He knew every weak point on a being, both mentally and physically. He knew what would kill you now, or kill you later. He knew ways to make you suffer greatly, but never perish. Pain was his art, his trade, his job.
He was pain.
He should not feel this way.
Long ago, he stopped feeling pity. He was numb. Years of this left him unfeeling.
Why did he suddenly pity the woman he was supposed to torture, like so many others before her? Perhaps it was her beauty, maybe the fact that had seemed so sincere in her apology. She seemed concerned for him, and it confused him. The world was full of those who begged for mercy, and those who shouted in defiance, but he had never encountered a victim concerned for him.
He still had a job to do. The next day, he didn't bring his tools. He entered the room, and found the woman in the same corner. She looked up at his the noise of him entering, and he noticed the swelling in her face had gone down.
He leaned against the wall in the opposite corner, crossing his arms. Their eyes met.
"You will stay longer if you do not speak." He said bluntly. She looked down.
"To be honest, I can't remember much before this. Vaguely of home, and poverty, but nothing else." Her timid words made his eyes narrow in anger.
"They brought me a useless wench?!" He growled. She flinched at his harsh words, and reluctantly nodded. He shouted in frustration, and began pacing. The woman curled up in a ball and whimpered. At the sound, he rounded on her.
"Hush your crying, wench!" He paused when she uttered a few, almost inaudible words, asking him not to hurt her.
"I've no intention of hurting someone with no damn memory." He snarled, turning away to sigh in exasperation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his gloved index finger and thumb.
"What's your name?" The question was almost too quiet for him to hear. He thought a moment in silence before he decided to answer.
"Aeron." He turned to look at her when he said his name. Was that a... smile?
"Aeron is a good name, but, it means something sad." Her slightest of smiles turned into the slightest of frowns. "I bet you're good, deep inside. You're just too sad." She whispered to herself, but he heard. She paused when he turned to face her, his brow furrowed. "You are good, aren't you?" She asked, her amber eyes innocently looking for an answer.
"I'm good at what I do." He replied, his voice low. "That is all."
"You've never killed anyone, have you?" Another question. His lips curled in annoyance.
"I've told you, that's not my job." She tilted her head at his statement.
"You aren't allowed to kill, are you?" She said, and he narrowed his eyes at her. How could she just figure something like that out?
"They hurt you when you fail, don't they?" He just stared at her, memories flashing through his mind of others, and most recently, his, punishment. He became aware of an ever present burning on his back. The red hot metal, melting his skin... "They hurt you for not hurting me." She said to herself again, narrowing her eyes. "But you've probably known nothing else."
"Enough, woman." His voice was a menacing growl. She looked up at him.
"I'm sorry." At her apology, his only reply was a disgusted noise and the rolling of his eyes. Why was she so prying, and how did she know these things? His frustration reached it's peak. This was nonsense! He pulled the only weapon he had, his dagger. He pointed the dagger in her direction and her eyes widened.
"If you keep this up, I swear I'll carve the eyes from your head." He got closer, and leaned down to be close to her face. "I ask the questions, wench. Pry no further." His eyes met hers, and he felt locked in her gaze. He trembled with frustration, but she never flinched.
He had never been so angry, frustrated, or confused. Why did she have so much control over him? How? He hated it!
He stepped back, breaking eye contact.
"I didn't mean to upset you, Aeron." At her voice, he glanced at her. She was manipulative. Or was she genuine? Gaining his thoughts, he spoke.
"You will stay until you remember. When They," He gestured to the door. "are satisfied, you will be freed." She nodded in understanding.
"You won't hurt me?" She asked pathetically.
"If I feel like you aren't hiding something, then no. I won't."
He left her then.
Back in his chambers, he decided to wash himself and dress his brand, so to not get infection. He was tired of feeling filthy, unlike most of the other men he knew. He stood in front of a mirror and for the first time in a long time, really stared at his image. Pushing back his hood, and pulling down his mask, he almost didn't recongize himself. His auburn hair was kept at reasonable length, his bangs just hanging above his green eyes. He kept shaved, but he noticed that it had become harder to keep it that way as he aged. How old was he again? He knew he was the youngest of the people he knew. He thought he looked relatively young, and yet, so much older than the last time he analyzed his image. He undressed, staring at his bare torso, lean with muscle. Last he remembered, he looked adolescent. But now he looked more like a man. Where had the years gone?
He shook the thoughts from his head, and washed himself and his wound, embracing the pain, rather than cringing.
He was pain. He was torment.
And yet he did not torture her.
He redressed himself. Mind ever wandering.
You are good, aren't you?
What did that mean? Maybe, at one time, when he was a child. All children are innocent. Or perhaps, he was good still? How could that be possible?
He rolled his eyes, shaming himself for letting her words remain in his thoughts. He fell asleep, and dreamed of amber eyes, raven hair, and a meeting under very different circumstances.