Winter's Son

    The target knew his name.
    His mind was wrapped in darkness, but he could not remember the light. His heart was broken with grief, but he could not remember what he had lost. And so the only thing he felt and saw was anger. And the anger consumed him. It coursed through his veins and gave him purpose. He clung to his rage, for it was all he had.
    There were very few he hated, but those who earned his hate would not have a chance to regret what they had done to him. He did not hate his targets or those unfortunate enough to find themselves caught between him and his targets. He felt nothing toward them. No, those he hated were those who washed his memories away.
    They did it often—so often, in fact, that their technology wasn't as effective as it had been in the beginning. He could remember some things. He knew they wiped his brain periodically and that he wasn't supposed to be aware of this fact. Whether it was his body or his brain remembering though, he was not certain. Whenever he heard the order to start “with a clean slate”, he automatically settled back in their chair and allowed himself to be contained there. The thought that they would kill him if he did not cooperate did not cross his mind, for he had nothing to lose if they killed him and nothing to gain if they did not. He simply did as he was told.
    He had remembered for years now that he had possessed a name once, but try as he would, he could not see that name in his head. All he had were the names given to him by myths and legends. This angered him more than most things. He was capable of defeating anyone, no matter how he was armed or how many stood with him. He could take life without a thought. He had never showed mercy, and he had never failed, but he could not remember his name.
    This target had spoken that one word that had evaded him so long. And somewhere deep inside him, he had felt something other than rage and hatred. He had felt the smallest sliver of hope. He had resolved that he would not forget that name, no matter how many times they took his memories. And so he settled in their chair, blocked out the pain, and held on to his name.