Scythe Rowan Quotes

Death makes the whole world kin. Rowan wondered if a world without death would then make everyone stranger.

Even now, she looked radiant to him. How ridiculous that he'd be romanticizing her in these final hours. What could have once been love was now the resignation of a heart long broken.

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

I am what you made me

If we gleaned every asshole,” Scythe Volta had once told Rowan, “there’d be virtually no one left.

To live between the prospect of an unknown eternal sky and a dark, enveloping Earth must have been glorious— for how else could it give rise to such magnificent expression?

In the days before Rowan’s apprenticeship, Tyger Salazar had been his best friend – but such designations meant little after one has spent a year learning how to kill.

Rowan grinned. "Come now, Your Excellency, there hasn't been a terrorist in hundreds of years. I'm just a janitor cleaning filth from dark corners.

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.

We could have been called reapers," Goddard said, "but our founders saw fit to call us scythes - because we are the weapons in mankind's immortal hand. You are a fine weapon, Rowan, sharp, and precise. And when you strike, you are glorious to behold.

Tyger Salazar had hurled himself out a thirty-nine-story window, leaving a terrible mess on the marble plaza below. His own parents were so annoyed by it, they didn’t come to see him. But Rowan did. Rowan Damisch was just that kind of friend.

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

who cared about the lettuce when the beef was being devoured?

To be either too good or too bad drew attention. As much as he hated being the lettuce, it was his comfort zone.

Rowan stared at him in disbelief. "Are you nuts? Do you even know what you're saying? My god, what are you on?" "Just my own nanites, man. Just my own nanites.

His eyes had a careworn coolness to them as if he had seen more than he should, and had stopped caring in order to save what was left of his soul.

He put the ring away, and Rowan let out his breath, not even realizing he had been holding it.

But whatever he was going to say, it leaked away with the last of his life. His head came to rest on Rowan`s shoulder, while all around them distant cries of agony filled the icy air.

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.

Goddard clapped his hands together, truly tickled. "I have so missed these conversations with you!" "You mean the ones where you gloat, and I'm tied up?" "You see? The way you get to the heart of the matter is always so refreshing. So entertaining. I'd keep you as a house pet, if I didn't fear you'd somehow escape and burn me to a crisp in my sleep." "I would, and I would," Rowan told him. "I have no doubt.

It was Rowan who had coined the term "lettuce-kid" to describe them. Both of them were born sandwiched somewhere in the middle of large families, and where far from being their parents’ favorites. "I got a couple of brothers that are the meat, a few sisters that are cheese and tomatoes, is I guess I’m the lettuce

It seemed to Rowan that the Texas region had embraced its roots, and had chosen to mimic the Old West the way Tonists mimicked mortal-age religions.

Death makes the whole world kin. Rowan wondered if a world without death would then make everyone strangers.

He was either the victim of circumstance or a criminal the likes of whom had not been seen since the Age of Mortality. Rowan wished he knew which of the two it was.

All these years, I wanted to lay eyes on you,” Constantine said. “And now that I do, I am profoundly unimpressed.” “Thanks,” said Rowan. “I love you, too.

Thank you, Your Excellency.” “No, thank you, Rowan.” Then the High Blade took Esme’s hand and left to return her home.

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.

Faraday would have known. There were so many things Rowan missed about being Faraday’s apprentice. The inside scoop was one of them.

Rowan sat down again and pulled his chair close enough to Volta to whisper. “I’ll tell you what I think,” Rowan said. “Goddard isn’t a scythe. He’s a killer.

It was enough to take the wind out of Rowan and make him feel light-headed. “They were bribed to say it was a self-gleaning?

He clapped Rowan on the shoulder and sauntered away. If Rowan had any sense he would have left it at that. But he didn’t.

And then there were the parties. They came upon the estate like seizures. Everything else stopped. They even took precedence over Rowan’s training.

Rowan had no response to that, because it struck him as true. He had led a pleasant life. His biggest complaint was being marginalized. But didn’t everyone feel marginalized?

It was the first time it occurred to Rowan that she might not hate him as much as he thought she did.

