Work Text:
He is still, he is calm, and he is stability. To the recruits, he is a solid foundation – unwavering – the very image of what a good, no, the embodiment of the perfect soldier. The blunt force, the firm hand that strikes with a precise blow, unstoppable, determined, focused. That is the image of the Commander, the image of Cullen Stanton Rutherford. The armoured picturesque version of Cullen fucking Rutherford.
If only they saw the shackles, the bleeding mottled skin beneath. Beneath the armour, beneath his weathered hide, his very flesh … if only.
Would they still regard him as such? He fears this, yet it fuels him with determination; he tries harder. Toughening his exterior. Exerting. Enforcing. He must be. There are moments when he believes this, times he truly believes that he is that man who they believe him to be. He rises high for them: back upright, shoulders straight, his ardent gaze unfaltering. Composure is key, however, it is when he is alone that he looks down from the height and feels its foundation crumbling from below.
The noise is deafening yet he cannot bring his hands to cover his ears, he cannot jump to he save himself from the fall for the shackles hold him in place. Cullen Rutherford is a broken man, and no one can see it.
“Help” he says, but no one can hear him.