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Chapter Text

Marie imagined herself on a beach. The warm wind seemed to blow through her long silver hair while the waves lapped gently at her feet. She did not move; instead she stayed still on the shore, rooted like one of the many palm trees, swaying to the gentle rhythm of the wind. Her mind itself was a fog of unformed thoughts that all seemed to bump into each other in some childish, unknowing way; so Marie chose to ignore them and focus on the glimmering water. She was peaceful and safe, content in her careless bliss.

Until she wasn’t. Consciousness overcame Marie, wrenching her into the present. Her eyes did not open, but she was suddenly aware of her aching limbs and pounding head. She wanted to groan in pain but she could not move her body to make such a sound. For several agonizing minutes, she suffered through dull throbs of pain before she finally forced her eyes open. 

The room swam, light blinding Marie’s tired eyes. From the edges of her vision, she could make out two figures, just barely. They seemed to move closer, but Marie could not focus. Before she could recognize the figures, she succumbed to the call of sleep again, this time without pain. 

When Marie awoke for the second time, her body no longer throbbed. She felt generally unwell–yes–but she knew that feeling. It was the sensation of being revived, and after Faraday rendered her deadish five times during her apprenticeship, she became quite accustomed to revival. Slowly, she opened her eyes again, bracing for the harsh lights of her room. A hand was on her arm–no two hands. She turned her stiff neck and made eye contact with two people she knew quite well, Michael and Citra–though she really should be referred to as Anastasia now.

“Marie,” Michael said, grasping her arm tighter. “You’re awake.”

Marie managed a weak nod, opening her mouth to speak. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” She rasped, her voice quiet and thin.

Michael chuckled with his throaty laugh that Marie knew so well. “I’ve left retirement,” he told her. “And is that really the first thing you want to say to me?”

Marie turned to meet Anastasia’s eyes, noting the tears pooling on her bottom lashes. “It’s good to see you, dear.”

“You were always there when I needed to be revived,” Anastasia said, her voice shaking. “Of course I’d be there for you.”

Marie offered her a compassionate smile, pushing herself into a sitting position. 

“Quite a bit has happened since I was last conscious, I’m sure,” she said. “I remember Endura well, but how did you get to me? And how is Anastasia even here?”

“Goddard doesn’t know that you two are alive,” Michael told her, frowning. “The Amazonian scythedom doesn’t communicate with MidMerica anymore. Goddard issued a ‘Perimeter of Reverence’ around Endura, gleaning anyone who dared to get close to it. But you know me. I snuck in–”

“Michael the weasel,” Marie chuckled to herself.

“You’ve never called me that before! What do you even mean by that–” But Michael stopped himself. “Regardless, I found your body quite quickly, but you weren’t in good shape. Sharks are quite ravenous, did you know? The next day, I asked some friends in the Amazonia for a favor and I found myself some deep diving gear and a laser cutter. Endura had only sunk three weeks prior, so I got down and cut Anastasia and Rowan out. They were perfectly preserved and revived quite quickly. You, Marie, on the other hand, have been unconscious for two weeks.”

She nodded in acknowledgement before frowning and turning to Anastasia. “That boy–Rowan–what came of him?”

“He’s waiting back at Faraday’s house,” Anastasia told her. “He figured that you didn’t want the stress of his presence upon revival.”

“He was right with that,” Marie huffed, pursing her lips. “Now, what has Goddard been up to without me around to put him in his place?”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “He’s become a dictator to no one’s surprise. He’s been High Blade for only a month and he’s already eradicated the gleaning quota and even changed the very definition of ‘bias’.”

Marie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “He changed the definition of a word?”

“Indeed. Bias is now: an inclination for or against any officially protected and registered group, especially in a way considered to be unfair, which is absolute bullshit if I am to be honest.”

Both Marie and Anastasia noted Michael’s curse as he nearly never ‘relied on the crutch of course language’. 

“He changed the word in order to commit mass gleanings of tonists, correct?”

“Of course,” Michael sighed again, sinking into a chair next to Marie’s bed. “He made one fatal mistake, though.”

“What? Choosing Anastasia and me as his victims? We’re both like cockroaches when it comes to assassination attempts from scythes.”

Anastasia chuckled, receiving Marie’s playful wink. 

“Well that and Goddard read the official vote. You won, Marie, though admittedly not by much.”

