He looked at her suspiciously. His chest rose and fell rapidly and all his nerves were alight. All his training, all his lessons, they screamed at him to attack her. His mother's voice, cold and cruel in his mind, told him to kill her, to kill her and get it over with. They would win, and he would be a hero.<br/><br/>But his instincts, his<span style="font-style: italic">heart</span>, they told him different. She seemed sincere and peaceful (though he knew better than to trust appearances). Her words rang true, and they touched a place in him that he had long since forgotten about. He wanted to use logic, reason, and not the cold logic his mother employed. Empathy, sympathy, how he longed for those feelings, both in himself and other people.<br/><br/>But for him, there was no room for such softness. Not in his world.<br/><br/>He growled and redoubled his grip. There was no shakiness in him, no hesitation. "I want," he said, "to listen to you. I want peace and stability. I want people to listen, and to not have to be afraid. But it's not possible. People are stupid, panicky animals," he spat, disdain dripping from his words, "and they won't listen to anything but violence. Fear and hatred;<span style="font-style: italic">that's</span>what they respond to. You---you have no concept of it." He gestured back, towards the capital, knife still in hand. "You, in there, in your sugar-coated world, you know<span style="font-style: italic">nothing</span>! Hatred and pain---that's what life is made of! Fear will keep you alive, anger will see you to the next sunrise! And you, in your perfect world of light and sunshine, you know nothing of it! It's not<span style="font-style: italic">fair</span>!!" And here, his voice broke, and he turned away, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his composure. Teachers, 'companions', his mother---he could hear them taunting him for his weakness. He could hear it and he hated it.