Kamal

“If you are eager to find the reason I became the Kvothe they tell stories about, you could look there, I suppose."
Chronicler's forehead wrinkled. "What do you mean, exactly?"
Kvothe paused for a long moment, looking down at his hands. "Do you know how many times I've been beaten over the course of my life?"
Chronicler shook his head.
Looking up, Kvothe grinned and tossed his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "Neither do I. You'd think that sort of thing would stick in a person's mind. You'd think I would remember how many bones I've had broken. You'd think I'd remember the stitches and bandages." He shook his head. "I don't. I remember that young boy sobbing in the dark. Clear as a bell after all these years."
Chronicler frowned. "You said yourself that there was nothing you could have done."
"I could have," Kvothe said seriously, "and I didn't. I made my choice and I regret it to this day. Bones mend. Regret stays with you forever.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind