He Cant Whittle Anymore Due To The Aftereffects Of The Chains - Tumblr Posts

Narinder returns to his bed. It is nighttime, and all are asleep, but he sleeps the latest of all, save for the Lamb. He cannot sleep when others are awake in case of the assassination attempts that he now fears.

He lays himself down, but finds that his pillow has a lump. Upon further inspection, it is a piece of wood and a knife. What?

Was someone trying to kill him, placing the knife under his pillow to cut him in his sleep?

He holds the wood and the knife. He is supposed to do something with this, isn't he? His hands shift, and he holds the knife with his thumb on the base of the blade, his hands moving on its own.

He knows not what he is doing. He knows not what he is creating, but it feels so good to do. He remembers shapes, built in wood, crafted in hours.

His hands shake. The nerves in his wrists and forearms are permanently damaged from the centuries he spent in godly handcuffs. Nonetheless he continues. It has been so long since he created, rather than destroyed, and it is addictive.

Some unknowable amount of time later, in his hands he holds a rough shape of his youngest brother. He holds it to his chest. But it is not enough.

He could sculpt life-size, detailed statues of his siblings in the past. It is not enough to have a small, rough shape. He needs more.

His hands shake as though the earth were moving beneath him. He carves out small details at first, then smaller and smaller, from the tiny horns to the crosses embedded in his skull. His hands shake harder.

In a tremble of his barely controlled hands, he snaps off the neck of the bishop.

He cannot create.

He buries his head in his useless, dead hands, and cries.

(based on this post)