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It fucking hurts.
It’s the only thought running through Ballister’s mind, that and a primal instinct of get away, get away, you can’t let them catch you. Something learned by a childhood spent on the streets that he never quite outgrew.
Everything fucking. Hurts.
He runs. He runs and forces himself to not look back. He focuses on the raging pain on his shoulder, on the way it stings when he adjusts his undershirt to stop the bleeding, on the blur in his vision from tears of physical hurt, on the burn in his lungs when he deems it safe enough to stop, and pushes away everything else.
The Queen is dead.
She is dead. And I killed her.
The rational part of his mind knows he didn’t, he couldn’t have known (except he did, he did, he knew something was wrong with the sword the moment he held it why didn’t he say anything—) but that part is currently being drowned by memories: of the kindness in her smile when she welcomed him in, the pride in her eyes when she spied them during training. She never doubted him, she supported him at every turn, she gave him a sword and saw only a protector and never a threat.
And now she is dead.
Good Gloreth, what just happened?
The strain on his shoulder does nothing but increase, and it’s that which brings him back to reality. He takes a quick look and notices his undershirt is already soaked in deep red, and knows he needs to stop the bleeding soon; he grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to his feet.
He later won’t remember how he made his way towards the hideout of his childhood, away from any respectable part of town and somewhere no one would even think of looking for; he just knows he centred on the ache, made it his guiding force.
He will remember the scream he let out when cauterizing the wound: the way he had to put a piece of cloth in between his teeth to keep from letting out another as he closed it to the best of his ability, leaving an ugly looking scar where his arm ought to be, and that hurt not less than when it was actively bleeding.
He lets himself fall down on the ratty couch and closes his eyes.
The rage (how could they just stand and watch, how quick they were to turn their backs on the charity case, how could he just cut his arm without thinking), the bargaining (is just how we were trained, it was the only logical response, I was a weapon and he had to put me down), the helplessness (what am I supposed to do now, I’ve lost it all, I’ve lost it all, I've lost him), the resolve (he will damn find who did this and bring them to justice, he will build himself a new fucking arm and he will be as competent as he was before, he is a goddamn knight and he will damn well prove it)… all of that would come later.
Right now there’s just pain. Ballister almost manages to convince himself that it comes just from his arm.
(And not the pieces of his broken heart.)