Her breathing is desperate and hitching precariously; the night contracts sharply around her. They hope she doesn't cry. It would make things. . . awkward. Crying is a sign of humanism, and requires a like response. It's not that they've forgotten how to be human. They merely dislike the subsequent, ineluctable complexities.
Nothing about her, not the things she says or the crooked line of her nose or the way she won't stop crying— nothing about her is simple. Blood looks different on her hands (perhaps because she doesn't want it there).
For a moment, it appears as though she might regain a semblance of self-control. The onlookers inhale more easily. Unconsciously they wipe their brows of the sweat she is emitting; it has become a habit for them. What she saves, they slay.
These are the times that her legs buckle and kneel, because standing is no longer an option in the face of their divine misinterpretations. These are the times that she lifts her hands, finger by futile finger, and closes the gaping wounds of their dead enemies. These are the times that they ignore the tears falling from her eyes, the hitch in her breath, the uncontrollable rhythm of her hands.
They don't have the heart to stop her. (They don't have hearts at all.)