Faceless are a sum of stillness, patience and composture.
Faceless are assassins.
A litany repeated for years, months, weeks, day after day. Changing a lie into the truth.
Faceless offer themselves to the will of the Many Faced God.
Faceless have means to satisfy all physical needs, the God takes care of their lives through the house, the cooks, the cleaners, the whores.
Faceless don’t want.
So what is this excruciating push toward a face, a body, a mind that he’s feeling now? Is it normal with apprentices? Never he had one before, but he saw the other brothers, ruthless and deprived of emotions with the new disciples.
This need – too often, he can counts every time and it is frightening - to see her, observe her doing chores in the Hall of faces, dusting and cleaning and her deep concentration on every task she does.
The perfect apprentice.
Or pretending so?
He observes her for a long time, since she got her sight back, the child blossoming into someone different, someone new and vibrant, someone dangerous that he needs to compartmentalize and put in one of his memory rooms; spaces empty of real memories, his brain is a myriad of notions only.
All his experience is useless with these emotions.
And the thought wanders in his brain, escapes the boundaries of logic and determination, roams free when he is alone, having a bath or reading before sleep.
For then, he thinks about her, he ponders about his lovely girl-
Shameful since he experiences what he thinks dreams are and wakes up with a proof of what his body can become regarding her.
He knows how to solve the problem and can't decide himself to visit one of the brothels.
Ascetic monks, devoted faithful.
No names, and she calls him with a name.
Years of teaching deprived him of everything he was and owned, to create from scattered ashes a perfect killing machine.
Body and mind focused on a single purpose, the gift.
No mercy, no regrets.
But a girl.. in her eyes when he leaves for a mission, a glimpse of hurt, when he returns to the house, sparks of joy.
But he do want, now.
His body hums a new melody based on a name only, Arya. In the darkness his lips form that word without a sound.
Arya is the air he breathes to be alive, the blood filling every cells of his body.
What’s the point of giving without never, ever, taking something for himself?
Not anyone, but this girl whose path crosses his too many times to call it a coincidence.
Would she get closer, more than in training, than in dancing with swords, than in gripping each other during a fight? Would she whisper his name in a dark room and touch him of her own will?
Certainty, she’s still Arya Stark of Winterfell, in her destiny not to be a faceless sister. In her future a great challenge, a higher purpose.
She’s the chosen one, he’ll follow her, discreetly, assiduously, he can change his face to be around her, to protect and to obey to the lovely girl who owns his soul.