Some days, silence was all that he had. Silence, and the all-consuming darkness which seemed to follow him everywhere. Indeed, it had taken up residence in his heart a long time ago, eating away at all that he cared for until he was numb.
He remembered days where he would cry. Days where he would smile and not wonder if he was simply going through the motions. Days where he did not wait for sleep to take him, if only so he could forget the exhaustion which had grown in his bones, heavy and pulling him into the earth as if to introduce him to the countless faceless corpses he had condemned.
Sleep did not come to him easily, however.
Even when his eyelids laid heavy across his eyes, he could not rest. Much too listless. Much too frightened for what the night might bring, he could only lay and listen to his heartbeat and breathing. Listen to the rats which scurried across cold stone, scrabbling away with stolen morsels long abandoned by the day. Listen to the rush of sewerage, like blood as it spilt from the waterfall of a man's neck.
It was in these moments that he was thankful for the cats which so often found and curled up around him. Soft, warm bodies which gladdened his heart more than he could describe. Soft song which escaped his lips, no longer fearful. Soft song which sometimes sounded so terribly like a heart shattering.
He had no need for a heart. Hearts were for those who dared to dream and believe and hope and fight, but all he did was survive. He had fought his way – lied, killed, poisoned, cheated, fucked – his way through the cold night, yet still it was all that he knew. From one new master to another. Just another target to silence. Every day was the same as the last.
And it tired him.
He sighed. Coal purred softly by his face, and for a second, he could feel the corners of his lips tugging upward in something that could not be simple imitation. It soon disappeared, of course.
Such emotion did not befit one such as him.
Emotion was simply a hindrance in his line of work, after all. It did not do to simply feel for one's target, nor was it particularly helpful to regret. When he began, it had been so much simpler – he could not survive if he held onto his heart, so he carved it out of himself.
Yet now, he did not know who he, himself, was.
Smiling a wry smile, he snuggled closer to the cat that wrapped itself around his head. Weapons did not feel – they felt no remorse for their victims – and neither did he. It was a constant reminder in his head, that he was little else to his clients, and indeed, to his mistresses – and master, whose teachings he would never forget. He was a blade to exact vengeance. A knife to silence dissenters. A talon on a bird, outstretched for its prey.
And yet he yearned to smile. He yearned for a time where he could smile and laugh and cry and fight with something beyond the deep night that festered in his chest. He yearned for something so much more. Something that tasted like freedom, or happiness, or finally escaping a cage he had long accepted to be his world.
But such things were not for him. Daring would be betrayal, and although he did not care for loyalty or allegiance or indeed his mistresses, he knew he would be snuffed out if he dared. It was a lesson that had been carved into him, with blades and whips and the tears that he did not cry.
In a word, he wanted to live.
When finally, he slept, it was not easy. While he rarely remembered his dreams, he dreamt often of all that his life had culminated in, and the pain that had followed him every step of the day. Some nights, he dreamt of a boy whose name he could barely remember were it not for the sharp sting of betrayal in his gut, like a brand that he could not wash away. Some nights, he dreamt of faceless men, women, and children and all the blood that dripped from his hands. Some nights, he dreamt of his own demise: slow, painful, torturous, and all that he deserved.
And when he woke, mere hours later, he was not refreshed. He did not dare sleep for much longer; never dared when it was much too dangerous to remain. It was much too dangerous to stay too long in a single place, after all, and one could never be too careful lest he wind up with a knife in his back, yet another victim of Noxus' streets.
Silence enveloped the city when he left to begin the day, night still heavy in the sky. Streetlights shone like hope or love – dim, and fading into the dark.
But such thoughts did not suit a man such as him, and he knew it much too well.
Discarding all his thoughts, he disappeared into the darkness, the glimmer of his blade much too like pride or arrogance. He was little else but a servant, a blade for others to command, and he had long since accepted his role. He remembered the days of old, of course. Days where he would cry or laugh as easily as a child might, carefree and with a heart unburdened by all that he had seen and done.
The night had caught him long ago, however, and he would not taste freedom.
He did not dare.