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Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours, until Death do us part. Whatever that may mean when consorting with one of Death’s handmaidens.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
May
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Whenever
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Whatever
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Part

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There is no shame in scars, Ismae.
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You are not my nursemaid. Remember, I am rescuing you.
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For all that I have kissed before, I have never felt anything like this. It is as if I have swallowed a tiny piece of the sun, its warmth and light reaching into every corner of my soul and chasing away the shadows. I surrender to that kiss - surrender to the strength and the courage and the sheer goodness of the man.
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When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice.
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Perhaps that is because you mistake death for justice, and they are not the same thing at all.
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God's Teeth,' he says. 'I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep.' 'I was not,' I say, then look from his neck to my knife. 'When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me.' He sounds sore put out. and I cannot blame him.
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He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. Who are you? I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. Vengeance, I say softly.
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I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.
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In the distance a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.
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If he is smart, he will run. He is not.
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People hear and see what they expect to hear and see.
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The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.
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Hate cannot be fought with hate. Evil cannot be conquered by darkness. Only love has the power to conquer them both.
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Why be the sheep when you can be the wolf?
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When he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.
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The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
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He barks out a laugh. My little rebel.
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And so it is with us we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.
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It is all we have left to us. And while it is more than I ever dared dream, it is nowhere near enough.
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... true faith never comes without anguish.
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