In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer
The ursur follows her, and though Weaver loves a good fight, she doesn’t love this. She doesn’t long to kill even if the creature she is killing longs for it. But still, she was born and bred for this, and though her heart hammers in her chest, she knows how to fight. The ursur leaps, and there is something so gods awfully familiar about this moment, and she wonders if fate has finally decided to catch up to her. Relief is not a strong enough word for what she feels as her scythe swipes through the ursur’s neck. Even as hot, sticky blood coats her, Weaver doesn’t care, because there is cheering and something satisfying about the sight of the ursur dead at her feet.
Fate is funny though. In the end, Weaver has always been living on borrowed time.
She can hear the wings, but she never sees them. Hadn’t someone once told her that they wanted to see a white dragon? She knows what it is, knows in that split second that the dragon had only ever been waiting. Weaver doesn’t even have time to turn, doesn’t even have a chance to see what will kill her. If there is pain, it is so brief Weaver never feels it. She feels only the blood that pours down her, the blood that covers her hands as it did all those years ago when the ursur pierced her chest. Fate has a way of catching up with you.
At least it is quick. She does not bleed out on the snow with time to mourn the life she will not get to live, the people she will never see again. She does not think of Sunjata or the Kraai, does not hope that there will be some ink on his skin for her. She does not think of Halo, but then again, maybe she would not have, for she died protecting it and perhaps she always knew that would be her fate. She does not think of Loren, or how she never got a chance to love him. She might have, if they’d been granted time. She does not get a chance to remember how fiercely he’d insisted on a happy ending, or even hope that he would one day find it with someone other than her (Could she even hope that? Maybe from the next realm, but not from this one). She does not think of Korbin either, and this is the true mercy. She does not have time to think of her brother, left alone. Still, if she had gotten to say goodbye, she would have told him to live. She would have told him she’d be waiting for him, but gods, for him not to rush.
Instead, she has only time to remember that day in the Tundra with Erebor, her hands sticky with her own blood. She has time to remember only how he died for her, and now, that it was her turn to die for others.
I’m coming, brother.
Fate is funny though. In the end, Weaver has always been living on borrowed time.
She can hear the wings, but she never sees them. Hadn’t someone once told her that they wanted to see a white dragon? She knows what it is, knows in that split second that the dragon had only ever been waiting. Weaver doesn’t even have time to turn, doesn’t even have a chance to see what will kill her. If there is pain, it is so brief Weaver never feels it. She feels only the blood that pours down her, the blood that covers her hands as it did all those years ago when the ursur pierced her chest. Fate has a way of catching up with you.
At least it is quick. She does not bleed out on the snow with time to mourn the life she will not get to live, the people she will never see again. She does not think of Sunjata or the Kraai, does not hope that there will be some ink on his skin for her. She does not think of Halo, but then again, maybe she would not have, for she died protecting it and perhaps she always knew that would be her fate. She does not think of Loren, or how she never got a chance to love him. She might have, if they’d been granted time. She does not get a chance to remember how fiercely he’d insisted on a happy ending, or even hope that he would one day find it with someone other than her (Could she even hope that? Maybe from the next realm, but not from this one). She does not think of Korbin either, and this is the true mercy. She does not have time to think of her brother, left alone. Still, if she had gotten to say goodbye, she would have told him to live. She would have told him she’d be waiting for him, but gods, for him not to rush.
Instead, she has only time to remember that day in the Tundra with Erebor, her hands sticky with her own blood. She has time to remember only how he died for her, and now, that it was her turn to die for others.
I’m coming, brother.
WEAVER