Although Goddard never turned to look, Rowan had the distinct feeling that he knew Rowan was watching him.

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.

Where’s Scythe Faraday?” Rowan asked. The High Blade took a deep breath in, and sighed. “He invoked the seventh commandment,” Xenocrates said. “Scythe Faraday has gleaned himself.

The thought of Rowan made her hand tremble as she poured, and she sloshed some water on the table.

As Ariadne led him to the massage tent, Rowan thought, In eight months I am going to die. So perhaps he could allow himself a little indulgence on the way.

Let the dead be dead,” agreed Rowan.

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…

Maybe it kills bad scythes,' Munira suggested. 'No,' said Rowan, 'that would be me.

My real name is Shawn Dobson. Will you call me that, Rowan? Will you call me by my real name?

Which means,” said Rowan, “that this is your fault.” And then he added with a little bit of derision, “Your Excellency.

And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.

and her all-too-perfect husband, who Rowan suspected might actually be a bot.

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.

Rowan did. And so did Esme. “Scythe Volta is always cranky after a gleaning,” Esme leaned over to tell Rowan. “Don’t stare at him, or he’ll throw something at you.

A scythe’s journal is traditionally made of lambskin parchment and kid leather.” “I assume you mean ‘kid’ as in ‘goat,’” Rowan said, “and not ‘kid’ as in ‘kid.

I'm decent to everyone," Rowan pointed out. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a decent person.

It was no surprise to Rowan that it was painted royal blue and studded with glistening stars. Everything in Scythe Goddard's life was a testament to his ego.

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.

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.

Rowan opened his eyes. “Thank you, sir.” “Were this not the hardest thing you’ve ever done, I’d be concerned.” “Does it ever get easier?” Rowan asked. “I certainly hope not,” the scythe said.

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?

Then, trying not to trip over the robe, Rowan strode away from the all-consuming inferno that would leave nothing behind of Scythe Goddard and his disciples but bones too charred to ever be revived.

Rowan looked at the man’s outstretched hand, but even now Goddard’s words came back to him. The eagle or the mouse? No, Rowan would not scurry away and hide. There was still more that had to be done.

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.

Only then did the scythe’s warning come back to him: that he would receive no kindness for what he had done for Kohl. The man had been right—and he hated the scythe for it, just as the others hated Rowan.

When he opened his eyes, he caught her staring at him. She didn’t look away. “Rowan,” she said, “whatever happens, I want you to know—” “Don’t,” Rowan told her. “Just don’t.” And the rest of the ride was silence.

You seemed to be awfully friendly with one of the party boys. Should I invite more of them for you next time?” “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Rowan, blushing in spite of himself. “He’s just a friend from home.

What, are you nuts?” Rowan shouted at her—at all of them. “You can’t stop a scythe from gleaning!” “I don’t care!” she wailed. “You could have done something, but all you did was watch!” “I did do something! I… I held his hand.

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.

Rowan’s apprenticeship was, to say the least, inconsistent—beginning with stoic and wise Scythe Faraday, and ending with the brutality of Scythe Goddard. If there was one thing that Scythe Faraday had taught him, it was to live by the convictions of his heart, no matter what the consequences. And if there was one thing Scythe Goddard had taught him, it was to have no heart, taking life without regrets. The two philosophies forever warred in Rowan’s mind, rending him in two. But silently.

Have you decided what color you'll be? And what jewels you'll have on your robe?" a girl asked... "Invisible," Rowan said. "I'll come up the statehouse steps naked." "Those'll be some jewels," quipped one of the junior scythes, and everyone laughed.

You’re gleaning our star quarterback—I hope you know that.” The scythe’s demeanor, so cordial a moment before, took a turn toward tombstone. “I can’t see how it’s any of your business.” “You’re in my school,” Rowan said. “I guess that makes it my business.

And then there was the gleaning. “Each scythe must perform a quota of two hundred sixty gleanings per year,” Scythe Faraday told them, “which averages to five per week.” “So you get weekends off,” joked Rowan—trying to add a little nervous levity to the discussion

Who do you think did it?” Rowan asked. “Who had the most to gain by getting Faraday out of the picture?” Neither of them needed to say it out loud. They both knew the answer. Rowan knew that Goddard was capable of unthinkable things, but would he kill another scythe?

