Find Me Their Bones (Bring Me Their Hearts, #2)

by Sara Wolf

“Life rises out of death, death rises out of life; in being opposite they yearn to each other, they give birth to each other and are forever reborn. And with them, all is reborn, the flower of the apple tree, the light of the stars. In life is death. In death is rebirth. What then is life without death? Life unchanging, everlasting, eternal? What is it but death-death without rebirth?” —Ursula K. Le Guin

Powerless. Gods, I hate that word. It saps all the hope from me, the hunger laughing and repeating it over and over. powerless, powerless, it taunts. just give up.

“emotions aren’t convenient pieces of jewelry you can put on and take off whenever you want to.”

I will never touch him again. And neither will he touch me. His days of weakening me are over.

She is a pillar of conviction, a pillar lit with flame and blazing alone into the night.

magic is power. Power causes fear. Fear curdles to hate. Wondering where the root of all these wars began is pointless; witches are witches. Humans are humans. They fear. They hate.

My heart is mine, and mine alone.

trust is a comforting delusion, the insipid sister of hope.

he’s using us like everyone else does, the hunger sneers. we are nothing to him but a doll.

I’ve learned, Your Highness, that it is easier to hate than it is to love.

in the middle of cacophony, in the midst of the chaos of living, to find that moment where the only thing that matters is what one does next. The past doesn’t matter. The future doesn’t matter. All that has meaning is the moment. This is what silence means—to live only for the next moment.

“Pain is nothing and everything.

one good deed does not forgive a lifetime of mistakes.

Feelings aren’t jewelry. But neither are they scars. They aren’t fleeting, but neither are they permanent.

I wish I knew, but these questions just hang, invisible, with no answer. you will never have an answer.

be as merciful with yourself as you are with everyone else.”

The next time we meet will be a happier reunion.’”

“What if you were made for war,” I continue, hot tears annoying the corners of my eyes, “and that war is now?”

together, stronger than alone.

Who will I be, when my heart is returned?

Historians have written about the victors, not about the truth.

War only means something because death does. Death only means something because life does.

Life—that tenuous, bright thing that humans take for granted. Each moment, a possibility. Each day, a new beginning.

She was kind. She was pure. But death cares for neither.

Religion has killed her. And still, she loved it.

She is not the rain to our drought. But you, Starving Wolf, have tasted of our drought, our darkness.

“Drink of my blood. I give you this gift of myself, so that the Wolf might never howl alone again.”

coward, the hunger sneers. a coward who won’t trust anyone, who won’t do the hard work of atoning, a cowardly girl who wants only to run away, where things are easy—

I’ve learned the hardest way that I can’t trust anyone but myself with my freedom.

I am used to leaving people behind by now. you are better off alone.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m heartless.”

I’ve chosen my heart over everything. Does that make me a monster?

I was alone, always.

“You have a life to live,” I spit. “That life is not worth living.” His voice is hard. “If it’s not with you.”