Scythe Citra Quotes

You may ask any question. Some, however, must be answered by silence

I choose to be known as scythe Anastasia after the youngest member of the family Romanov she was the product of a corrupt system, and because of that, was denied her very life—as I almost was had she lived who knows what she might have done. perhaps she could have changed the world and redeemed her family name. choose to be scythe Anastasia. I vow to become the change that night have been

I vow to become the change that might have been

Even though the whole world had slid of its axis. Breakfast was breakfast. How dare it be?

shouldn't the punishment for failure be the awful knowledge of that failure?

…found the use of actual old-school books off putting, but over time, he'd learned there was something very satisfying to the turning of pages, and the emotional catharsis of slamming a book shut

Marie couldn't help but smile. This girl whom she had not even wanted to take on in the first place had become her greatest supporter. Her truest friend.

You see through the facade of the world, Citra Terranova. You'd make a good scythe." Citra recoiled. "I'd never want to be one." "That", he said, "is the first requirement.

I should glean you right here and bring your heart to Constantine!" "He'd probably eat it." "Probably," Citra had to admit.

Marie,” she said, “it’s finally happened.” “What has, dear?” “I’ve stopped seeing myself as Citra Terranova,” she said. “I’ve finally become Scythe Anastasia.

For you nothing has changed.” Citra looked down into her cereal. It was Rowan who dared to state the obvious. “Everything has changed, sir.” And then Faraday said something enigmatic that would only resonate with them much later. “Perhaps everything will change again.

She didn’t answer him. He didn’t expect her to. It was just a seed he wanted to plan.

He had been in Citra’s embrace, the two of them cloaked in the robes of founding scythes Prometheus and Cleopatra, as Endura sank beneath the Atlantic. But those robes did not stay on for long.

Scythe Curie seemed a mix of many emotions, but she folded them all away, like clothes that no longer fit, and closed the drawer. Citra expected she never spoke of this to anyone else, and would probably never speak of it again.

Hope in the shadow of fear is the world’s most powerful motivator. Citra

You'd make a good scythe". Citra recoiled. "I'd never want to be one." "That," he said, "is the first requirement

There was no lane line, no net, nothin to keep them apart but the well of her will. But that kept losing bricks

I’m sure that absolute correctness must seem a dull existence to you, but I know no other way to be

In fact, in the grand scheme of things, everyone was equally useless. That`s what he was saying, and it infuriated Citra, because on a certain level, she knew he was right.

anyone’s pocket. “I should like to be on a scythe committee one day,” Rowan said. Citra looked at him oddly. “Why are you talking like Faraday?” Rowan shrugged. “When in Rome . . .” “We’re not in Rome,” she reminded him. “If we were, we’d have a much cooler place for conclave.

Faraday’s home was Spartan. Little decoration. Unimpressive furniture. Rowan’s room had space for only a bed and a small dresser. Citra, at least, had a window, but the view was of a brick wall.

You’ll be fine, Citra. You’ll be back with Scythe Curie in no time—but you won’t forget what happened today. And I hope you never forgive me.

Hope in the shadow of fear is the world's most powerful motivator. -Scythe (QUEEN CITRA #STAN)

This won’t do,” said Scythe Curie, and took Citra up into her arms, carrying her.

Then she offered Citra ice cream that was the best she’d ever tasted.

he’d learned there was something very satisfying to the turning of pages, and—as Citra had already discovered—the emotional catharsis of slamming a book shut.

I should like to be on a scythe committee one day,” Rowan said. Citra looked at him oddly. “Why are you talking like Faraday?” Rowan shrugged. “When in Rome…

The problem was that Citra was very bad at doing things half-fast.

Rowan was nervous, he just didn’t want to admit it. He knew admitting it would make Citra more worried, which would make him more worried.

Scythe Faraday’s face was a mask of pain and disbelief. “Citra, oh god, what are you doing here?

The thought of a scythe having milk and cookies before bed bordered on absurd to Citra.

What’s the point of three foot pedals?” Citra complained. “People only have two feet.

I feel bad for you,” Citra said. “Even when you’re food shopping, death is hiding right behind the milk.

The thought of a scythe having milk and cookies before bed bordered on absurd to Citra. But she suppose even an agent of death would have guilty pleasures.

Citra slumped in her chair. "I don't fail," she said.