Marie sighed and shook her head sadly. “As glad I am to hear that the scythedom is not completely corrupt, you know I never wanted to be High Blade.”

“And you never wanted to be a scythe either…Susan.” Michael grinned mischievously. “Yet you became the Grand Dame of Death and an inspiration to scythes everywhere.”

“Goodness Michael, you should become a motivational speaker, though I don’t appreciate you bringing up my birth name. It reminds me of times that were best not revived.”

Michael blushed at the implication of their affair, but shook his head as if to clear the thought. “Marie, you know you’d make an incredible High Blade. You could really fix the scythedom, you know?”

“I’ll try my best, Michael. I’ll try my best. But I will have to rely on my underscythes.”

“So, Mandela, Cervantes, and Nehru?” Anastasia joked. “You’d never trust me, the naive junior scythe or Faraday, the sad old man.”

“Sad old man?” Michael exclaimed, gawking at Anastasia. “First I get called a weasel, then an old man. When will the insults stop?”

Marie chuckled heartily, wincing as the movement jostled her sore body. “Now, when do I get to leave?”

As if on cue, a revival nurse came bustling into the room, pushing a cart full of medical supplies and sweets. 

“Honorable Scythe Curie!” The nurse exclaimed, a nearly fake smile spreading across his face. “You’re finally awake! See, reviving you was quite a challenge, but we’d always try our hardest for the legendary Marquesa de la Muerte.”

Marie offered a curt smile, restraining herself from chastising the sycophant. “When do I get to leave?” 

“We had to regrow many parts of your body completely due to the state you were in when Honorable Scythe Faraday brought you in, but everything has been regrown now. You’re just a little fragile.”

Marie did not take well to being called fragile. Frowning, she threw the blankets off her legs and pushed herself onto her feet. Steadying herself on the wall perpendicular to the bed, she made eye contact with the nurse, employing her notoriously intense glare. 

“I will be leaving today,” she announced, careful not to show the wobbling of her legs or the vertigo that threatened to knock her to the floor. “You may leave now and check me out.”

The nurse opened his mouth to argue, but closed it quickly and scurried out of the revival room. 

As soon as the nurse left, Marie pitched forwards, falling into Anastasia’s open arms. 

“Are you sure leaving today is a good idea if you can’t even walk on your own?” Anastasia asked, easing Marie onto a chair. 

“I’ll be fine. I just need a minute or two. And one of the doughnuts that the nurse left in here. Anastasia, please grab one of those for me, I’m famished.”

Shaking her head with a smile, Anastasia passed Marie a powdered doughnut, watching amusedly as her former mentor scarfed it down. 

“Help me to my feet,” Marie commanded. “We’re leaving now.”

Anastasia shared a worried look with Michael before heaving Marie’s arm over her shoulder. Her support was quite ineffective as Anastasia was barely 5’3 and Marie towered over her at six feet. Noticing her discomfort, Michael swooped in and took Marie from her, struggling with Marie’s height as well, though a bit less. 

The three scythes walked awkwardly out of the revival center, ignoring the concerned glances of the nurses. Faraday helped Curie down the block, stopping in front of a car, obviously from the mortal ages. 

“Michael,” Marie started hesitantly. “Is that a minivan?”

“Well, we couldn’t use publicars as we’d be tracked immediately, and part of my plan is arriving at the conclave with the same dramatic effect as Goddard last time, and the car dealership in this town is quite small. Also, unlike you, Marie, I’d never use my scythe status to get a fancy car.”

“You know better than anyone that my car was gifted to me,” Marie huffed indignantly. “Also, I’d rather not drive to Fulcrum city looking like a mother driving her children to soccer practice.”

“Well, we don’t have much choice. Get in the car.”

“I’m driving,” Marie insisted, glaring at Michael while still leaning on him for support.

“You just got out of the revival center, and early at that!” Michael insisted. “Plus, you drive far too fast.”

While Marie and Michael argued, Anastasia slipped into the driver’s seat, pushing a button to open the sliding back doors. 

“Get in the back, you two,” Anastasia told them, clicking her seatbelt in. “There may be some movies saved on the television. I’ll head to Faraday’s house first.”

Marie chuckled as Michael helped her into the front seat. Laying her hand on Anastasia’s as she extended her gratitude without words. 

