As a victim, he would have used the bolt cutters ethically.

dak-wai: i understand. i've always wanted to die

rainier:

dak-wai:

rainier: for a cause?

Its use dates back centuries, where devout individuals chose to physically experience discomfort to atone for their sins or draw closer to divinity.

[...]The chain is simply a strip, more or less wide, stitched, not made of fabric, but of metal. It is made of small wire links whose ends are cleverly curved to form pins. (X)

O K A Y. Huh. I shouldn't have been given this information. I fear that I am not looking at it through the lens of spiritual devotion and penitence. At all.

You don’t know whose hand pulls you back. Come to think of it, you don’t know the name of the boy on the ground, either. Maybe it’d come to you if you could see his face beneath the hand clutched over it, no distinct features to pick out other than the blood seeping out between his fingers. In another second you could have it. But in that second you’re dragged to your feet by too many hands to identify or to shake off, your vision blurring from sweat stinging your eyes.

Something drips from your mouth onto your muddied shirt. Someone calls you the Knight-Commander’s boy, and someone else swears, close enough to your ear that you can’t help flinching. On the far side of the training yard you can make out the silhouette of one of the sisters running in, her robes billowing out in a burst of fire and gold.

The pulling hands start to push. You strain to keep your eyes on the boy as they move you, sure that you’ll be able to remember his name if you can get one good look.

A clout to the back of the head sets you straight almost immediately. “What’re you looking at? Did you leave a tooth in him? Maker have mercy.”

All your teeth are still there. Or at least the only thing bleeding in your mouth is your bottom lip and the inside of your cheek. Your throat spasms when you try to swallow blood that isn’t yours, and the rest of your body convulses with it, jerking forward against the hands on your arms as you retch into the dirt. 

The motion around you comes to a sudden halt. “Should we take him to the infirmary?”

“That’s not his blood, it’s Lawrence’s,” comes the scathing reply from your other side. “Probably a chunk of his nose too. The healers will have enough on their hands trying to patch that up. This one can cool his head until the Knight-Commander can come deal with him.”

That’s the Knight-Lieutenant’s voice, you realize belatedly. Ser Havard made a point of introducing you. You’re to listen to Ser Arnold. To conduct yourself properly while under his direction, as a Trevelyan should.

Ser Arnold wasn’t looking when Lawrence prodded you with the blunted tip of his training sword, like you were some common livestock being sized up at the market. Ser Arnold didn’t hear him mocking your form, your frame. Sneering as he said you fought like a girl. At some point between you kicking Lawrence’s feet out from under him and sinking your teeth into the soft flesh of his face, someone must’ve called for the Knight-Lieutenant, and Maker knows what they said. Lawrence may not be well loved by the other initiates, but you—

“And what, exactly, should I tell your dear old uncle about the debacle that just unfolded in the training grounds?” asks Ser Arnold. He turns you towards him with a tug on your arm, his grip as solid as any shackle. “Have any suggestions for me, lad?”

You duck your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the ground. Even if your tongue wasn’t a leaden weight in your mouth, what could you say? After Lawrence fell, there was no stopping until someone emerged the victor. He was right about some things: you’re smaller than him, slighter than him, lacking years of training in your swordsmanship. So you did what you had to do to prove him wrong.

The Knight-Lieutenant won’t care about any of that. Neither will Ser Havard. There’s no words that can cover the wound on Lawrence’s face.  

Every second of silence drags on for what feels like hours, burning under Ser Arnold’s unrelenting stare. Finally, with numb lips, you mumble, “No, ser.”

“Speak up, Trevelyan.”

You can barely breathe, but you have to answer. “No, ser, I… I don’t—The Knight-Commander—” 

For a moment the only words in your mind are don’t, please, idiotic and childish, but you’d fall to your knees and beg if you thought he would listen. If you thought one man’s mercy might do anything, when all the other initiates saw you wrestling in the dirt, when a messenger’s already been sent. Ser Havard will know. Every shallow breath you take is thick with metal.

“I don’t—I don’t know. Ser.” Your voice shakes, but you keep your eyes open wide. You don’t cry.