And I have faith that you will shine in your final test.

Why, wondered Citra, would there ever be a need for 400,000 scythes?

Citra ate, even though she didn't have an appetite. Even though the whole world had slid off its axis. Breakfast was breakfast. How dare it be?

He wasn’t talking about you, Citra,” she explained. “He wrote that about me.

The Thunderhead… it spoke to me,” Citra said, forcing herself to stay conscious just long enough to get this out.

Citra grimaced at the thought. Scythe Curie was right—he didn’t sound like the same Rowan she used to know. What had he been through to turn him so cold? She didn’t dare imagine.

The opera?” said Ben. “Ew.” Citra couldn’t agree more.

Under other circumstances, Citra might have heeded her father’s advice. But she was making a bereavement call, and that trumped any trepidation.

Citra left without another word, and without turning back… but for the rest of the day she couldn’t get the stench of that foul-smelling water out of her nostrils.

Citra found it both maddening and endearing how modest he could be.

Yes I can. Gerald Van Der Gans. Wait—who? Good-bye, Citra. I do hope we speak again. But I’d have to be dead for that to happen. I’m sure you could arrange it.

It’s good to see you, Citra,” he said. “But it hurts to see you. It hurts a lot, and I don’t know what to do about it.

And if he lives alone, both our jobs will be easy today,” the scythe said. Citra wondered what about gleaning could possibly be easy.

Citra thought about Faraday, a decent scythe most certainly choked out by the weeds.

Rowan got up and moved to the safety of the threshold before turning back to her. “It’s all right, Citra,” he told her. “I haven’t fallen in love with you, either.

You might be a celebrity scythe,” Citra pointed out, “but even at your worst, you were nothing like Goddard.

The idea that not all scythes were good was something neither Rowan or Citra had ever considered. It was widely accepted that scythes adhered to the highest moral and ethical standards.

In spite of his pain and drug-induced haze, Scythe Faraday smiled. “Yes, your poisons. Are you my apprentice or not?” Citra couldn’t help but smile right back at him. “Yes, Your Honor, I am.

If gleaning Rowan would be the second most painful thing she’d ever do, Citra wondered what the most painful thing would be. But she was afraid to ask, because she really didn’t want to know.

We weren’t close,” Citra insisted. “We weren’t anything.” And that hurt to admit more than her parents could possibly know. How could she and Rowan have any kind of relationship when they were forced to be lethal adversaries? Even now, when he was hunted and she was yoked with the heavy responsibility of scythehood, how could there be anything between them but a dark well of longing?

Good, you're awake. I trust you've healed enough over the past few hours to be a little more coherent, and little less miserable" "coherent, yes. Less miserable, no. Just a deferent kind of misery

thought the Grande Dame of Death would always glean with greater purpose.” A shadow seemed to pass over Scythe Curie’s face. A ghost of some sorrow Citra couldn’t even guess at. “You thought wrong.

Citra wondered if all Chilargentine scythes wore robes that seemed not just handmade, but lovingly made. The woman spoke in Spanic and Scythe Curie responded in kind. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanic,

Who's the fat guy?" Citra asked. "He looks important," said Rowan. "Indeed", said Scythe Faraday. "The fat guy's, as you call him, is thew High Blade. The most powerful man in the Midmerican Scythedom.

Good morning,” Citra said groggily—then realized it sounded far too weak for a scythe. Even one who was currently incognito. She cleared her throat and spoke with more confidence. “Good morning,” Anastasia said.

You see through the facades of the world, Citra Terranova. You’d make a good scythe.” Citra recoiled. “I’d never want to be one.” “That,” he said, “is the first requirement.” Then he left to kill their neighbor.

Comfort food, thought Citra, because somehow it made her feel safe from the inside out. “My grandmother said it could actually heal a cold.” “What’s a cold?” asked Citra. “A deadly illness from the mortal age, I suppose.

I had a dream that you came to my school and gleaned all the jerks,” he told her. “Really?” Citra said. “What color were my robes?” He hesitated. “Turquoise, I think.” “Then that will be the color I’ll choose.” Ben beamed.

Who’s the fat guy?” Citra asked. “He looks important,” said Rowan. “Indeed,” said Scythe Faraday. “‘The fat guy,’ as you call him, is the High Blade. The most powerful man in the MidMerican Scythedom. He presides over conclave.