“Don’t hit any Nimbus Agents this time,” she chuckled, winking at Michael in the back seat. 

“Oh, you haven’t heard!” Michael exclaimed. “The Thunderhead marked everyone unsavory after Endura sank. So all the Nimbus Agents were fired. Anastasia and I didn’t find out until a couple of days ago given the whole scythe and Thunderhead divide.”

“Why would it do that?” Marie asked, already working out an answer. 

“I believe it was some form of punishment for the disaster on Endura,” Anastasia offered. “It seems to have been pretty effective, honestly. People are nicer to each other now.”

“Watch the sheep, dear.” Marie pointed to the herd crossing the thin, country road. 

Anastasia slammed on the breaks, forcing Michael to grab onto the safety handle. 

“I see you’ve taught her how to drive in the same…terrifying manner,” he mumbled, his knuckles turning white as he continued to hold onto the handle. 

“She just stopped the car, Michael,” Marie insisted, motioning for Anastasia to continue driving after the sheep crossed the road. “I’m glad we didn’t let you drive. It would have taken months to get to the conclave.”

Anastasia turned at the next intersection, driving onto a grassy road surrounded by dense foliage on both sides. At the end of the road lay a small, wooden house. She pulled over to the side of the house, slamming on the breaks again to stop. She pushed a button and opened the back doors of the van, allowing Faraday to exit. 

“I may actually prefer Marie’s driving to yours, Anastasia,” Michael mumbled, dragging the door closed. “At least she knows how to stop without vaulting everyone to kingdom come.”

“I’m still learning, Faraday,” Anastasia huffed, locking the doors of the car and helping Marie out of the passenger seat.  

“I can walk on my own now,” she insisted. “Thank you, dear.”

Michael led Anastasia and Marie into his home, opening the door into a sparsely furnished, but homey parlor. Rowan met the three scythes at the door, offering Marie an awkward smile. 

“Thank you for saving my life, Your Honor,” he said respectfully. “I’m glad that you’re safe and healthy.”

Marie nodded curtly. “Call me Scythe Curie,” she said, pushing past him and making her way to the kitchen. 

Munira sat at the kitchen table, poured over a large book. 

“Scythe Curie!” She exclaimed, slamming her book shut. “I’m so glad you’re finally revived. Faraday and Anastasia have been worried sick. They’ve been in and out of the revival center for two weeks now.”

“It was very kind of them,” Marie said genuinely. “I’m very grateful to have such good companions. Now what would you lot like for dinner?”

Anastasia found herself awake well past midnight, tossing and turning under her thin sheets. Looking to her left, she noticed that Marie was not in her bed. She sighed and threw her sheets off. Pulling on a jacket, she stepped onto the porch and sat beside Marie as she watched the waves intently.

“What are you doing up, dear?” She asked, her long hair pouring down her back in gentle waves. “We need to leave early tomorrow, so why don’t you get some sleep?”

“You’re up too,” Anastasia said, kicking her legs as they hung off the raised porch. “Do you want to talk about Endura?”

Marie sighed heavily. “I don’t know if Michael already told you, but I did technically self-glean on Endura.”

Anastasia furrowed her brow, remembering how she saw Michael cleaning Marie’s knife the day after she was revived. She saw him return the knife to Marie’s robe, but Anastasia had not thought much of it before now. 

“Michael broke the seventh commandment when he revived me,” Marie continued. “I did admittedly self-glean under the pretense of inevitable death, but the principle still stands.”

“I don’t think it does. Would you have self-gleaned if you had any other choice?”

“Well…no.”

“Then I think that it was really Goddard who broke the seventh commandment. Not only was he responsible for the deaths of the Grandslayers, but he forced you into a position in which you had to self-glean.”

“You’re quite wise for a junior scythe, did you know that?”

Anastasia grinned. “I learned from the best.”

“And ‘the best’ is telling you to get some sleep,” Marie chuckled. “I’ll go to bed in a moment.”

Anastasia pushed herself to her feet and slid open the glass porch door, climbing back into bed. She tried to listen for Marie’s return, but she never heard her come in before falling asleep.

Michael stood in front of the door early the next morning, holding himself like a father about to take his children to an amusement park. 

“I think it would be best for Rowan to stay here with Munira,” Michael suggested, offering Rowan an apologetic grimace. “Once Marie is High Blade, we can sort out your whole situation, but until then, I think it’s wise for you to continue to lay low.”