Esme shrugged, and stayed tight-lipped. It was only after Rowan dealt the next hand that she said, “Actually, Scythe Goddard didn’t grant me immunity. He can glean me any time he wants, but he doesn’t.” Then she smiled. “That makes me even more special, don’t you think?

A month ago, Rowan would have denied that he could ever become such a monster, but now he wasn’t so sure. The pressure to surrender was greater every day. He had to hope that if Volta had never truly surrendered to the darkness, then maybe he might stand a chance as well.

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.

He raised an eyebrow. “You misunderstand. This is not a punishment. Curiosity is human; I merely allowed you to get it out of your system. I have to say, it took you long enough.” Then he gave her a little conspiratorial grin. “Now let’s see how long it takes Rowan to go for the ring.

What are we, Rowan? What the hell are we? It can’t be what we’re supposed to be.” “It’s not. It never was. Goddard isn’t a scythe. He may have the ring, he may have license to glean, but he’s not a scythe. He’s a killer, and he has to be stopped. We can find a way to stop him, both of us!

He had to ask, because he knew he wasn’t Rowan Damisch anymore—not just because his fake ID said “Ronald Daniels,” but because the boy he had once been had died a sad and painful death during his apprenticeship. The child in him had been successfully purged. Did anyone mourn that child? he wondered.

Never lose your humanity,” Scythe Faraday had told him, “or you’ll be nothing more than a killing machine.” He had used the word “killing” rather than “gleaning.” Rowan hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now he understood; it stopped being gleaning the moment one became desensitized to the act.

They were not exactly friends—they were never given the opportunity to develop a friendship before being thrust into apprenticeship together. They were partners; they were adversaries—and Rowan found it increasingly hard to parse his feelings about her. All he knew was that he liked watching her write.

The suggestion weighed heavily on him. A month ago, Rowan would have denied that he could ever become such a monster, but now he wasn’t so sure. The pressure to surrender was greater every day. He had to hope that if Volta had never truly surrendered to the darkness, then maybe he might stand a chance as well.

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.

We could have been called reapers,” Goddard said, “but our founders saw fit to call us scythes—because we are the weapons in mankind’s immortal hand. You are a fine weapon, Rowan, sharp, and precise. And when you strike, you are glorious to behold.” “Stop it! That’s not true!” “You know it is. You were born for this, Rowan. Don’t throw it away.

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.

Then, as soon as Rowan let Goddard go, Goddard got up, strode to a cabinet, pulled out a pistol, and shoved it into Rowan's ribs. 'New Rules,' he said, then pulled the trigger, blasting a bullet that shredded through Rowan's heart and shattered a lamp across the room. Darkness began to overtake him, but before it did, he let loose a single laugh. 'Cheater,' he said, and died

The offer sounded genuine, and not the product of political posturing. This was the way of things as he entered the rotunda. Hard glares from some and comforting grins from others. It seemed few were undecided about him. He was either the victim of circumstance or a criminal the likes of whom had not been seen since the Age of Mortality. Rowan wished he knew which of the two it was.

People are saying that Scythe Faraday was killed by another scythe.” Goddard stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned back to Rowan. “Is that what people are saying?” Rowan took a deep breath and shrugged, trying to make it seem like it was nothing, trying to backpedal. But it was too late for that. “It’s just a rumor.” “And you think I might somehow be involved?” “Are you?” asked Rowan.

Rowan knew he was out on a limb with Volta. The only thing to do was shimmy to its precarious end. “You only pretend to like gleaning,” he said to Volta. “But you hate it more than you’ve ever hated anything. Your mentor was Scythe Nehru, right? He’s very old-school, which means he chose you for your conscience. You don’t want to take life—and you definitely don’t want to take dozens upon dozens at a time.

You will never repeat that to anyone, do you hear me? I’ve come too far to have my position jeopardized! I won’t be blackmailed by a snot-nosed apprentice!” “Is that what you think I’m doing? Blackmailing you?” “Don’t toy with me!” growled Volta. “I know why you’re here!” Rowan was genuinely disappointed. “I thought you knew me.” A moment more and Volta loosened his grip. “Nobody knows anyone, do they?” he said.