Scythe Curie seemed a mix of many emotions, but she folded them all away, like clothes that no longer fit, and closed the drawer. Citra suspected she never spoke of this to anyone else, and would probably never speak of it again.

The nerve! To think he could impress them with airs of culture, and then reel them into his sick little scheme. There was no way Citra would ever, under any circumstances, throw away her life by becoming a taker of other people’s lives.

Citra returned to Sythe Curie at Falling Water many weeks before Winter Conclave, when the Month of Lights had just begun, and gifts were being passed between friends and loved ones to celebrate ancient miracles that no one quite remembered.

Citra returned to Scythe Curie at Falling Water many weeks before Winter Conclave, when the Month of Lights had just begun, and gifts were being passed between friends and loved ones to celebrate ancient miracles that no one quite remembered

I feel bad for you," said Citra. "Even when you're food shopping, death is hiding right behind death." "It never hides," the scythe told them with a world-weariness that was hard to describe. "Nor does it sleep. You'll learn that soon enough.

But it doesn’t make sense,” Citra said, fighting tears with little success. “He wasn’t the kind of man who would do something like that. He took his responsibility as a scythe—and training us—very seriously. I can’t believe he would just give up like that.…

Scythe Anastasia was equally dumbfounded. "You?" she said. "No," Morrison blurted, "not me! I mean, yes, it's me, but I'm not the Toll, I mean." Any hope of strong, silent intimidation was gone. Now he was little more than a stammering imbecile, which is how he always felt around Scythe Anastasia. "What are you even doing here?" she asked. He started to explain, but realized it was way too long a story for the moment. And besides, he was sure her story was a better one. The other scythe in her entourage—Amazonian by the look of his robe—chimed in, several beats behind the curve. "You mean to say you two know each other?" But before either of them could answer, Mendoza came up behind Morrison, tapping him on the shoulder. "As usual, you're in the way, Morrison," he grumbled, having completely missed the conversation. Morrison stepped aside and allowed the curate to exit. And the moment Mendoza saw Anastasia, he became just as befuddled as Morrison. Although his eyes darted wildly, he managed to hold his silence. Now they stood on either side of the entrance to the cave in their usual formation. Then the Toll emerged from the cave between them. He paused short, just as Morrison and Mendoza had, gaping in a way that a holy man probably never should. "Okay," said Scythe Anastasia. "Now I know I've lost my mind.

I know the thing the Tonists believe are ridiculous," Citra said, "but I suppose to some people, there's something compelling about them." "That's what turkeys think about the rain," Marie pointed out. "They raise their eyes heavenward, open up their beaks, and drown.

If we go through with this, he said, I will make it clear to the High Blade that it was at your insistence. If we fail, and your existence is ended, the blame will be yours and your alone. I can live with that, Citra told him. No, Scythe Constantine pointed out, you won't.

She pressed her fingers to the woman’s carotid artery, just beneath her ear. “No pulse.” Satisfied, Scythe Faraday stood. “So that’s it?” Citra asked. “What were you expecting?” said Rowan. “A chorus of angels?” Citra threw him a halfhearted glare. “But I mean… it’s so… uneventful.

Citra tried the soup. It was flavorful and the moon-ball unique and memorable. Comfort food, thought Citra, because somehow it made her feel safe from the inside out. “My grandmother said it could actually heal a cold.” “What’s a cold?” asked Citra. “A deadly illness from the mortal age, I suppose.

So you’re not angry?” The scythe considered the question. “I’m annoyed,” she said. “But then, I should have warned you what I was about to do. Your response was… justified. And so was the consequence I levied.” Even at this end of the emotional roller coaster, Citra had to admit that the scythe was right.

There were dozens of other scythes in the entry vestibule. They removed their raincoats to reveal robes of all colors, all textures. It was a rainbow that summoned forth anything but thoughts of death. This, Citra realized, was intentional. Scythes wished to be seen as the many facets of light, not of darkness.

The better of the two shall receive my blessing for the ring.” “And the other,” said the High Blade, “will be sorely disappointed, I’m sure.” Then he moved on to greet other scythes that were just now coming in from the rain. “See?” Rowan said. “And you were worried.” But to Citra, nothing about the man seemed sincere.