“And if Goddard doesn’t step down, I’ll bring Scythe Lucifer back and finish what I started,” Rowan suggested without any sarcasm.

“You will do nothing of the sort!” Marie exclaimed, glaring at Rowan. “Once I deal with Goddard, I will assign you an appropriate punishment for your deeds. And Goddard will step down.”

“What Rowan did wasn’t all bad,” Anastasia told Marie. “The scythes he ended really did deserve punishment.”

“Does anyone deserve permanent death, Anastasia?” Marie challenged. “What I said is final, as it will be once I ascend to High Blade.”

Rowan caught Anastasia’s gaze and pulled her into a warm embrace, burying his face in her thick, curly hair. 

“Go kick Goddard’s ass for me,” he whispered. “And Rand’s too.”

“With pleasure.” Anastasia held onto Rowan for an extra second before following Michael and Marie out the door. 

Marie unlocked the doors of the minivan and slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Anastasia can sit shotgun,” she said playfully. “I’m used to having her next to me. And Michael, I think the back is safest.”

Michael offered Marie a good-natured pout and sat in the back seat. 

“We have three weeks until the conclave,” Michael said. “You don’t need to drive that fast.”

“Not in my nature,” she insisted, speeding in reverse down the thin road. 

Chapter Text

Marie pulled into the parking lot of a small motel at the border of the Amazonian scythedom. Sighing in relief, she parked the van and stepped out into the humid summer air. 

“We leave tomorrow at nine and it is six now,” she told Anastasia and Michael. “Let’s get dinner somewhere then we’ll head to bed.”

Anastasia nodded in agreement and bent down to touch her toes. 

“I’m so stiff,” she groaned. “We were in the car for what? Six hours?”

“Thereabouts,” Michael replied, rolling his neck to stretch as well. “It’s easier on your young joints, but for older people like Marie and me, extended periods of sitting can really take a toll on us.”

“Speak for yourself, Michael,” Marie chuckled. “I feel fine.”

Michael shook his head in mock-exasperation and led Marie and Anastasia to a small restaurant two blocks from the motel. The streets were quiet at this time of evening, as everyone in the small town seemed to be eating at home with their families. As Marie passed under the yellow street lamps, slivers of her hair glowed as if enchanted. Michael watched her affectionately, but from an emotional distance. They already had their time.

“You haven’t braided your hair since you’ve been revived,” he pointed out, walking with his hands in the pockets of his robes. 

“I will put it back up once I’m High Blade,” she replied, gazing indiscernibly off into the distance. “Until then, I will enjoy my freedom without scythes to manage and gleaning quotas to fill. I suppose I could consider these days a vacation of sorts.”

“You don’t have to,” Anastasia suggested. “Put your hair up, that is. I think it looks really nice down. It gives you a mystical appearance.”

“Am I not intimidating enough without a mystical presence?”

“No, you’re quite intimidating already, but imagine how much you could scare people if your glare was terrifying and you looked magical?”

“Well, I’ll consider it, dear,” Marie said, continuing down the quiet street. “There is quite a lot for me to consider before I become High Blade.”

“I have complete faith in you, Marie,” Michael assured, leading the other two scythes into the small dining room of a restaurant. “And though you’ve grown exponentially since you were known as Susan, your spirit stayed the same. You’re shrewd and calculating and I could think of no one better suited to be High Blade.”

“Anyone would be better than Goddard,” Marie quipped, taking a seat at a table just large enough for the three of them. “God, Scythe Poe would be better than that monster.”

Mention of Scythe Poe triggered rounds of laughter from Anastasia and Michael. Much like his Patron Historic, Poe was gloomy and pessimistic; plus, he looked the part. His grey robes did nothing but wash out his pasty skin, and he allowed his nanites to overtax his metabolism, leaving him frail and sickly. He was not a good scythe, nor was he a bad scythe; he was painfully mundane for someone who preached the end of the scythedom around every corner. Still, apathy was far better than tyranny.

“Will you enter in the middle of the conclave to give Goddard a taste of his own medicine?” Anastasia asked, sipping from a glass of ice water. “I think you deserve that much flamboyance.”

Marie tapped her chin in thought, pretending to mull over Anastasia’s suggestion as if she hadn’t already come to a conclusion. “I agree, Anastasia,” she said. “I believe that we should enter about two hours late. Then, the tolling of the names will be over and we can arrive just as Goddard is about to make some awfully pretentious speech.”

