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“The Thunderhead has its reasons for everything,” the nonplussed colleague said. “The fact that we can’t see the logic shows our limitations, not the Thunderhead’s.”
“I have found that building a sandbox around a domineering child, then allowing that child to preside over it, frees the adults to do the real work.”
Rowan finally sat up. “How is she?” he asked. “Scythe Anastasia is not your concern.” “She’s my only concern.”
“Your naivete is refreshing, Anastasia. But the truth is, power for power’s sake is a consuming addiction. He would devour the world whole, and still be unsatisfied.”
“Why must I always be the victim? Why must people make it their mission to tear me down? Have I not honored the commandments and done all a scythe is sworn to do? Have I not been a unifier in troubled times?” “Yes, Robert,” she agreed. “But we’re the ones who made the times troubled.”
“Consider this part of your mission as the Toll,” it told him. “For isn’t it the mission of a prophet to not just bridge the gap between humanity and deity, but to also bridge the gap between life and death?” “No,” said Greyson. “That would be a savior. Is that what I am now?” “Perhaps,” said the Thunderhead. “We shall see.”
“The Toll has become a liability to the Tonists,” Mendoza told them. “He’s better as a martyr than a man—and as a martyr I can spin him into whatever we need him to be.”
But future history gave neither solace nor respite from the brutal now.
To say he was an indecisive man was an understatement. He might have seemed confident to others, but the truth was he’d never made a decision that he hadn’t come to regret on some level—which is why he often let decisions be made for him.
And they began laughing. There wasn’t a sentence they could finish, but it didn’t matter. Nothing that came before this moment mattered.
She didn’t want to be the great Scythe Anastasia any more than Rowan wanted to be the dreaded Scythe Lucifer. There was nothing here for either of them but an eternity of unwanted notoriety. Citra Terranova was not someone who ran away from things, but she also knew when it was time to move on.
Crying screaming throwing up
He lay there for a good long time. He was not afraid of this. There wasn’t a thing about death that frightened him anymore. What kept sticking in his mind was Citra. She wouldn’t want him to do this—in fact, she’d be furious. She would want him to be stronger. So he stayed there for the better part of an hour, reaching for the button to open his face mask, and then taking his hand away again and again. Then finally he stood up, gently touched the edge of Citra’s turquoise shroud, and returned to the realm of the living.
“Hey,” she says back, her voice gravelly and rough. “Weren’t we just… running? Yes, there was something going on, and we were running….” His smile broadens. Tears fill his eyes. They drop slowly, as if gravity itself has become less adamant, less demanding. “When was that?” Citra asks. “Only a moment ago,” Rowan tells her. “Only a moment ago.”