I expect a full night's sleep from you, followed by a recitation of your poisons in the morning, in order of toxicity." "My poison?" In spite of his pain and drug-induced haze, Scythe Faraday smiled. "Yes, your poisons. Are you my apprentice or not?" Citra couldn't help but smile right back at him. "Yes, Your Honor, I am.

He will pretend like it never happened,” Scythe Curie told her as the two of them drove home from the airport. “That’s the closest the man will ever come to an apology.” “But it did happen,” Citra said. “I had to hurl myself from a building to escape from it.” “And I had to blow up two perfectly good cars,” Scythe Curie said wryly.

Then, after many weeks, Citra had an epiphany. If everything uploaded to the Thunderhead was stored in the backbrain, then not just public records were there, but personal as well. She couldn’t access other people’s private records, but anything she uploaded would be available to her. Which meant she could seed the search with data of her own.…

It wasn’t the most glamorous of disguises, but Citra knew it was practical. No one would look her in the eye for fear of getting an earful of Tonist twaddle. She would hide in plain sight and come home just before Winter Conclave. If Scythe Curie hadn’t cleared her name by then, it wouldn’t matter anyway. She wasn’t about to spend her whole life in hiding.

Gerald Van Der Gans. The Thunderhead had spoken to her, and now, so had Scythe Curie. There was a long journey ahead of Citra, and at the end of it, much work to be done. Citra couldn’t glean, but she could exact vengeance. She would find a way to deliver justice to this scythe-killer one way or another. Never was she so thankful to have a sack full of weapons.

But Citra could. She knew that calling, too. Their minds and bodies had spent a year being trained to be society’s perfect killers. Ending life had become a part of who they were. And she couldn’t blame him for wanting to turn his blade on the corruption that was rooting its way through the scythedom—but wanting to, and actually doing it, were two different things.

Rowan laughed at that. “Justice? The scythedom doesn’t know what justice is anymore.” “Some of us do, Rowan. I have to believe that eventually wisdom and reason will prevail.” Rowan reached out and touched her cheek. She allowed it. “I want to believe that, too, Citra. I want to believe that the scythedom can return to what it was meant to be. . . . But sometimes it takes a necessary darkness to get there.” “And you’re that necessary darkness?” He didn’t speak to that. Instead, he said, “I took the name Lucifer because it means ‘bringer of light.’ ” “It’s also what mortal people once called the devil,” she pointed out. Rowan shrugged. “I guess whoever holds the torch casts the darkest shadow.” “Whoever steals the torch, you mean.

After being an apprentice for nearly three months, Citra couldn’t deny that she wanted to be chosen by Scythe Faraday to receive the ring. As much as she resisted, as much as she told herself this was not the life for her, she had come to see its importance, and how good a scythe she would be. She had always wanted to live a life of substance and to make a difference.

Citra swiped again. The next video showed him going up to the stairs to a train station. “This was five minutes before he died,” Citra said. “We know that it happened at that station—but guess what? The camera on that train platform had been vandalized—supposedly by unsavories. It was down for the entire day, so there’s no visual record of what actually happened on that platform!

This Porsche was a gift from an antique car dealer,” Scythe Curie explained to her. “He wanted immunity?” Citra asked, assuming the man’s motive. “On the contrary. I had just gleaned his father, so he already had immunity.” “Wait,” said Citra. “You gleaned his father, and he gave you a car?” “Yes.” “So he hated his father?” “No, he loved his father very much.” “Am I missing something?

Hello, Mrs. Yeltner,” Citra said, guilty to be enjoying the woman’s thinly veiled terror. “G . . . good to see you,” she said, clearly not remembering Citra’s name. “Wasn’t there just a gleaning on your floor earlier this year? I didn’t think it was allowed to hit the same building so soon.” “It’s allowed,” Citra said. “But we’re not here to glean today.” “Although,” added Scythe Curie, “anything’s possible.

You two shall present the letter to her family at the funeral.” “Wait,” said Citra. “We’re going to her funeral?” “I thought you said it was best not to linger,” said Rowan. “Lingering and paying respects are two different things. I attend the funerals of all the people I glean.” “Is that a scythe rule?” Rowan asked, having never been to a funeral. “No, it’s my rule,” he told them. “It’s called ‘common decency.’ 