Michael furrowed his brow, conflicted. “Though I do love a touch of dramatics, do you not find a late entrance slightly disrespectful?” He countered, attempting to act as the sensible voice.

“Goddard doesn’t deserve respect,” Marie huffed. “I’d physically throw him off his stupid seat if I could. But that would raise some issues.”

Anastasia chuckled at the idea of Marie manhandling Goddard, imagining his body flying across the hall like a ragdoll. Stifling her giggles, she gestured for the waiter to take their order. 

The waiter hurried over to their table, paling at the sight of three scythes all together. Fumbling with her tablet, the waiter stood before the table, forcing an uncomfortable smile.

“What would you like to eat, Your Honors?” She said, her pen poised for writing. “Of course, everything is on the house.”

Marie quickly scanned the menu. “I’ll have the feijoada,” she said in perfect Spanic. “I’ve always been one for a good stew.”

Michael furrowed his brow, not comprehending Marie’s order. Shrugging, he asked for the same dish. Anastasia looked over the menu as well, settling for an empadão. The waiter nodded fervently and scurried off to the kitchen, leaving the three scythes alone in the dining room. 

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Michael began to chuckle. 

“What is it?” Anastasia asked him, furrowing her brow in confusion. “Did we do something?”

“No, no,” he replied, continuing to laugh. “It’s just that I really did think I was going to retire. I went through all that trouble to disappear off the face of the scythedom, only to be pulled back into the midst of what I wanted to avoid. It’s so ironic that in all of my years as a scythe, the only time I’m truly needed is when I’d rather be walking along the beach.”

“And I don’t want to be High Blade,” Marie told him, shrugging. “Yet a reoccuring theme in our lives as scythes seems to be doing things we don’t want to do for the greater good. As my knowledgeable mentor once told me, ‘the defining characteristic of a good scythe is not wanting to be one,’ and I think that applies throughout all stages of being a scythe, not merely apprenticeship.”

“My knowledgeable mentor told me the same thing,” Anastasia said, a smirk tugging at the edges of her lips. “Isn’t that funny?”

Michael’s face erupted in a joyful grin, accenting the smile lines testament to his age. He continued to smile until the arrival of his food, upon which he began to tuck in ravenously. 

“Energy bars are an awful source of food,” he said between bites. “We should at least bring sandwiches for the rest of the drive. Oh look at me. I’m gorging myself as if I was at the conclave.”

“You deserve it, Michael,” Marie told him, taking far more elegant bites. “You’re my savior as well as Anastasia’s; saviors deserve a little gluttony.”

The three scythes finished their food quickly, leaving the restaurant before its closing time of 8:00. Walking down the same humid streets, Marie noticed an increase in activity. After families finished their meals, young children pranced about the safe streets devoid of cars in the short while before their bedtimes. One small girl, perhaps six or seven traipsed into the flowy skirt of Marie’s robes, looking abruptly upwards to meet her gaze. 

“Marquesa de la Muerte,” she gasped, reeling back in surprise. “I have your trading card.”

Marie offered her a simple wink and continued to walk back to her hotel, deftly avoiding speeding, small figures. She reached her hotel, holding the door open for Michael and Anastasia.

“Now Michael,” she said before approaching the check-in desk. “You made the reservations. Do we have one room or two?”

“One,” he said. “Two beds and one pull-out couch. It should be perfect.”

Marie nodded and approached the receptionist. After receiving the key, she led Michael and Anastasia up the simple staircase and into the hotel room. Entering the room, she settled on the couch, meeting Anastasia and Michael’s gaze. 

“Wake up at seven tomorrow morning so that we may leave before nine,” she told them, shrugging her robe off her shoulders. “Our next stop is MexTeca, then Fulcrum City after that. I hope you’re all excited. Now, we have time to write in our journals then fall asleep.”

“She still acts like my mother,” Anastasia whispered–quite audibly–to Michael. “I’m a real scythe now.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Michael sighed, feigning exasperation. “She’s just like that.”

“Start writing, you two,” Marie chuckled, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her journal on her lap. 

They spent the next thirty minutes writing in their journals; despite the fact that they were not gleaning while travelling and were not even recognized as alive by the MidMerican scythedom, old habits die hard. It was far easier to write a journal entry than make a conscious decision not to. 

