WEAVER
Erebor and Straia always felt like unreachable pinnacles to her as well. Memory and admiration are funny things, the way they can reshape and distort the truth. Her memory of Erebor is good, but still, time has blurred it. Her memory of their mother is better than Korbin’s, but she’d been young enough when Straia had disappeared that she is sure her memory is faulty. In her mind, both of them were perfect, some new level that she could never hope to achieve. It wasn’t true, of course. Each had their faults, though Weaver isn’t sure she could tell you what they were. Not now, anyway. Death too tends to shift perceptions like that.
John too seemed perfect, though in a different way. Where Straia was a force, and her brother had been a mountain, John had simply been. He’d been kind and quiet, the sort of man that believed in responsibility and doing what needed to be done. Korbin has grown so much into the role that his father left open, and Weaver hadn’t really seen it. They look alike, John and Korbin. They act alike too, though John didn’t play at being a martyr quite so well as Korbin had been lately. It doesn’t hurt to see John in her younger brother, but she hadn’t been paying quite enough attention until now, and it hurts that she missed it.
He spells out his response, and she smiles as he writes it. Maybe it is better this way, all the things that go unsaid. They don’t feel necessary anymore, as if they have all been understood in the simplicity of the silence. As if the silence could speak far better than either of them would ever manage. Words got so tangled, and no matter how hard she tried, she could never quite get them right. Instead they just argued, twisting around meanings that they couldn’t quite explain. This worked so much better.
She closes her eyes again, wrapping her arms back around him, in no rush to leave.
John too seemed perfect, though in a different way. Where Straia was a force, and her brother had been a mountain, John had simply been. He’d been kind and quiet, the sort of man that believed in responsibility and doing what needed to be done. Korbin has grown so much into the role that his father left open, and Weaver hadn’t really seen it. They look alike, John and Korbin. They act alike too, though John didn’t play at being a martyr quite so well as Korbin had been lately. It doesn’t hurt to see John in her younger brother, but she hadn’t been paying quite enough attention until now, and it hurts that she missed it.
He spells out his response, and she smiles as he writes it. Maybe it is better this way, all the things that go unsaid. They don’t feel necessary anymore, as if they have all been understood in the simplicity of the silence. As if the silence could speak far better than either of them would ever manage. Words got so tangled, and no matter how hard she tried, she could never quite get them right. Instead they just argued, twisting around meanings that they couldn’t quite explain. This worked so much better.
She closes her eyes again, wrapping her arms back around him, in no rush to leave.
I was made to be wild, wicked, and free