At lunch, Citra—who still found she couldn’t eat—watched from a distance as Rowan stuffed himself just as he had at breakfast, as if he had no care in the world. “He knows it’s his last meal,” a scythe she didn’t know suggested. Although the woman was clearly showing her support for Citra, Citra found herself annoyed. “I can’t see how it’s any of your business.” The scythe walked away, confused by Citra’s hostility.

There was an odd justice to it. Not so much live-by-the-blade/die-by-the-blade; it was more becoming the blade, and losing oneself. Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers, because they were not the ones who killed; they were merely the tool that society used to bring fair-handed death to the world. But once you’re the weapon, you’re nothing more than a tool for someone else to wield.

She sighed. “I haven’t been in touch with my family for more than a hundred years.” Citra wondered if that would happen to her. Do all scythes lose the ties to everyone they had known—everything they had been before they were chosen? “Susan,” Scythe Curie finally said. “When I was a little girl, they called me Susan. Suzy. Sue.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Susan.” Citra found it next to impossible to imagine Scythe Curie as a little girl.

Today’s target was a woman of ninety-three who looked thirty-three, and who was constantly busy. When she wasn’t looking at her phone she was looking in her purse; when she wasn’t looking in her purse she was looking at her nails, or the sleeve of her blouse, or the loose button on her jacket. What does she fear in idleness? Citra wondered. The woman was so self- absorbed, she had no clue that she was under the scrutiny of a scythe, trailing her by only ten yards.

Citra shook her head. “No! We were pledged to Scythe Faraday and no one else! He died to free us, so we should be freed!” “I’m afraid I’ve already given my blessing, so the matter is settled.” Then he turned to each of them in turn. “You, Citra, will now be the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Curie.…” Rowan closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next, even before Xenocrates said the words. “And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.

Faraday sighed. “Fatalities in parking lots made up 1.25 percent of all accidental deaths during the last days of the Age of Mortality. Last night I decided I would choose today’s subject from a parking lot.” “So all this time while we were shopping, you knew it would end with this?” Rowan said. “I feel bad for you,” said Citra. “Even when you’re food shopping, death is hiding right behind the milk.” “It never hides,” the scythe told them with a world-weariness that was hard to describe. “Nor does it sleep. You’ll learn that soon enough.

So not only couldn’t their Thanksgiving turkeys fly when they were alive, they couldn’t walk, either. As a child, Citra always felt bad for them, even though the Thunderhead took great pains to make sure such birds—and all livestock—were raised humanely. Citra had seen a video on it in third grade. The turkeys, from the moment of their hatching, were suspended in a warm gel, and their small brains were wet-wired into a computer that produced for them an artificial reality in which they experienced flight, freedom, reproduction, and all the things that would make a turkey content.

I’m afraid that your sister, Marissa Ferguson, was gleaned by Scythe Curie today at one fifteen p.m. I’m very sorry for your loss.” The man didn’t seem upset or shocked, merely resigned. “Is that all?” “Is that all? Didn’t you hear me? I just told you that your sister was gleaned today.” The man sighed. “That which comes can’t be avoided.” If she didn’t already dislike the Tonists, she certainly did now. “Is that it?” she asked. “Is that your people’s ‘holy’ line?” “It’s not a line; it’s just a simple truth we live by.” “Yeah, whatever you say. You’ll need to make arrangements for your sister’s body—because that’s coming and can’t be avoided either.” “But if I don’t step forward, won’t the Thunderhead provide a funeral?” “Don’t you care at all?” The man took a moment before answering. “Death by scythe is not a natural death. We Tonists do not acknowledge it.” Citra cleared her throat, biting back the verbal reaming she wanted to give him, and did her best to remain professional. “There’s one more thing. Although you didn’t live with her, you are her only documented relative. That entitles you to a year of immunity from gleaning.” “I don’t want immunity,” he said. “Why am I not surprised.” This was the first time she had ever encountered anyone who refused immunity. Even the most downhearted would kiss the ring. “You’ve done your job. You may go now,” Brother Ferguson said. There was only so long Citra could restrain her frustration. She couldn’t yell at the man. She couldn’t use her Bokator moves to kick him in the neck or take him down with an elbow slam. So she did the only thing she could do. She picked up the mallet and put all of her anger into a single, powerful strike at the tuning fork.