Michael closed his journal first, tucking it into his pocket and walking into the bathroom to clean up for the night. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, closing the bathroom door behind him. “And don’t worry, Marie. I’ll wake up on time.”

Marie shook Anastasia awake at 8:00, pointing at the clock.

“Did I not tell you to wake up at seven?” she asked Anastasia, her tone pedantic. “Now you’re going to have to hurry. Shower quickly, would you?”

Anastasia nodded blearily and rolled out of bed. Marie stood above her, fully dressed; her hair was unbraided, but still damp, sticking to the back of her robe. Hurrying into the bathroom, Anastasia got ready in mere minutes, meeting Marie and Michael by the door of the hotel room. 

“Before we go,” Michael started. “Remember that MexTeca is currently aligned with MidMerica and can not promise us safety and anonymity the way Amazonia did. We will have to be undercover, in a sense. No eating out, and no evidence of being a scythe. It is unlikely that Marie will be able to go unnoticed, but we’ll try our best at hiding her.”

“I considered purchasing a cheap wig, but Michael told me I’d look even more suspicious,” she chuckled, following the thin stairs down to the hotel lobby. “Notoriety is a curse.”

Anastasia slid into the passenger seat of the minivan, settling in for another long drive. In high school, she learned that during the age of mortality, people often drove across the country or other long distances as plane flights were too expensive. Now, it would be absurd to consider a basic amenity such as air travel beyond someone’s income. Yet as a trio of undercover scythes, air travel was not a luxury they could afford. 

Leaning her head against the cool window, Anastasia enjoyed the lush, green scenery zooming past her. Despite the mortal people’s valiant efforts to destroy the Amazon rainforest, the Thunderhead restored all of the forests and ecosystems, maintaining them indefinitely. 

“Who survived Endura other than Goddard?” Marie asked, keeping her eyes on the road. “Did any of the civilians make it out?”

Michael sighed, closing his eyes in exasperation. “The only scythes that escaped were Goddard and Rand, as expected,” he said, shaking his head. “Since it was only them, they can say whatever they want about Endura and no one can challenge them.”

“Well, we can,” Anastasia replied, sitting upright again. “We were there and we saw Goddard fly away in his little helicopter. And though he wants to blame everything on Rowan, Marie and I both know that he was in the vault with me. There is no way he could have sunk the island from inside the founders vault.”

“They could argue that he began to sink the island then hid in the founders vault with you, his co-conspirator,” Marie countered. “Goddard will tell any lie he can in order to retain his position.”
“We can prove that Goddard was responsible for the sinking of Endura by bringing up the fact that no civilians were revived. The Thunderhead considered it a scythe action and therefore could not intervene.”

“The Thunderhead didn’t intervene with Rowan’s vigilante spree because it considered Rowan a scythe of sorts. Goddard was quite thorough, dear.”

“We still have the ruling of the Grandslayers to our advantage!”

“But that’s just our word against Goddard’s. Who knows how the scythedom will sway?”

“So you’re telling me that there will be no way for you to ascend to High Blade?” Anastasia looked resigned and quite frustrated. “Should we turn back to Amazonia now?”

“No, we have the vote of the scythedom in our favor,” Marie replied, pursing her lips. “And I’m not afraid to pit my morals against Goddard’s. My suspicions tell me that the scythedom has only sided with Goddard because they’ve lost all hope. Our job, Anastasia, is not to challenge his lies, as satisfying as that would be, but to offer a moral high ground instead. We need to tip the scythedom back in favor of the old guard, and you, a fresh, junior scythe, are perfect for that task.”

“But we need to clear our name!” Anastasia insisted, shaking her head. “And we need to clear Rowan’s name.”

Anastasia saw Marie’s jaw clench. An air of anger filled the car–similar to the rage Marie emanated back when Anastasia publicly defied her. 

“I understand that you have feelings towards that boy,” she said, keeping her voice level and calm. “But your teenage crush can not get in the way of the fate of the scythedom. I will deal with Rowan accordingly after I dethrone Goddard, but no sooner. He will have to live as a pariah for a little while longer.”

“I’m sorry, Marie,” Anastasia muttered, looking straight ahead at the dirt road. “I wish you the best of luck at the conclave.”

