His back was already against the wall. It was just as well, this way she couldn't see him back down. Gods, Korbin hated this girl. Hated all the things she said, all the images she dragged up in his mind. Faces, names, moments torn out of memories half buried, half forgotten. Laughing faces, sad faces, hands waving as he passed down the street, helping hands and hands reaching out to him for support. He used to know all of them. When Erebor wasn't there, when Weaver was out hunting, when his parents died, it had been the townsfolk that kept him safe. Fed. With work to do, so he could feel useful even when his hands were still too small to make a difference.
He used to love them. All of them, even if it was from a distance. Family came first, after all. And each loss made the family more important, because it was his.
But Weaver... Weaver was gone. Nowhere in the crowded rooms could she be found, and what did the other faces mean when they weren't hers?
"Chulane doesn't know shit," he broke in, voice tight with suppressed emotions. He threw a glance at the knife, tempted to take the dare. But there were shades of blackness, and it took a certain measure of determination to put a knife to ones throat. He'd had it. Had been willing, eager even to take the plunge. But as Korbin stared at the knife, willing himself to feel that urge again... it didn't come. Wasn't there. Not because of any promises or feigned life goals or improvised meaning but... The urge to die just wasn't there.
So he was stuck. Unable to live, unwilling to die. And forced once again to be some kind of herald over memories he couldn't bear to look at for long.
"Let people forget. If they didn't bother to know them while they were alive, they don't need to know now." Korbin wasn't sure he believed his own words. His thoughts were a swirling jumble, gaze distant as he kept staring at the knife. Slowly he pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards the table, picked it up and felt the blade with a thumb. It was dull. Trying would be messy, painful. And she had healing magic; he would be stopped.
Fishing into a pocket, Korbin found a whetstone and slowly began to sharpen the edge of the knife. Pain had been reawakened inside, a fresh bleeding that reminded him of all the reasons he kept himself lulled. At some point it just grew unbearable.
"Maybe being a monster wouldn't be so bad," he lied, words like ashes on his tongue. He never used to lie before. "I'd give anything to stop feeling."
At least that part was true.
He used to love them. All of them, even if it was from a distance. Family came first, after all. And each loss made the family more important, because it was his.
But Weaver... Weaver was gone. Nowhere in the crowded rooms could she be found, and what did the other faces mean when they weren't hers?
"Chulane doesn't know shit," he broke in, voice tight with suppressed emotions. He threw a glance at the knife, tempted to take the dare. But there were shades of blackness, and it took a certain measure of determination to put a knife to ones throat. He'd had it. Had been willing, eager even to take the plunge. But as Korbin stared at the knife, willing himself to feel that urge again... it didn't come. Wasn't there. Not because of any promises or feigned life goals or improvised meaning but... The urge to die just wasn't there.
So he was stuck. Unable to live, unwilling to die. And forced once again to be some kind of herald over memories he couldn't bear to look at for long.
"Let people forget. If they didn't bother to know them while they were alive, they don't need to know now." Korbin wasn't sure he believed his own words. His thoughts were a swirling jumble, gaze distant as he kept staring at the knife. Slowly he pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards the table, picked it up and felt the blade with a thumb. It was dull. Trying would be messy, painful. And she had healing magic; he would be stopped.
Fishing into a pocket, Korbin found a whetstone and slowly began to sharpen the edge of the knife. Pain had been reawakened inside, a fresh bleeding that reminded him of all the reasons he kept himself lulled. At some point it just grew unbearable.
"Maybe being a monster wouldn't be so bad," he lied, words like ashes on his tongue. He never used to lie before. "I'd give anything to stop feeling."
At least that part was true.
In loving memory of when I gave a shit
KORBIN
HALE
HALE
