the chance to dip it. “Her eyes were dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as the polished wood of my father’s lute. They were set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop.”

Kvothe stopped suddenly, as if he had run himself out of words. The silence was so sudden and deep that Chronicler glanced briefly up from his page, something he had not done before. But even as Chronicler looked up, another flood of words burst out of Kvothe.

“Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips were red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips were always red, morning and night. As if minutes before you saw her, she had been eating sweet berries, or drinking heart’s blood.

“No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room.” Kvothe frowned. “Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near. The same was true of Denna.”

As Kvothe spoke, his expression twisted, as if each word he spoke rankled him more and more. And while the words were clear, they matched his expression, as if each one was rasped with a rough file before it left his mouth.

“She . . .” Kvothe’s head was bowed so low he seemed to be speaking to his hands laying in his lap. “What am I doing?” He said faintly, as if his mouth was full of grey ash. “What good can come of this? How can I make any sense of her for you when I have never understood the least piece of her myself?”

Chronicler had written most of this out before he realized that Kvothe had probably not intended him to. He froze for a bare moment, then finished scratching down the rest of the sentence. Then he waited a long, quiet moment, before he stole a look upward at Kvothe.

Kvothe’s eyes caught and held him. They were the same dark eyes that Chronicler had seen before. Eyes like an angry God’s. For a moment it was all Chronicler could do to not draw back from the table. There was an icy silence.

Kvothe stood and pointed at the paper that lay in front of Chronicler. “Cross that out,” he grated.

Chronicler blanched, his expression as stricken as if he’d been stabbed.

When he made no move, Kvothe reached down and calmly slid the half-written sheet from under Chronicler’s pen. “If crossing out is something you feel disinclined toward . . .” Kvothe tore the half-written sheet with slow care, the sound bleeding the color from Chronicler’s face.

With terrible deliberateness Kvothe lifted a blank sheet and lay it carefully in front of the stunned scribe. One long finger stabbed at the torn sheet, smearing the still-wet ink. “Copy to here,” he said in a voice that was cold and motionless as iron. The iron was in his eyes too, hard and dark.

There was no arguing. Chronicler quietly copied to where Kvothe’s finger pinned the paper to the table.

Once Chronicler was finished, Kvothe began to speak crisply and clearly, as if he were biting off pieces of ice. “In what manner was she beautiful? I realize that I cannot say enough. So. Since I cannot say enough, at least I will avoid saying too much.

“Say this, that she was dark haired. There. It was long and straight. She was dark of eye and fair complected. There. Her face was oval, her jaw strong and delicate. Say that she was poised and graceful. There.”

Kvothe took a breath before continuing. “Finally, say that she was beautiful. That is all that can be well said. That she was beautiful, through to her bones, despite any flaw or fault. She was beautiful, to Kvothe at least. At least? To Kvothe she was most beautiful.” For a moment Kvothe tensed as if he would leap up and tear this sheet away from Chronicler as well.

Then he relaxed, like a sail when the wind leaves it. “But to be honest, it must be said that she was beautiful to others as well. . . .”

It would be nice to say that our eyes met and I moved smoothly to her side. It would be nice to say that I smiled and spoke of pleasant things in carefully metered rhyming couplets, like Prince Gallant from some faerie story.

Unfortunately, life is seldom so carefully scripted. In truth, I simply stood. It was Denna, the young woman I had met in Roent’s caravan so long ago.

Come to think of it, it had only been half a year. Not so long when you’re listening to a story, but half a year is a great long while to live through, especially if you are young. And we were both of us very young.

I caught sight of Denna as she was climbing the final step onto the third level of the Eolian. Her eyes were downcast, her expression thoughtful, almost sad. She turned and began to walk in my direction without lifting her eyes from the floor, without seeing me.

The months had changed her. Where before she had been pretty, now she was lovely as well. Perhaps that difference was only that she wasn’t wearing the road clothes I had met her in, but a long dress instead. But it was Denna without a doubt. I even recognized the ring on her finger, silver set with a pale blue stone.

Since we parted ways, I had kept foolish, fond thoughts of Denna hidden in a secret corner of my heart. I had thought of making the trip to Anilin and tracking her down, of meeting her by chance on the road again, of her coming to find me at the University. But deep down I knew these thoughts for nothing more than childish daydreams. I knew the truth: I would never see her again.

But here she was, and I was entirely unprepared. Would she even remember me, the awkward boy she had known for a few days so long ago?

Denna was barely a dozen feet away when she looked up and saw me. Her expression brightened, as if someone had lit a candle inside her and she was glowing from its light. She rushed toward me, closing the distance between us in three excited, skipping steps.