“Your role will be paramount as well,” Michael said. “You need to lead the younger generation of scythes, most of whom seem to be gravitating towards Goddard. Advocate for compassion.”

Anastasia sighed and leaned back in the soft car seat. She was ready to assist Marie as High Blade, but leading junior scythes? That would test her. Closing her eyes, she drifted into a light sleep, soothed by the low hum of the car.

She awoke to quiet singing, accompanied by the radio turned down low. Before she fully opened her eyes, Anastasia recognized the voice as Marie’s. Her singing was not exquisite, neither was it bad, but it sounded content and careless. Marie sang along to some mortal age song Anastasia had heard a long time ago. Finally, she cracked her eyes open and grinned at Marie. 

“Do you recognize the song?” Marie asked her, her eyes never straying from the road. 

“I’ve heard it before,” Anastasia replied, still snuggled into the side of her seat. 

“It’s called Case of You by Joni Mitchell. My grandmother used to play it for me when I was young. She told me that it was an old song even when she was a child. Of course, we can’t understand all of the emotion behind the song, but I consider it quite beautiful, don’t you?”

Anastasia nodded, trying futilely to fathom a time during which she would be able to fully enjoy mortal music. As a scythe, she got as close as an immortal could to understanding the pain and panic of mortality, yet her fate was completely in her hands. She could choose to live or die, though her experience with Endura shined light on an exception.

Marie finally stopped the car in an empty parking lot beside a run-down motel. Midday light filtered through the dusty air, painting burnt orange swatches over the van’s glossy grey paint. Marie sighed and rolled her neck to stretch, stepping out into the hot, dry air. Grabbing a hat from her bag, she twisted her hair into a tight bun and tucked it into her hat. 

“Take off your robes quickly,” she commanded, shedding her lavender robe to reveal a simple sweatshirt and jeans. “We are not scythes as long as we’re in MexTeca.”

Anastasia and Michael complied, tossing their robes in the car, standing in the parking lot in civilian clothes. Even without her robe, Marie held herself with the authority of a scythe, her gaze piercing. Leading Anastasia and Michael into the motel, she adjusted her stance, easing her posture into something more demure. She pushed Anastasia forward, indicating for her to make the reservation.

“Do you have any rooms with two beds and a pull-out couch?” She asked the receptionist, fishing credits acquired by Michael during his ‘retirement’ from her pocket.

“Sure,” the receptionist replied, shrugging. “Whose name should I put the reservation under?”

“Put it under Citra,” she said, placing the credits on the counter. Never was she as thankful for the Thunderhead’s radio silence as she was now. Usually, the receptionist would verify the client’s identity with the Thunderhead, but without it available, Citra was safe to provide a somewhat false identity. 

Marie enjoyed the anonymity posing as a civilian provided. No one had treated her without reverence for more than a century; though the treatment was jarring at first, she eventually considered it a calm before the storm. In mere days she would no longer be treated like another person, but revered as the High Blade of MidMerica. Or, depending on how well Goddard’s manipulation worked, Marie would be viewed as a traitor to the scythehood, losing her notoriety as the Granddame of Death and becoming someone akin to Rowan. 

Yet now as Fulcrum city grew closer and the fate of scythedom began to weigh on Marie’s shoulders, she found herself falling into the same mindset she possessed when she gleaned the President. Whether that mindset would serve her well, Marie was unsure, but she did know that she was resolved to remove Goddard from his place of power. 

Michael took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at Marie. He did not offer her any more words of encouragement; instead, he grabbed Marie’s hand and squeezed it, imparting his thoughts without the obstacle of words. 

The grand building of the conclave grew larger as Marie approached it. Grabbing the end of her braid, she remembered Citra’s advice and removing the rubber band, she allowed her hair to come undone and fall over her shoulder.
“I think the tolling of the names just ended,” Michael said, adjusting his ivory robe and smoothing out any errant wrinkles. “Are you ready, Marie?”

“Yes, I think so.” She stood proud outside of the grey minivan, walking up the stairs of the conclave with her robe fluttering behind her, unburdened by the weight of jewels. At her sides were Michael and Anastasia, conviction evident on their faces. 

Pushing the heavy doors of the hall open, Marie crossed the threshold and stood before the rotunda, catching Goddard’s gaze.

“Thank you for managing the MidMerican scythedom while I was incapacitated, but I’m back now,” she said calmly.