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.

The scythe nodded, and glanced down at his ring, sitting so fat on his finger. “I suppose now you’ll ask me for immunity.” Rowan shook his head. “I don’t want anything from you.” “Fair enough.” The scythe turned to go, but hesitated before he opened the door. “Be warned that you will not receive kindness from anyone but me for what you did here today,” he said. “But remember that good intentions pave many roads. Not all of them lead to hell.

Rowan could barely speak through his own tears. “It’s… it’s been an honor to know you, Shawn Dobson.” He leaned on Rowan, barely able to hold up his head, his voice getting weaker. “Promise me you’ll be a better scythe than I was.” “I promise, Shawn.” “And then maybe… maybe…” But whatever he was going to say, it leaked away with the last of his life. His head came to rest on Rowan’s shoulder, while all around them distant cries of agony filled the icy air.

Instead, Rowan’s blade hit its true mark, and ran Scythe Goddard through, all the way to the hilt. Rowan was close to Goddard now. Inches from his face, looking into his wide, shocked eyes. “I am what you made me,” he told Goddard. “And you’re right: I enjoyed that. I enjoyed that more than anything I’ve ever done in my life.” Then with his free hand, Rowan reached down and yanked the ring off Goddard’s finger. “You don’t deserve to wear this. You never did.

She took a few steps toward him but stopped – as if getting too close would burst some bubble, breaking the spell, and this tenuous night vision of Rowan would dissolve into nothing. But he ran toward her, and she found she was running, too, as if she had no control over her own legs. Perhaps she and Rowan had both grown so much larger than life that the gravity between them was too intense to resist. When they embraced, they nearly knocked each other off their feet.

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.

You know what would be even worse?” said Volta. “If the daughter that no one knew about got herself gleaned.” Rowan ran a dozen things through this new lens. It all made sense now. The way Esme was spared at the food court, the way she was treated—what was it Goddard had said? That she was the most important person he’d meet that day? The key to the future? “But she won’t get gleaned,” Rowan said. “Not as long as Xenocrates does whatever Goddard says. Like jump in the deep end of a pool.” Volta nodded slowly. “Among other things.

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.

You really are just like him," she said. "You both twist people's minds until they don't know which way is up. So you'll excuse me if I never speak to you again." "You will," Rowan said with absolute certainty. "Because after he ends me, he'll make you dispose of whatever's left of me, the way you disposed of what was left of Tyger. And then, when no one's listening, you'll snipe at my charred bones, just so you can have the last word. Maybe you'll even spit on them. But it won't make you feel any better. And it was infuriating. Because she knew he was right on every count.

But there was something in the scythe’s eyes that said otherwise. So Rowan pressed. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” The scythe sighed. He didn’t have to say anything—he was, after all, a scythe, above the law in every way. He owed no one an explanation. But he chose to give one anyway. “Removing old age from the equation, statistics from the Age of Mortality cite 7 percent of deaths as being automobile-related. Of those, 31 percent involved the use of alcohol, and of those, 14 percent were teenagers.” Then he tossed Rowan a small calculator from the principal’s desk. “Figure it out yourself.

Nearly a hundred Tonists reside behind those walls,” Goddard announced. “Our goal is to glean them all.” Scythe Rand grinned. Scythe Chomsky checked the settings on his weapon. Only Scythe Volta seemed to have reservations. “All of them?” Goddard shrugged as if it were nothing. As if all those lives meant nothing. “Obliteration is our hallmark,” he said. “We don’t always succeed, but we try.” “But this… this breaks the second commandment. It clearly shows bias.” “Come now, Alessandro,” Goddard said in his most patronizing tone. “Bias against whom? Tonists are not a registered cultural group.” “Couldn’t they be considered a religion?” Rowan offered. “You gotta be kidding,” laughed Scythe Rand. “They’re a joke!” “Precisely,” agreed Goddard. “They’ve made a mockery of mortal age faith. Religion is a cherished part of history, and they’ve turned it into a travesty.