Cecil has seen a lot of death. He's lived to watch almost forty Hunger Games. He has seen people die in many, many ways. He has seen blood shed and spilled and flowing and trickling and dripping and spraying. But he has never smelled it like this before - never watched it stain the cuffs of his jacket pinkish, never breathed in the bitter tang of it on the humid air.
He's so frightened that his fear is audible. His breaths are coming short and sharp and panicked, loud enough to echo in the confined space, even with no voice behind them. He swallows, and it clicks in his dry throat.
But he obeys.
With only a second's hesitation (and a wary glance at the Initiate), he obeys. He moves to the wrecked wall, the pile of twisted metal, and begins to search for a way through. He moves carefully around the troll, ducking his shoulders in involuntary fear whenever he comes too close to one of the huge hands; there don't appear to be any gaps, except... the one the Initiate made.
All fear is the fear of death, in this moment. And so Cecil puts his hands on one of the broken beams and pulls himself up until it's only his feet in the water, clinging to a handhold, almost level with the Initiate's face. He can see from here that the gap is still too small for him-- but he has to try. He has to see.
His head and shoulders make it, sort of. That's encouraging, and so he stretches his arms through, grabs at a handhold on the other side and hauls himself inches further. There are edges digging into his arms, his legs, his chest, but it is fine. He is fine. He hauls again, and feels the dig of blunt metal into his waist - his feet are no longer on the ground. It is fine. He hauls one more time, excited to obey, to put his head through, to be free-- and quite suddenly it is not fine.
The pain is different from the many cuts and bruises he's already sustained. This is sharper, more immediate, bigger; it starts in his side, just over his hipbone, and when he hauls himself forward again to escape it, it burns down his thigh. (He has the unbidden mental image of paper tearing.) He can't exactly cry out in pain, but his breathing is ragged at the edges, hoarse and uneven. Is he bleeding? He thinks he's bleeding. He doesn't know. All blood smells the same.
He hauls one more time, and the strength in his arms fails him. Or, well-- any part of him capable of pulling himself forward knowing that it will cut him more to ribbons fails him. He can't turn himself to see well, not from here; but he can make a fist and pound weakly at the beam next to him, make a hollow, watery clang clang clang-- Frantic and fluttering like his heartbeat, a feeble gesture that he hopes says to anyone behind him, anyone on the other side, Please-- please help me through. I am only trying to obey.
TL;DR
He's so frightened that his fear is audible. His breaths are coming short and sharp and panicked, loud enough to echo in the confined space, even with no voice behind them. He swallows, and it clicks in his dry throat.
But he obeys.
With only a second's hesitation (and a wary glance at the Initiate), he obeys. He moves to the wrecked wall, the pile of twisted metal, and begins to search for a way through. He moves carefully around the troll, ducking his shoulders in involuntary fear whenever he comes too close to one of the huge hands; there don't appear to be any gaps, except... the one the Initiate made.
All fear is the fear of death, in this moment. And so Cecil puts his hands on one of the broken beams and pulls himself up until it's only his feet in the water, clinging to a handhold, almost level with the Initiate's face. He can see from here that the gap is still too small for him-- but he has to try. He has to see.
His head and shoulders make it, sort of. That's encouraging, and so he stretches his arms through, grabs at a handhold on the other side and hauls himself inches further. There are edges digging into his arms, his legs, his chest, but it is fine. He is fine. He hauls again, and feels the dig of blunt metal into his waist - his feet are no longer on the ground. It is fine. He hauls one more time, excited to obey, to put his head through, to be free-- and quite suddenly it is not fine.
The pain is different from the many cuts and bruises he's already sustained. This is sharper, more immediate, bigger; it starts in his side, just over his hipbone, and when he hauls himself forward again to escape it, it burns down his thigh. (He has the unbidden mental image of paper tearing.) He can't exactly cry out in pain, but his breathing is ragged at the edges, hoarse and uneven. Is he bleeding? He thinks he's bleeding. He doesn't know. All blood smells the same.
He hauls one more time, and the strength in his arms fails him. Or, well-- any part of him capable of pulling himself forward knowing that it will cut him more to ribbons fails him. He can't turn himself to see well, not from here; but he can make a fist and pound weakly at the beam next to him, make a hollow, watery clang clang clang-- Frantic and fluttering like his heartbeat, a feeble gesture that he hopes says to anyone behind him, anyone on the other side, Please-- please help me through. I am only trying to obey.