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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.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
Nothing
Instrument
Think
Mercy
Thinking
Instruments
Ground
Filled
Husk
Peace
Shell
Sense
Vengeance
Body
Shells

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However, there are those who deserve to die but who have not yet encountered the means to do so—we help them on their way.
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Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours.
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He barks out a laugh. My little rebel.
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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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You would throw away all that we have given you for a man’s love?” “Not a man’s love,” I say softly. “But Duval’s. And I would find a way to serve both my god and my heart. Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.
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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.
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Good intentions are only lies the weak tell themselves.
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There is no shame in scars, Ismae.
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It is a good thing I no longer have a heart, because if I did, it would surely break.
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I am sorry,' he whispers. 'I am sorry I treated you so ill. I thought only to protect Duval.' 'It was not I who was poisoning him,' I say. 'No, but you had stolen his heart and I was afraid you would rip it from his chest when you left.
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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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You are not my nursemaid. Remember, I am rescuing you.
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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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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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... true faith never comes without anguish.
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We are all of us, gods and mortals, made up of many pieces, some of them broken, some of them scarred, but none of them the total sum of who we are.
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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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You come to us well tempered, my child, and it is not in my nature to be sorry for it. It is a well tempered blade that is the strongest.
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Why be the sheep when you can be the wolf?
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