Goddard’s usually smug face grew pale as he grabbed the arm of his seat. 

“We are all overjoyed to see that you survived the tragedy of Endura,” he said, feigning benevolence. “But I am already High Blade. I don’t think the scythedom needs any more chaos.”

Marie raised an eyebrow, her lips tugging into a smirk. “Oh, I don’t plan to bring any chaos, Scythe Goddard,” she assured. “I only wish to take the seat that the scythedom agreed should belong to me. I also wish to remind the MidMerican scythedom of the Grandslayers verdict. Scythe Goddard, I believe you are due for a year-long apprenticeship.”

“We should hold another vote!” Rand interrupted. “Much has changed since Scythe Curie was last alive!”

“Oh, I don’t find that necessary, Scythe Rand.” Marie maintained a calm demeanor. “We already voted for a High Blade, and I won. And you can not defy the last wishes of the Grandslayers. Scythe Goddard must serve a year of apprenticeship to train 93 percent of his body.”

“The MidMerican scythedom is content with Scythe Goddard as our High Blade,” Rand insisted, glaring at Marie. “You can not just come in and disrupt the conclave.”

“If I remember correctly, you did the same thing just a few months ago.” 

“We are not content with Scythe Goddard as our High Blade!” Cervantes interjected, rising from his seat at the rotunda. “He is nothing short of a tyrant, and he goes against everything the scythedom stands for!”

Scythes Mandela, Nehru, and Twain stood with Cervantes, voicing their complaints as well. Slowly more and more scythes rose against Goddard. Scythe Constantine offered Goddard a condescending glare and stood next to Cervantes. Rand clenched her fists in fury as scythes continued to rise, even those with jewels on their robes. Glancing over to Goddard, she saw flames of anger flickering in his eyes; threatening to overcome the anger, though, was increasing frustration. Somehow, Rand felt satisfied by Goddard’s frustration; her fury seemed to ease it’s grip as she revelled in Goddard’s failure. Though she did not take to her feet and join the other scythes in rebellion, she turned to Goddard, grinning. 

“Perhaps you should just yield your seat,” she suggested, shaking her head in pity. “Looks like Curie’s got quite the following now.”

“I will not yield what is rightfully mine!” Goddard’s cheeks reddened in anger, an indignant toddler on a throne that did not belong to him. 

“You don’t deserve to be High Blade, Goddard,” Marie told him, her tone condescending. “Scythes require compassion and a conscience, two things you severely lack. So I will ask you again. Please get off my seat.”

Marie’s firm tone commanded such respect that Goddard found himself tensed in fear. As much as he despised Scythe Curie, Goddard could not deny the fact that she was incredible scythe. Her mere presence demanded respect and she was disgustingly self-righteous. The longer Goddard continued to sit, defying the will of the MidMerican scythedom, the more pathetic he looked. Goddard’s anger threatened to boil over; though he may have been able to control it once, his impulsive, young body acted on its own accord. In one swift motion, he rose from his seat and swung his fist at Marie’s face. 

Goddard’s arm stopped mid-swing, caught in Marie’s painful grip. 

“That,” she said, looking down at Goddard as if he was a disobedient child, “was a violation of the seventh scythe commandment.” She leaned down closer to his face. “I believe you’d know quite a lot about breaking that commandment, wouldn’t you?”

Marie released her grip on Goddard’s arm, throwing it towards the floor. With a pathetic stumble, he turned back towards the table, shaking with rage. 

“Ayn!” he spat. “We’re leaving now. This scythedom is disgraceful! They will all pay for this!”

Rand shrugged apathetically. “I think I’ll stay,” she said, placing her feet on the table. “Go ahead without me.”

Goddard scurried out of the hall, his bejeweled robe dragging on the polished wooden floor. 

Glancing to Michael and Citra at her sides, Marie took her seat at the head of the rotunda, beckoning for everyone to take their seats again. 

“What if Goddard comes back?” Cervantes interjected, raising his finger nervously. “What will he do?”

“I’ll take care of him,” Rand said simply, her feet still on the table.

Marie raised her eyebrow at Rand’s comment, eyeing her suspiciously. Shaking her head as if to clear the thought, she addressed the scythedom. 

“First order of business,” she commanded, her voice filling the rotunda. “Get those awful jewels off your robes.”